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<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Angel of His Presence and Gabriel the Acadian</title>
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<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69060 ***</div>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/cover.jpg' alt='' id='iid-0000' style='width:50%;height:auto;'/>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.8em;'>THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>BY</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'>GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>AUTHOR OF</p>
<p class='line'>“<span class='it'>In the Way</span>,” “<span class='it'>Lone Point</span>,” “<span class='it'>An Unwilling Guest</span>,” <span class='it'>etc.</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<hr class='tbk100'/>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.8em;'>GABRIEL THE ACADIAN</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>BY</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;'>EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>PHILADELPHIA</p>
<p class='line'>AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY</p>
<p class='line'>1420 Chestnut Street</p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>Copyright 1902 by the</p>
<p class='line'><span class='sc'>American Baptist Publication Society</span></p>
<hr class='tbk101'/>
<p class='line'>Published September, 1902</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>From the Society’s own Press</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div><h1>Contents</h1></div>
<table id='tab1' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 15em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0.5em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#angTOC'>The Angel of His Presence</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'><a href='#gabTOC'>Gabriel the Acadian</a></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab1c1 tdStyle0'></td><td class='tab1c2 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
</table>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.3em;font-weight:bold;'>THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>BY</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.3em;font-weight:bold;'>THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE<a id='angTOC'></a></p>
<table id='tab2' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 20em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0.5em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tab2c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'><span style='font-size:larger'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</span></span></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“ ‘<span class='it'>I have just discovered who you are and felt as if I would like to shake hands with you</span>’ ”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg11'>11</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>She lingered as if transfixed before the picture</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg23'>23</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>He dropped it and it shivered into fragments at his feet</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg38'>38</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>‘Who is it?’ he asked sharply and suspiciously</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg45'>45</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>She stood behind his big leather chair, her hands clasped together against one cheek</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg55'>55</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>He threw away his cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg67'>67</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab2c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>The ‘ladye of high degree’ . . . saw them standing also</span>”</td><td class='tab2c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg79'>79</a></td><td class='tab2c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
</table>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>The Angel of his presence saved them.</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>In his love and in his pity he redeemed them.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>                          —<span class='it'>Old Testament</span></p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div><h1 class='nobreak'>THE ANGEL OF HIS PRESENCE</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I</h2>
<p class='pindent'>John Wentworth Stanley stood on the
deck of an Atlantic Liner looking off to sea and
meditating. The line of smoke that floated away
from his costly cigar followed the line of smoke from
the steamer as if it were doing honest work to help
get Mr. Stanley to New York. The sea in the distance
was sparkling and monotonous and the horizon
line empty and bright, but Mr. Stanley seemed to see
before him the hazy outlines of New York as they
would appear in about twenty-four hours more, if all
went well. And of course all would go well. He had
no doubt of that. Everything had always gone well
for him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Especially well had been these last two years of travel
and study abroad. He reflected with satisfaction upon
the knowledge and experience he had gained in his own
special lines, upon the polish he had acquired, and he
glanced over himself, metaphorically speaking, and
found no fault in John Wentworth Stanley. He was
not too Parisian in his deferential manner, he was not
too English in his deliberation, neither was he, that
worst of all traits in his eyes, too American in his bluntness.
He had acquired something from each nation,
and considered that the combined result was good. It
is a comfortable feeling to be satisfied with one’s self.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Nor had he been shut entirely out of the higher
circles of foreign society. There were pleasant memories
of delightful evenings within the noble walls of exclusive
homes, of dinners and other enjoyable occasions
with great personages where he had been an honored
guest. When he thought of this, he raised his chest an
inch higher and stood just a little straighter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was also a memory picture of one, perhaps
more, but notably of one “ladye of high degree,”
who had not shown indifference to his various charms.
It was pleasant to feel that one could if one would. In
due time he would consider this question more carefully.
In the near future this lady was to visit America. He
had promised himself and her the pleasure of showing
her a few of his own country’s attractions. And,—well,
he might go abroad again after that on business.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His attention was not entirely distracted by his vision
of the “ladye of high degree” from looking upon his old
homeland and anticipating the scenes and the probable
experiences that would be his in a few hours. Two
years seemed a long time when he looked back upon it,
though it had been brief in the passing. He would
doubtless find changes, but there had been changes in him
also. He was older, his tastes were—what should he
say—developed? He would not take pleasure in the
same way that he had taken it when he left, perhaps.
He had learned that there were other things—things if
not better, at least more cultured and less old-fashioned
than his former diversions. Of course he did not despise
his up-bringing, nor his homeland, but he had
other interests now as well, which would take much of
his time. He had been from home long enough for the
place he left to have closed behind him, and he would
have no difficulty in staying “dropped out.” He expected
to spend much of his time in New York. Of
course he would make his headquarters at home, where
his father and mother were living, in a small city within
a short distance of America’s metropolis.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His man—he had picked up an excellent one while
traveling through Scotland—had gone on ahead to unpack
and put in place the various objects of art, etc., that
he had gathered on his travels. He had not as yet become
so accustomed to the man that he could not do
without him from day to day, and had found it convenient
to send him home on the ship ahead of his own.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He wondered what his home-coming would be like.
His father and mother would of course be glad to see
him and give him their own welcome. But even with
them he could not feel that he was coming home to a
place where he was indispensable. They had other
children, his brothers and sisters, married and living
not far from home. Of course they would be glad to
have him back, all of them, but they had been happy
enough without him, knowing he was happy. But in
town, while he had friends, there were none whom he
eagerly looked forward to meeting. He had attended
school there of course, and in later years, after his return
from college, had gone into the society of the place,
the literary clubs and tennis clubs and, to a degree, into
church work. He had indeed been quite enthusiastic
in church work at one time, had helped to start a mission
Sunday-school in a quarter where it was much
needed, and acted as superintendent up to the time
when he had gone abroad. He smiled to himself as he
thought of his “boyish enthusiasm” as he termed it,
and turned his thoughts to his more intelligent manhood.
Of course he would now have no time for such
things. His work in the world was to be of a graver
sort, to deal with science and art and literature. He
was done with childish things.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He was interrupted just here by one of the passengers.
“I beg your pardon, I have just discovered who you
are and felt as if I would like to shake hands with you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The speaker was a plain, elderly man with fine features
and an earnest face. Mr. Stanley had noticed
him casually several times and remarked to himself that
that man would be quite fine looking if he would only
pay a little more attention to his personal appearance.
Not that he was not neatly dressed, nor that his handsome,
wavy, iron gray hair was not carefully brushed;
but somehow John Wentworth Stanley had acquired
during his stay abroad a nice discrimination in toilet
matters, and liked to see a man with his trousers
creased or not creased, as the height of the mode might
demand, and classed him, involuntarily, accordingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But he turned in surprise as the stranger addressed
him. What possible business could this man have with
him, and what had he done that should make the man
want to shake hands with him?</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg11'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i011.jpg' alt='Two gentlemen chatting' id='iid-0001' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘I HAVE JUST DISCOVERED WHO YOU ARE AND FELT AS IF I WOULD LIKE TO SHAKE HANDS WITH YOU.’ ”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Stanley was courteous always, and he at once
threw away the end of his finished cigar and accepted
the proffered hand graciously, with just a tinge of his
foreign-acquired nonchalance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My name is Manning. You don’t know me. I
came to live at Cliveden shortly after you went abroad,
but I assure you, I have heard much of you and your
good work. I wonder I did not know you, Mr. Stanley,
from your resemblance to your mother,” the stranger
added, looking into the young man’s eyes with his own
keen, gray ones. He did not add that one thing which
had kept him from recognizing his identity had been
that he did not in the least resemble the Mr. Stanley he
had been led to expect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Manning owned to himself in the privacy of his
stateroom afterward that he was just a little disappointed
in the man, though he was handsome, and had a good
face, but he did seem to be more of a man of the world
than he had expected to find him. However, no trace
of this was written in his kindly, interested face, as John
Stanley endeavored to master the situation and discover
what all this meant.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I know all about your work in Cliveden, Mr.
Stanley. I have been interested in the Forest Hill
Mission from my first residence there, and what I did
not learn for myself my little girl told me. She is a
great worker, and as she has no mother, she makes me
her confidant, so I hear all the stories of the trials and
conflicts of her Sunday-school class, and among other
things I constantly hear of this one and that one who
owe their Christian experience to the efforts of the
founder of the mission and its first superintendent.
Your crown will be rich in jewels. I shall never forget
Joe Andrews’ face when he told me the story of how
you came to him Sunday after Sunday, and said ‘Joe,
aren’t you ready to be a Christian yet?’ and how time
after time he would shake his head, and he says your
face would grow so sad.” The elder gentleman looked
closely at the clean-shaven, cultured face before him to
trace those lines which proved him to be the same man
he was speaking of, and could not quite understand
their absence, but went on, “and you would say, ‘Joe,
I shall not give you up. I am praying for you every
day. Don’t forget that.’ And then when he finally
could not hold out any longer and came to Christ, he
says you were so glad, and he cannot forget how good
it was of you to care for him and to stick to him that
way. He said your face looked just as if the sun were
shining on it the day he united with the church. That
was a wonderful work you did there. It is marvelous
how it has grown. Those boys of yours will repay the
work you put upon them some day. Nearly all of the
original members of your own class are now earnest
Christians, and they cannot get done telling about what
you were to them. My little girl writes me every mail
more about it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley suddenly felt like a person who is lifted
out of his present life and set down in a former existence.
All his tastes, his friends, his pursuits, his
surroundings, during the past two years had been utterly
foreign to the work about which the stranger had
been speaking. He had become so engrossed in his
new life that he had actually forgotten the old. Not
forgotten it in the sense that he was not aware of its
facts, but rather forgotten his joy in it. And he stood
astonished and bewildered, hardly knowing how to enter
into the conversation, so utterly out of harmony with
its spirit did he find himself. As the stranger told the
story of Joe Andrews there rushed over him the memory
of it all: the boy’s dogged face; his own interest awakened
one day during his teaching of the lesson when he
caught an answering gleam of interest in the boy’s eye,
and was seized with a desire to make Jesus Christ a
real, living person to that boy’s heart; his watching of
the kindling spark in that sluggish soul, and how little by
little it grew, till one night the boy came to his home when
there were guests present, and called for him, and he
had gone out with him into the dewy night under the
stars and sat down with him on the front piazza shaded
by the vines, hoping and praying that this might be his
opportunity to say the word that should lead the boy to
Christ, when behold, he found that Joe had come to
tell him, solemnly as though he were taking the oath of
his life, that he now made the decision for Christ and
hereafter would serve him, no matter what he wanted
him to do. A strange thrill came with the memory of his
own joy over that redeemed soul, and how it had lingered
with him as he went back among his mother’s
guests, and how it would break out in a joyous smile
now and then till one of the guests remarked, “John,
you seem to be unusually happy to-night for some reason.”
How vividly it all came back now when the vein
of memory was once opened. Incident after incident
came to mind, and again he felt or remembered that
thrill of joy when a soul says, “You have helped me
to find Christ.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Manning was talking of his daughter. John
had a dim idea that she was a little girl, but he did not
stop to question. He was remembering. And there
was a strange mingling of feelings. His new character
had so thoroughly impressed its importance upon him
that he felt embarrassed in the face of what he used to
be. Strangely enough the first thing that came to
mind was, What would the “ladye of high degree”
think if she knew all this? She would laugh. Ah!
That would hurt worse than anything she could do. He
winced almost visibly under her fancied merriment. It
was worse than if she had looked grave, or sneered, or argued,
or anything else. He could not bear to be laughed
at, especially in his new rôle. And somehow his old self
and his new did not seem to fit rightly together. But
then the new love of the world and his new tastes came
in with all the power of a new affection and asserted themselves,
and he straightened up haughtily and told himself
that of course he need not be ashamed of his boyhood.
He had not done anything but good. He should be
proud of that, and especially so as he would probably
not come in contact with such work and such people
again. He had more important things to attend to.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Not that he said all this, or thought it in so many
words; it passed through his mind like phantoms chasing
one another. Outwardly he was the polished, courteous
gentleman, listening attentively to what this
father was saying about his daughter, though really he
cared little about her. Did Mr. Stanley know that
she had taken his former Sabbath-school class and that
there were many new members, among them some
young men from the foundries? No, he did not. He
searched in his memory and found a floating sentence
from one of his mother’s letters about a young woman
who had consented to take his class till his return and
who was doing good work. It had been written, perhaps,
a year ago, and it had not concerned him much at
the time as he was so engrossed in his study of the
architecture of the south of France. He recalled it
now just in time to tell the father how his mother had
written him about the class, and so save his reputation
as a Sunday-school teacher. It transpired that the
daughter who had taken the class and the little girl the
stranger so constantly referred to as writing him letters
about things were one and the same. He wondered
vaguely what kind of a little girl was able to teach a
class of young men, but his mind was more concerned
with something else now.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It appeared that the former mission where he had
been superintendent had grown into a live Sunday-school,
and that they were looking for his home-coming
with great joy and expectation. How could such a
thing be other than disconcerting to the man he had become?
He had no time to be bothered with his former
life. He had his life-work to attend to, which was not—and
now he began to feel irritated—mission Sunday-schools.
That was all well enough for his boyhood, but
now—and besides there was the “ladye of high degree.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Perhaps the man of experience saw the stiffening of
the shoulders and the upper lip and divined the thoughts
of the other. His heart sank for his daughter and her
boys, and the mission, and their plans for his home-coming,
and he made up his mind that secret or no
secret, this man must be told a little of the joy of sacrifice
that had been going on for him, for surely he could
not have been the man that he had been, and not have
enough of goodness left in his heart to respond to that
story, no matter what he had become. And so he told
him as much of the story his daughter had written him
as he thought necessary, and John Wentworth Stanley
thanked him and tried to show that he was properly appreciative
of the honor that was to be shown him, and
tried not to show his annoyance about it all to the
stranger, and got away as soon as possible, after a few
polite exchanges of farewells for the evening, and went
to his stateroom. Arrived there he seated himself on
the side of his berth, his elbows on his knees, his chin
in his hands, and sat scowling out of the porthole with
anything but a cultured manner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Confound it all!” he muttered to himself. “I
suppose it’s got to be gone through with some way for
mother’s sake and after they’ve made so much fuss
about it all. I can see it’s all that girl’s getting up;
some silly girl that thinks she’s going to become prominent
by this sort of thing. Going to give me a present!
And I’ve got to go up there and be bored to death by
a speech probably, and then get up and be made a fool
of while they present me with a pickle dish or a pair of
slippers or something of the sort. It’s awfully trying.
And they needn’t think I’m going back to that kind of
thing, for I’m not. I’ll move to New York first. I
wish I had stayed in France! I wish I had never
worked in Forest Hill Mission!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Oh, John Stanley! Sorry you ever labored and
prayed for those immortal souls, and wrought into your
crown imperishable jewels that shall shine for you
through all eternity!</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II</h2>
<p class='pindent'>They stood in the gallery of one of New York’s
most famous art stores; seven stalwart boys—young
men, perhaps, you would call them—all
with an attempt at “dress up,” and with them Margaret
Manning, slender and grave and sweet. They were
chaperoned by Mrs. Ketchum, a charming little woman
who knew a great deal about social laws and customs,
and always spoke of things by their latest names, if
possible, and who took the lead in most of the talk by
virtue of her position in society and her supposed
knowledge of art. There were also Mrs. Brown, a
plain woman who felt deeply the responsibility of the
occasion, and Mr. Talcut, a little man who was shrewd
in business and who came along to see that they did
not get cheated. These constituted the committee to
select a present for the home-returning superintendent
of the Forest Hill Mission Sunday-school. It was a
large committee and rather too heterogeneous to come
to a quick decision, but its size had seemed necessary.
Margaret Manning was on it, of course. That had
been a settled thing from the beginning. There would
not have been any such present, probably, if Margaret
had not suggested it and helped to raise the money till
their fund went away up above their highest hopes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The seven boys were in her Sunday-school class,
and no one of them could get the consent of himself to
make so momentous a decision for the rest of the class
without the other six to help. Not that these seven
were her entire class by any means, but the class had
elected to send seven from their own number, so seven
had come. Strictly speaking, only one was on the committee,
but he depended upon the advice of the other
six to aid him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Now, Mr. Thorpe,” said Mrs. Ketchum in her
easy, familiar manner, “we want something fine, you
know. It’s to hang in his ‘den.’ His mother has just
been refitting his den, and we thought it would be quite
appropriate for us to get him a fine picture for the wall.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The preliminaries had been gone through with. Mr.
Thorpe knew the Stanley family slightly, and was therefore
somewhat fitted to help in the selection of a picture
that would suit the taste of one of its members.
He had led them to the end of the large, well-lighted
room, placed before them an easel, and motioned them
to sit down.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The seven boys, however, were not accustomed to
such things, and they remained standing, listening and
looking with all their ears and eyes. Somehow, as Mrs.
Ketchum stated matters, they did not feel quite as
much to belong to this committee as before. What,
for instance, could Mrs. Ketchum mean by Mr. Stanley’s
“den”? They had dim visions of Daniel and
the lions, and the man who fell among thieves, but they
had not time to reflect over this, for Mr. Thorpe was
bringing forward pictures.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As it’s a Sunday-school superintendent, perhaps
something religious would be appropriate. You might
look at these first, anyway,” and he put before them a
large etching whose wonder and beauty held them silent
as they gazed. It was a new picture of the Lord’s
Supper by a great artist, and the influence of the picture
was so great that for a few moments they looked
and forgot their own affairs. The faces were so marvelously
portrayed that they could but know each disciple,
and felt that the hand which had drawn the
Master’s face must have been inspired.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is more expensive than you wanted to buy, but
still it is a fine thing and worth the money, and perhaps
as it is for a church, I might make a reduction,
that is, somewhat, if you like it better than anything
else.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mrs. Ketchum lowered her lorgnette with a dissatisfied
expression, though her face and voice were duly
appreciative. She really knew a fine thing when she
saw it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is wonderful, and you are very kind, Mr. Thorpe;
but do you not think that perhaps it is a little, just a
little, well—gloomy—that is, solemn—well—for a den,
you know?” and she laughed uneasily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Thorpe was accustomed to being all things to all
men. With an easy manner he laughed understandingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes? Well, I thought so myself, but then I
didn’t know how you would feel about it. It would
seem hardly appropriate, now you think of it, for a
room where men go to smoke and talk. Well, just all
of you step around this side of the room, please, and
I’ll show you another style of picture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They followed obediently, Mrs. Ketchum murmuring
something more about the inappropriateness of the
picture for a den, and the seven boys making the best
of their way among the easels and over Mrs. Ketchum’s
train. All but Margaret Manning. She lingered
as if transfixed before the picture. Perhaps she had
not even heard what Mrs. Ketchum had said. Two
of the boys hoped so in whispers to one another.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Say, Joe,” he whispered in a low grumble, “I
forgot all about Mr. Stanley’s smoking. She——”
with a nod toward the silent, pre-occupied woman still
standing in front of the picture, “she won’t like that.
Maybe he don’t do it any more. I don’t reckon
’twould be hard fer him to quit.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Every one of those seven boys had given up the use
of tobacco to please their teacher, Miss Manning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Other pictures were forthcoming. There were landscapes
and seascapes, flowers and animals, children and
wood nymphs, dancing in extraordinary attitudes. The
boys wondered that so many pictures could be made.
They wondered and looked and grew weary with the unusual
sight, and wished to go home and get rested, and
did not in the least know which they liked. They were
bewildered. Where was Miss Manning? She would
tell them which to choose, for their part of the choice
was a very important part to them, and in their own
minds they were the principal part of the committee.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg23'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i023.jpg' alt='A lady stands looking at a picture' id='iid-0002' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“SHE LINGERED AS IF TRANSFIXED BEFORE THE PICTURE.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Miss Manning left the great picture by and by and
came over to where the others sat, looking with them
at picture after picture, hearing prices and painters discussed,
and the merits of this and that work of art by
Mrs. Ketchum and Mr. Talcut, whose sole idea of art
was expressed in the price thereof, and who knew no
more about the true worth of pictures than he knew
about the moon. Then she left the others and wandered
back to the quiet end of the room where stood
that wonderful picture. There the boys one by one
drifted back to her and sat or stood about her quietly,
feeling the spell of the picture themselves, understanding
in part at least her mood and why she did not feel
like talking. They waited respectfully with uncovered
heads, half bowed, looking, feeling instinctively the
sacredness of the theme of the picture. Four of them
were professed Christians, and the other three were just
beginning to understand what a privilege it was to follow
Christ.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Untaught and uncouth as they were, they took the
faces for likenesses, and Christ’s life and work on earth
became at once to them a living thing that they could
see and understand. They looked at John and longed
to be like him, so near to the Master and to receive
that look of love. They knew Peter and thought they
recognized several other disciples, for the Sunday-school
lessons had been of late as vivid for them as mere words
can paint the life of Christ. They seemed themselves
to stand within the heavy arch of stone over that table,
so long ago, and to be sitting at the table, his disciples,
some of them unworthy, but still there. They had
been helped to this by what Miss Manning had said the
first Sunday she took the class, when the lesson had
been of Jesus and of some talks he had had with his
disciples. She had told them that as there were just
twelve of them in the class she could not help sometimes
thinking of them as if they were the twelve disciples,
especially as one of them was named John and
another Andrew, and she wanted them to try to feel
that these lessons were for them; that Jesus was sitting
there in their class each Sabbath speaking these
words to them and calling them to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rest of the committee were coming toward them,
calling to Miss Manning in merry, appealing voices.
She looked up to answer, and the boys who stood near
her saw that her eyes were full of tears, and more
than one of them turned to hide and brush away an
answering tear that seemed to come from somewhere in
his throat and choke him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, Margaret,” called Mrs. Ketchum, “come
and tell us which you choose. We’ve narrowed it
down to three, and are pretty well decided which one
of the three we like best.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margaret Manning arose reluctantly and followed
them, the boys looking on and wondering. She looked
at each of the three. One was the aforementioned
nymph’s dance, another was a beautiful woman’s head,
and the third was a flock of children romping with a
cart and a dog and some roses. Margaret turned from
them disappointed, and looked back toward the other
picture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I don’t like any of them, Mrs. Ketchum, but the
first one. Oh, I do think that is the one. Please
come and look at it again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why, my dear,” fluttered Mrs. Ketchum disturbedly,
“I thought we settled it that that picture was
too, too—not quite appropriate for a den, you know.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But her words were lost, for the others had gone forward
under the skylight to where the grand picture
stood, and were once more under the spell of those
wonderful eyes of the pictured Master.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is a real nice picture,” spoke up Mrs. Brown.
She was fond of Margaret Manning, though she did not
know much about art. She had been elected from the
woman’s Bible class, and had been rather overpowered
by Mrs. Ketchum, but she felt that now she ought to
stand up for her friend Margaret. If <span class='it'>she</span> wanted that
picture, that picture it should be.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How much did you say you would give us that for,
Mr. Thorpe?” said the sharp little voice of Mr.
Talcut.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Mr. Thorpe courteously mentioned the figures.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That’s only ten dollars more’n we’ve got,” spoke
up the hoarse voice of one of the seven unexpectedly.
It was Joe, who felt that he owed his salvation to the
young superintendent’s earnest efforts in his behalf.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I say we’d better get it. Ten dollars ain’t much.
We boys can go that much. I’ll go it myself somehow
if the others don’t.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, really, ladies, I suppose it’s a very good
bargain,” said Mr. Talcut rubbing his hands and
smiling.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then we’ll take it,” said Joe, nodding decidedly
to Mr. Thorpe; “I’ll go the other ten dollars, and the
boys can help, if they like.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But really Margaret, my dear,” said Mrs. Ketchum
quite distressed, “a <span class='it'>den</span>, don’t you know, is not a place
for——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the others were all saying it was just the picture,
and she was not heard. Mr. Talcut was giving the address
and orders about the sending. None of them
seemed to realize that Mrs. Ketchum had not given
her consent, and she, poor lady, had to gracefully
accept the situation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, it’s really a very fine thing, I suppose,”
she said at last, somewhat hesitatingly, and putting up
her lorgnette to take a critical look. “I don’t admire
that style of architecture, and that table-cloth isn’t put
on very gracefully; it would have been more artistic
draped a little; but it’s really very fine, and quite new,
you say, and of course the artist is irreproachable. I
think Mr. Stanley will appreciate it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But she sighed a little disappointedly, and wished she
had been able to coax them to take the nymphs. She
would take pains to let Mr. Stanley know that this had
not been her choice. The idea of having to give in to
those great boors of boys! But then it had all been
Margaret Manning’s fault. She was such a little
fanatic. She might have known that it would not do
to let her see a religious picture first.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III</h2>
<p class='pindent'>It was Margaret Manning’s suggestion that it should
be presented quietly. Some of the others were
disappointed. Mrs. Ketchum was one of the most
irate about it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The idea! After the school had raked and scraped
together the money, that they should not have the
pleasure of seeing it presented! It’s a shame! Margaret
Manning has some of the most backwoods’ notions
I ever heard of. It isn’t doing things up right at
all. There ought to be a speech from some one who
knows how to say the right thing; my husband could
have done it, and would if he’d been asked. But no,
Margaret Manning says it must be hung on his wall,
and so there it hangs, and none of us to get the benefit.
I declare it is a shame! I wish I had refused to
serve on that committee. I hate to have my name
mixed up in it the way things have gone.” So said
Mrs. Ketchum as she sat back in her dim and fashionable
parlor and sighed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the seven boys ruled things, and they ruled
them in the way Miss Manning suggested; and moreover,
Mrs. Brown and Mr. Talcut had gone over to the
enemy completely since the purchase, the enemy being
Miss Manning. Mr. Talcut rubbed his hands admiringly,
and said Miss Manning was an exceedingly
shrewd young woman, that she had an eye for business.
That picture was the best bargain in that whole store.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Margaret went on her way serenely, not knowing
her power nor enjoying her triumph. Albeit she
was pleased in her heart with the picture, and she
thought that her seven boys had been the true selectors
of it. She wrote in her fine, even hand, that was like
her in its lovely daintiness, the words the committee
told her to write—which she had suggested—on a white
card to accompany the picture. It read, “To our beloved
superintendent, with a joyous welcome home, from
the entire school of the Forest Hill Mission.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Stanley home stood in fine, large grounds,
with turf smooth as velvet and grand old forest trees
all about. The house was large, old-fashioned, and
ugly, but the rooms were magnificent in size, and filled
with all the comforts money could buy. On one side,
just off the large library and connected with the hall,
had been built an addition, a beautiful modern room
filled with nooks and corners and unexpected bay-windows,
which afforded views in at least three directions
because of the peculiar angles at which they were set.
In one corner was a carved oak spiral staircase by
which one could ascend to the airy sleeping room over-head
if he did not choose to go through the hall and
ascend the common stair. One side of the room and
various other unexpected bits of wall were turned into
bookcases sunk in the masonry and covered by glazed
doors. The bay-window seats were heavily upholstered
in leather, and so were all the chairs and the luxurious
couch. Nearly one entire end of the room was filled
by the great fireplace, the tiling of which had been
especially designed for it. In a niche built for it with
a fine arrangement for light, both by day or night, stood
a large desk. It was a model working room for a gentleman.
And this addition had been built by the
senior Mr. Stanley for his son when he should return to
take up the practical work of architecture, for which he
had been preparing himself for some years.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was here that the great picture was brought and
hung over the fireplace, where it could look down upon
the entire room. It was hung just the day before John
Wentworth Stanley’s man arrived with his master’s
goods and chattels and began to unpack and dispose
things according to his best judgment.</p>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley’s mother had come in to superintend
the hanging of the picture and had looked at it a long
time when she was left alone, and finally had knelt shyly
beside the great new leather chair and offered a silent
little prayer for the home-coming son. She was an undemonstrative
woman, and this act seemed rather theatrical
when she thought of it afterward. What if a
servant had opened the door and seen her! Nevertheless
she felt glad she had dedicated the room, and she
was glad that the picture was what it was. With that
Ketchum woman on the committee she had feared what
the result might be when she had had the scheme whispered
to her. Somebody must have fine taste. Perhaps
it was that dainty, lily-faced young girl who
seemed to be so interested in John’s Sunday-school class.
The mother was busy in her home world and did not go
into church work much. She was getting old and her
children and grandchildren were all about her, absorbing
her time and thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The man came in from the piazza that surrounded
the bay window and reached around to the long French
window at the side, where he had been unpacking a box.
He placed a silver-mounted smoking set on a small
mahogany table. Then he stood back to survey the
effect. Presently he came in with some fine cut glass,
a small decanter heavily mounted in silver and glasses
to match. He went out and came back with their tray.
Having dusted them off carefully and arranged them on
the tray, he placed it first on the handsome broad mantel,
and as before stood back to take a survey. He
knew the set was a choice example of artistic work along
this line. It was presented to his master while he was
visiting in the home of a nobleman in token of his friendship
and to commemorate something or other, the man
did not exactly know what. But he did not like the
effect on the mantel. He glanced uneasily up at the
picture. In a dim way he felt the incongruity. He
scowled at the picture and wondered why they put it
there. It should have been hung in the hall or some
out-of-the-way place. It was more suited for a church
than anywhere else, he told himself. He placed the decanter
tray on the little table at the other side of the
fireplace from the smoking set, and stood back again.
It looked well there. He raised his eyes defiantly to
the picture, and met the full, strong, sweet gaze of the
pictured eyes of the Master. The man lowered his
eyes and turned away, disturbed, he knew not why.
He was not a man who cared about such things, neither
was he one accustomed to reason. He went out to the
piazza again to his unpacking, trying to think of something
else. It wasn’t his picture nor his decanter anyway,
and he whistled a home tune and wondered why
he had come to this country. He didn’t seem to feel
quite his usual pride this morning in the fact that he
knew his business. When he finally unpacked the
wicker-covered demijohn of real old Scotch whisky that
had accompanied the decanter, he carried it through
the room and deposited it in the little corner cupboard
behind the chimney, shut the door and locked it with a
click, and went out again without so much as raising his
eyes. All that day he avoided looking at that picture
over the mantelpiece, and he grew quite happy in his
work again and quite self-satisfied, and felt with a sort
of superstitious fear that if he looked at it his happiness
would depart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There were other rare articles that he had to unpack
and dispose of, and once he came to a large, handsome
picture, a sporting scene in water colors by a celebrated
artist. That now, would be the very thing to hang
over the mantel in place of the picture already there.
He even went so far as to suggest to Mrs. Stanley that
he make the change, but she coldly told him to leave
the picture where it was, as it was a gift, and showed
him the envelope to place on the mantel directly under
the picture, which contained the card from the donors.</p>
<p class='pindent'>So the man left the room at last, somewhat dissatisfied,
but feeling that he had done the best he could. The
night passed, the day came, and with it the new master
of the new room.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s really a magnificent thing, mother,” he said, as
he stood in front of the great picture after, having admired
the room and shown his delight in all they had
done for him. “I’m delighted to have it. I saw the
original on the other side. And it was good taste of
them to give it quietly in this way too. But there is a
sense in which this is quite embarrassing. They will
expect so much, you know, and of course I haven’t
time for this sort of thing now.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, I thought something ought to be done, my
son,” responded the mother, “so I sent out invitations
for the whole school for a reception here next week.
That is, I have them ready. They are not sent out, but
are waiting your approval. Tuesday will be a free
evening. What do you think?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley scowled and sighed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, I suppose that’s the easiest way to get out of it
now they’ve sent me this. It will be an awful bore,
but then it’ll be over. I shall scarcely know how to
carry myself among them, I fear, I’ve been out of this
line so long, and they fancy me so virtuous,” and he
smiled and shrugged his handsome shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But John dear, you mustn’t feel in that way. They
really think a great deal of you,” said his mother, smiling
indulgently upon him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, it’s all right; go ahead, mother. Make it something
fine while you’re about it. Give them quite a
spread you know. Some of them don’t get many treats,
I suppose,” and he sank down in one of the luxurious
chairs and looked about him with pleasure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is nice, mother,” he said; “so good of you and
father to think of it. I can do great things here. The
room is an inspiration in itself. It is a poem in architecture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then the mother left him awhile to his thoughts and
he began to piece together his life, that portion he had
left behind him across the water, and this new piece, a
part of the old, that he had come to take up again.
There hovered on the margin of his mind the image of
the “ladye of high degree,” and he looked out about on
his domain with satisfaction at thought of her. At
least she would see that people in this country could do
things as well as in hers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then by some strange line of thought he remembered
his worriment of yesterday about that present, and how
he had thought of her laugh if she should know of it.
A slight feeling of pleasure passed over him; even in
this she could find no fault. It was fine and costly and
a work of genius. He need not be ashamed even if
some one should say to her that the picture was presented
to him by a mission class grateful for what he
had done for it. He began to swell with a sense of
importance at the thought. It was rather a nice thing,
this present, after all. He changed his position that he
might examine the picture more carefully at his leisure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The fire that his mother had caused to be lighted to
take off the chill of the summer evening and complete
the welcome of the room, sent out a ruddy glow and
threw into high relief the rich, dark gloss of the frame
and the wonderful picture. It was as if the sombre,
stone-arched room opened directly from his own, and
he saw the living forms of the Twelve gathered around
that table with the Master in the midst. But the
Master was looking straight at him—at him, John
Wentworth Stanley, self-satisfied gentleman of the
world that he was, looking at him and away from the
other disciples. Down through all the ages those grave,
kind, sad, sweet eyes looked him through and through,
and seemed to sift his life, his every action, till things
that he had done now and yesterday, and last year,
that he had forgotten, and even when he was a little
boy, seemed to start out and look him in the face behind
the shadows of those solid stones of that upper
chamber. The more he looked the more he wondered
at the power the picture seemed to have. He looked
away to prove it, and he knew the eyes were following
his.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rosy glow of the firelight seemed to be caught
and crystallized in a thousand sparkles on one side of
the fire. He looked in passing and knew what the
sparkles were, the fine crystal points of that cut glass
decanter. He had forgotten its existence until now,
since the day he had had it packed. He knew it was
a beautiful thing in its way, but he had not intended
that it should be thus displayed. He hoped his mother
had not seen it. He would look at it and then put it
away, that is, pretty soon. Now his eyes were held by
the eyes of his Master. Yes, his Master, for he had
owned his name and called himself a Christian, and no
matter what other things had come in to fill his mind,
he had no wish to give up the “name to live.” And
yet he was conscious, strangely, abnormally conscious
of that decanter. His Master seemed to be looking at
it too, and to be inquiring of him how he came to have
it in his possession. For the first time he was conscious,
painfully so, that he had never given its donor
any cause to think that such a gift would be less acceptable
to him than something else. His Master had
understood that too, he felt sure. He was annoyed
that he could frame no excuse for himself, as he had so
easily done when the gift first reached him. He had
even been confident that he would be able to explain it to
his mother so that she would be rather pleased with the
gift than otherwise, strong temperance woman though
he knew her to be. Now all his reasons had fled. The
eyes of his Master, his kind, loving, sorrowing Master
were upon him. He began to be irritated at the picture.
He arose and seized the decanter hastily, to put
it somewhere out of sight, just where he had not
thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now the officious Thomas, who knew his place and
his work so well, had placed in the new, freshly washed
decanter a small quantity of the rare old Scotch whisky
that had come with it. Thomas knew good whisky
when he saw—that is, tasted—it, and he was proud of
a master to whom such a gift had been given. John
Stanley did not expect to find anything in his decanter
until he put it there himself, or gave orders to that
effect. He was new to the ways of a “man” who so
well understood his business. As he jerked the offending
article toward him some of this whisky spilled out
of the top that had perhaps not been firmly closed after
Thomas had fully tested the whisky. Its fumes so
astonished its owner that, he knew not how, he dropped
it and it shivered into fragments at his feet on the dull
red tiles of the hearth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Annoyed beyond measure, and wondering why his
hand had been so unsteady, he rang the bell for Thomas
and ordered him to take away the fragments and wipe
the whisky from the hearth. Then he seated himself
once more till it was done. And all the time those
eyes, so sad and reproachful now, were looking through
and through him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thomas!” he spoke sharply, and the man came
about face suddenly with the broom and dustpan in
hand on which glittered the crystals of delicate cutting.
“Where is the rest of that—that stuff?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thomas understood. He swung open the little door
at the side of the chimney. “Right here at hand, sir!
Shall I pour you out some, sir?” he said, as he lifted
the demijohn.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg38'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i038.jpg' alt='A man looking down at a broken decanter' id='iid-0003' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“HE DROPPED IT AND IT SHIVERED INTO FRAGMENTS AT HIS FEET.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley’s entire face flushed with shame. His
impulse was severely to rebuke the impertinence, nay
the insult, of the servant to one who had always been
known as a temperance man. But he reflected that
the servant was a stranger to his ways, and that he
himself had perhaps given the man reason to think that
it would be acceptable by the very fact that he had
these things among his personal effects. Then too, his
eyes had caught the look of the Master as he raised
them to answer, and he could not speak that harsh
word quite in that tone with Jesus looking at him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He waited to clear his throat, and answered in a
quieter tone, though still severely: “No; you may
take it out and throw it away. I never use it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, sir,” answered Thomas impassively; but he
marveled. Nevertheless he forgave his master, and
took the demijohn to his own room. He was willing to
be humble enough to have it thrown away on him. But
as he passed the servant’s piazza, the cook who sat
resting from her day’s labors there and planning for
the morrow’s <span class='it'>menu</span>, heard him mutter:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As shure as I live, it’s the picter. It’s got some
kind o’ a spell.”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<p class='pindent'>After Thomas had left the room with the demijohn,
his master seemed relieved. He began to
walk up and down his room and hum an air
from the German opera. He wanted to forget the
unpleasant occurrence. After all, he was glad the
hateful, beautiful thing was broken. It was no one’s
fault particularly, and now it was out of the way and
would not need to be explained. He walked about,
still humming and looking at his room, and still that
picture seemed to follow and be a part of his consciousness
wherever he went. It certainly was well hung, and
gave the strong impression of being a part of the room
itself. He looked at it critically from a new point of
view, and as he faced it once more he was in the upper
chamber and seemed to hear his Master saying, “Yet
a little while, and the world seeth me no more”; and
he realized that he was in the presence of the scene of
the end of his Master’s mission. He walked back to
the fireplace seeking for something to turn his thoughts
away, and passing the table where stood his elegantly
mounted smoking set, he decided to smoke. It was
about his usual hour for his bedtime smoke, anyway.
He selected a cigar from those Thomas had set out and
lighted it with one of the matches in the silver match
safe, and for an instant turned with a feeling of lazy,
delicious luxury in the use of his new room and all its
appliances. Unconsciously he seated himself again
before the fire in the great leather chair, and began to
puff the smoke into dreamy shapes and let his thoughts
wander as he closed his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Suppose, ah, suppose that some one, say the “ladye
of high degree,” should be there, should belong there,
and should come and stand behind his chair. He could
see the graceful pose of her fine figure. She might
reach over and touch his hair and laugh lightly. He
tried to imagine it, but in spite of him the laugh rang
out in his thoughts scornfully like a sharp, silver bell
that belonged to some one else. He glanced over his
shoulder at the imagined face, but it looked cold above
the smoke. She did not mind smoke. He had seen
her face behind a wreath of smoke several times. It
seemed a natural setting. But the dream seemed an
empty one. He raised his head and settled it back at
a new angle. How rosy the light was as it played on
the hearth and how glad he was to be at home again.
That was enough for to-night. The “ladye of high
degree” might stay in her home across the sea for this
time. He was content. Then he raised his eyes to
the picture above without knowing it, and there he was
smoking at the supper table of the Lord. At least so
he felt it to be. He had always been scrupulously
careful never to smoke in or about a church. He used
to give long, earnest lectures on the subject to some of
the boys of the mission who would smoke cigarettes
and pipes on the steps of the church before service.
He remembered them now with satisfaction, and he also
remembered a murmured, jeering sound that had arisen
from the corner where the very worst boys sat, which
had been suppressed by his friends, but which had cut
at the time, and which he had always wondered over a
little. He had seen no inconsistency in speaking so to
the boys in view of his own actions. But now, as he
looked at that picture he felt as though he were smoking
in church with the service going on. The smoke
actually hid his Master’s face. He took down his cigar
and looked up with a feeling of apology, but this was
involuntary. His irritation was rising again. The
idea of a picture upsetting him so! He must be tired
or his nerves unsettled. There was no more harm in
smoking in front of that picture than before any other.
“Confound that picture!” he said, as he rose and
walked over to the bay window, “I’ll have it hung
somewhere else to-morrow. I won’t have the thing
around. No, it’ll have to be left here till after
that reception, I suppose; but after that it shall go.
Such a consummate nuisance!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He stood looking out of the open window with a
scowl. He reflected that it was a strange thing for
him to be so affected by a picture, a mere imagination
of the brain. He would not let it be so. He would
overcome it. Then he turned and tramped deliberately
up and down that room, smoking away as hard as
he could, and when he thought his equilibrium was restored,
he raised his eyes to the picture as he passed,
just casually as any one might who had never thought of
it before. His eyes fell and he went on, back and
forth, looking every time at the picture, and every
time the eyes of that central figure watched him with
that same sad, loving look. At last he went to the
window again and angrily threw up the screen, threw
his half-smoked cigar far out into the shrubbery of the
garden, saying as he did so, “Confound it all!”</p>
<hr class='tbk102'/>
<p class='pindent'>It was the evening before the reception. It was
growing toward nine o’clock, and John Stanley had
retired to his wing to watch the fire and consider what
a fool he was becoming. He had not smoked in that
room since the first night of his return. He had not
yielded to such weakness all at once nor with the consent
of himself. He had thought at first that he
really chose to walk in the garden or smoke on the side
piazza, but as the days went by he began to see that he
was avoiding his own new room. And it was all because
of that picture. He glanced revengefully in the
direction where it hung. He did not look at it willingly
now if he could help it. His elegant smoking
set was reposing in the chimney cupboard, locked there
with a vicious click of the key by the hand of the
young owner himself. And it was not only smoking,
but other things that the picture affected. There for
instance was the pack of cards he had placed upon the
table in their unique case of dainty mosaic design.
He had been obliged to put them elsewhere. They
seemed out of place. Not that he felt ashamed of the
cards. On the contrary he had expected to be quite
proud of the accomplishment of playing well which he
had acquired abroad, having never been particularly
led in that direction by his surroundings before he had
left home. Was this room becoming a church that he
could not do as he pleased? Then there had been a
sketch or two and a bit of statuary, which he had
brought in his trunk because they had been overlooked
in the packing of the other things. That morning he
brought them down to his room, but the large picture
refused to have them there. There was no harm in the
sketches, only they did not fit into the same wall with
the great picture, there was no harmony in their themes.
The statuary was associated with heathenism and wickedness,
’tis true, but it was beautiful and would have
looked wonderfully well on the mantel against the rich,
dark red of the dull tiles, but not under that picture.
It was becoming a bondage, that picture, and after to-morrow
night he would banish it to—where? Not his
bedroom, for it would work its spell there as well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Just here there came a tap on the window-sill, followed
by a hoarse, half-shy whisper:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Stanley, ken we come in?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked up startled. The voice had a familiar
note in it, but he did not recognize the two tall, lank
figures outside in the darkness, clad in cheap best
clothes and with an air of mingled self-depreciation and
self-respect.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who is it?” he asked sharply and suspiciously.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg45'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i045.jpg' alt='A man in a chair turns his head to the window' id='iid-0004' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘WHO IS IT?’ HE ASKED, SHARPLY AND SUSPICIOUSLY.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s me, Mr. Stanley; Joe Andrews. You ain’t
forgot me yet, I know. And this one’s my friend, Bert;
you know him all right too. May we come in here?
We don’t want to go to the front door and make trouble
with the door bell and see folks; we thought maybe
you’d just let us come in where you was. We hung
around till we found your room. We knowed the new
part was yours, ‘cause your father told the committee,
you know, when they went to tell about the picture.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Light began to dawn on the young man. Certainly
he remembered Joe Andrews, and had meant to hunt
him up some day and tell him he was glad to hear he
was doing well and living right, but he was in no
mood to see him to-night. Why could he not have
waited until to-morrow night when the others were to
come? Was not that enough? But of course he
wanted to get a word of thanks all his own. It had
been on his tongue to tell Joe he was unusually busy
to-night, and would he come another time, or wait till
to-morrow, but the remembrance of the picture made
that seem ungracious. He would let them in a few
minutes. They probably wished to report that they
had seen the picture in the room before the general
view should be given, so he unfastened the heavy
French plate window and let the two in, turning up as
he did so the lights in the room, so that the picture
might be seen.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They came in, lank and awkward, as though their
best clothes someway hurt them, and they did not know
what to do with their feet and the chairs. They did
not sit down at first, but stood awkwardly in single
file, looking as if they wished they were out now they
were in. Their eyes went immediately to the picture.
It was the way of that picture to draw all eyes that
entered the room, and John Stanley noted this with
the same growing irritation he had felt all day. But
over their faces there grew that softened look of wonder
and awe and amaze, and to John Stanley’s surprise,
of deep-seated, answering love to the love in the eyes
of the picture. He looked at the picture himself now,
and his fancy made it seem that the Master was looking
at these two well pleased. Could it be that he was
better pleased with these two ignorant boys than with
him, John Stanley, polished gentleman and cultured
Christian that he trusted he was?</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at Joe again and was reminded of the
softened look of deep purpose the night Joe had told
him beneath the vines of his intention to serve Christ,
and now standing in the presence of the boy again and
remembering it all vividly, as he had not done before,
there swept over him the thrill of delight again that a
soul had been saved. His heart, long unused to such
emotions, felt weak, and he sat down and motioned the
boys to do the same. It would seem that the sight of
the picture had braced up the two to whatever mission
theirs had been, for their faces were set in steady purpose,
though it was evident that this mission was embarrassing.
They looked at one another helplessly as
if each hoped the other would begin, and at last Joe
plunged in.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mr. Stanley, you ben so good to us we thought
’twas only fair to you we should tell you. That is, we
thought you’d like it, and anyway, maybe you wouldn’t
take it amiss.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley’s heart was kind, and he had been
deeply interested in this boy once. It all came back
to him now, and he felt a strong desire to help him on,
though he wondered what could be the nature of his
errand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe caught his breath and went on. “You see she
don’t know about it. She’s heard so much of you, and
she never heard that, not even when they was talking
about the den and all at the store, she was just lookin’
at the picture and Him,” raising his eyes reverently to
the picture on the wall, “and we never thought to tell
her afore, and her so set against it. And we thought
anyway afterward maybe you’d quit. Some do. We
all did, but that was her doin’s. But we thought you’d
like to know, and if you had quit she needn’t never
be told at all, and if you hadn’t, why we thought
maybe ‘twouldn’t be nothin’ for you to quit now, ‘fore
she ever knew about it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The slow red was stealing up into the face of John
Stanley. He was utterly at a loss to understand what
this meant, and yet he felt that he was being arraigned.
And in such a way! So humbly and by such almost
adoring arraigners that he felt it would be foolish and
wrong to give way to any feeling of irritation, or indignation,
or even offended dignity on his part.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do not understand, Joe,” he said at last, looking
from one to another of the two boys who seemed too
wretched to care to live longer. “Who is she? And
what is it that she does not know, and that you want
me to ‘quit’? And why should it be anything to her,
whoever she is, what I do?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Why it’s her, Miss Manning—Margaret Manning—our
teacher.” Joe spoke the name slowly, as
if he loved it and revered it; “and it’s that we want
you to—that is, we want her to—to like you, you know.
And it’s the—the—I can’t most bear to say it, ‘cause
maybe you don’t do it any more,” and Joe looked up
with eyes like a beseeching dog.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It’s the smokin’,” broke in Bert huskily, rising.
“Come on, Joe, we’ve done what we ‘greed to do;
now ‘tain’t no more of our business. I say, come on!”
and he bolted through the window shamefacedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joe rose and going up to Mr. Stanley laid hold of
his unwilling hand and choked out: “You won’t take
it hard of me, will you? You’ve done so much fer me,
an’ I kind of thought I ought to tell you, but now
since I seen yer face I think maybe I had no business.
Good-night,” and with a face that looked as if he had
been caught in the act of stealing, Joe followed his
friend through the window and was lost in the deep
shadows outside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>John Stanley stood still where the two had left him.
If two robbers had suddenly come in upon him and
quietly stolen his watch and diamond stud and ring
and left him standing thus, he could not have looked
more astonished. Where had been his usual ready
anger that it did not rise and overpower these two
impudent young puppies, ignorant as pigs, that they
should presume to dictate to him, a Christian gentleman,
what habits he should have? And all because
some straitlaced old maid, or silly chit of a girl, who
loved power, did not like something. Where was his
manhood that he had stood and let himself be insulted,
be it ever so humbly, by boys who were not fit for him
to wipe his feet upon? His kindling eyes lifted unexpectedly
to the picture. The Master was watching him
from his quiet table under the arches of stone. He
stood a minute under the gaze and then he turned the
lights all out and sat down in the dark. The fire was
out too, and only the deep red glow behind the coals
made a little lighting of the darkness. And there in
the dark the boy Joe’s face came back clearly and he
felt sorry he had not spoken some word of comfort to
the wretched fellow who felt so keenly the meaning of
what he had done. There had been love for him in
Joe’s look and he could not be angry with him now he
remembered that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bit by bit the winter of his work for Joe came back,
little details that he did not suppose he ever should
recall, but which had seemed filled with so much
meaning then because he had been working for a
soul’s salvation and with the divine love for souls
in his heart. What joy he had that winter! How
sorry he had been to leave it all and go away. Now
he came to think of it, he had never been so truly happy
since. Oh, for that joy over again! Oh, to take
pleasure in prayer as he had done in those days!
What was this that was sweeping over him? Whence
came this sudden dissatisfaction with himself? He tried
to be angry with the two boys for their part in the
matter, and to laugh at himself for being influenced by
them, but still he could not put it away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A stick in the fire fell apart and scattered a shower
of sparks about, blazing up into a brief glow. The
room was illuminated just for an instant and the face
of the Christ shone out clearly before the silent man
sitting in front of the picture. Then the fire died out
and the room was dark and only the sound of the settling
coals broke the stillness. He seemed to be alone
with Christ, face to face, with his heart open to his
Lord. He could not shrink back now nor put in other
thoughts. The time to face the change in himself had
come and he was facing it alone with his God.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V</h2>
<p class='pindent'>It was the next evening, and the Forest Hill Mission
had assembled in full force. They were
there, from little Mrs. Brown in her black percale,
even to Mrs. Ketchum, who had pocketed her
pride, and in a low-necked gown with a long train was
making the most of her position on the committee. She
arranged herself to “receive” with John Stanley and
his mother, though she ignored the fact that Mrs.
Brown and “those seven hobbledehoy boys” were
also on the committee. Occasionally she deplored
the fact that Miss Manning had not come, that she
might also stand in a place of honor, but in her heart
she was glad that Miss Manning was not present to
divide the honors with herself. It appeared that Mr.
Stanley was delighted with the picture, had seen its
original abroad, and knew its artist. Such being the
case, Mrs. Ketchum was delighted to take all the honor
of having selected the picture, and had it not been for
those truthtelling, enlightening seven boys, John Stanley
might never have known to this day Margaret
Manning’s part in it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>None of the central group saw Margaret Manning
slip silently in past the servant at the door, as they
stood laughing and chatting among themselves after
having shaken hands perfunctorily with the awkward,
embarrassed procession headed by Mr. Talcut and the
young minister who had recently come to the place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Margaret came down stairs she paused a
moment in the hall; but as she saw they were all talking,
she went quietly on into the new wing that had
been for the time deserted by the company, and placed
herself in front of the picture. She had spoken to Mrs.
Stanley, who had been called upstairs to the dressing
room for a moment just as she came in, and so did not
feel obliged to go and greet the group of receivers at
once. Besides, she wanted to have another good look
at the picture before she should go among the people,
and so lose this opportunity of seeing it alone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>From the first view it had been a great delight to
Margaret Manning. She had never before seen a picture
of her Master that quite came up to her idea of
what a human representation of his face should express.
This one did. At least it satisfied her as well as she
imagined any picture of him, fashioned from the fancy
of a man’s brain, could do. And she was glad to find
herself alone with it that she might study it more
closely and throw her own soul into the past of the
scene before her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She had stood looking and thinking for some minutes
thus when she heard a quick step at the door, not a
sound as of one who had been walking down the broad
highly-polished floor of the hallway, but the quick
movement of a foot after one has been standing. She
looked up and saw John Stanley coming forward with an
unmistakable look of interest and admiration on his face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had made an errand to his library for a book to
show to the minister in order to get a little alleviation
from Mrs. Ketchum’s persistent monopolization. He
had promised to loan the book to the minister, but there
had been no necessity for giving it to him that minute,
nor even that evening. As he walked down the hall
he saw a figure standing in his library, so absorbed in
contemplating the picture that its owner did not turn
nor seem to be aware of his coming. She was slender
and graceful and young. He could see that from the
distance, but as he came to the doorway and paused
unconsciously to look at the vision she made, he saw
that she was also beautiful. Not with the ordinary
beauty of the ordinary fashionable girl with whom he
was acquainted, but with a clear, pure, high-minded
beauty whose loveliness was not merely of the outward
form and coloring, but an expression of beauty of
spirit.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was dressed in white with a knot of black velvet
ribbon here and there. She stood behind his big
leather chair, her hands clasped together against one
cheek and her elbows resting on the wide leather back.
There were golden lights in her brown hair. Her eyes
were looking earnestly at the picture, her whole attitude
reminded him of a famous picture he had seen in Paris.
He could but pause and watch it before either of them
became self-conscious.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg55'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i055.jpg' alt='A lady with her elbows on the back of a chair' id='iid-0005' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“SHE STOOD BEHIND HIS BIG LEATHER CHAIR, HER HANDS CLASPED TOGETHER AGAINST ONE CHEEK.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>There was in her intent look of devotion a something
akin to the look he had seen the night before in the
face of the boy Joe. He recognized it at once, and a
feeling half of envy shot through him. Would that
such a look might belong to his own face. But the remembrance
of Joe brought another thought. Instantly
he knew that this was Margaret Manning. With the
knowledge came also the consciousness that he stood
staring at her and must do so no more. He moved
then and took that quick step which startled her and
made her look toward him. As he came forward, he
seemed to remember how he had sat in that chair
smoking a few nights before, and how the vision of the
“ladye of high degree” had stood where this young
girl now was standing, only he knew somehow at a
glance the superiority of this living presence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A flush at the remembrance of his visitors of the
night before and their errand crossed his face, and he
glanced instinctively toward the chimney cupboard to
see if the door was safely locked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I beg your pardon.” he said, coming forward.
“I hope I do not disturb you. I came for a book.
This must be Miss Manning, I think. How comes it
that I have not had the pleasure of an introduction?
They told me you had not come. Yes, I met your
father on the steamer coming over. Is he present this
evening?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was the easy, graceful tone and way he had, the
same that had elicited the notice of the “ladye of high
degree,” only somehow now he had an instinctive feeling
that it would take more than a tone and a manner
to charm this young woman, and as she turned her
clear eyes upon him and smiled, the feeling grew that
she was worth charming.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He began to understand the admiration of those
awkward boys and the feeling that had prompted their
visit of the night before, and to consider himself honored
since he had a part in their admiration.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margaret Manning was prepared to receive him as a
friend. Had she not heard great things of him? And
she knew him at once. There was a fine photogravure
of him given by his mother at the request of the school—and
unknown to himself—hanging in the main room
of the Forest Hill Mission.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their conversation turned almost immediately upon
the picture. John Stanley told how he had seen the
original and its artist abroad, and how proud he was
to be the owner of this copy. The disagreeable experiences
he had passed through on account of it seemed
to have slipped from his mind for the time being.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She listened with interest, the fine, intelligent play of
expression on her face which made it ever an inspiration
to talk with her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How you will enjoy reading over the whole account
of the Last Supper right where you can look at that
face,” she said wistfully, looking up at the picture. “It
seems to me I can almost hear him saying, ‘Peace I
leave with you, my peace I give unto you.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He looked at her wonderingly, and saw the mark of
that peace which passeth understanding upon her forehead,
and again there appeared to him in startling contrast
his vision of the “ladye of high degree,” and he
pondered it afterward in his heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ‘And this is life eternal, that they might know thee,
the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast
sent.’ He said that in the upper room,” she mused,
and after a moment, “was it then too, that he said,
‘For I have given you an example that ye should do
as I have done to you’? I can’t quite remember,”
and her eyes roved instinctively about the elegantly
furnished room in apparent search for something.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He divined her wish at once, and courteously went
in search of a Bible, but in his haste and confusion
could not lay his hand upon one immediately. He
murmured some apology about not having unpacked
all his books yet, but felt ashamed as soon as the words
were uttered, for he knew in his heart the young girl
before him would have unpacked her Bible among the
very first articles.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last he found a little, old-fashioned, fine-print
Bible tucked in a corner of a bookcase. It had been
given him when he was a child by some Sunday-school
teacher and forgotten long ago. He brought it now,
and with her assistance found the place.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How I should enjoy studying this with the picture,”
said the girl, as she waited for him to turn to
the chapter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why not?” he asked. “It would be a great
pleasure to have you feel free to come and study this
picture as often as you like. And if I might be permitted
to be present and share in the study it would be
doubly delightful.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was with the small open Bible on the chairback
between them that the file of awkward boys discovered
them as they came down the hall, hoping to find an
empty and unembarrassing room where they might take
refuge. They paused as by common consent, and stood
back in the shadow of the hall <span class='it'>portière</span>, as if the place
were too sacred for them to more than approach its entrance.
Their two earthly admirations were conversing
together, the Bible between them, and the wonderful
picture looking down upon them. They stole silent,
worshipful glances into the room and were glad.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then came Mrs. Ketchum with rustling, perfumed
robes and scattered dismay into their midst and broke
up the brief and pleasant <span class='it'>tête-à-tête</span> to her own satisfaction
and the discomfiture of all concerned.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<p class='pindent'>They were all gone at last, and the house was settling
to quiet. John Stanley went to his room,
shut his door, and sat down to think.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had not been the unpleasant occasion to which he
had looked forward. He had not even been bored.
He was astonished to find himself regarding the evening
not only with satisfaction, but also with an unusual
degree of exhilaration. It did seem strange to him,
now that he thought about it, but it was true.</p>
<p class='pindent'>New interests were stirring within him. Or were
they old ones? He had gathered that group of boys
about him with their teacher, after Mrs. Ketchum had
broken up his quiet talk with the teacher, and had
talked with them about the places he visited in the
Holy Land, dwelling at some length upon the small
details of what he had seen in Jerusalem, and the probable
scene of events connected with the picture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had grown interested as he saw the interest of
his audience. He realized that he must have talked
well. Was it the intent gaze of those bright, keen-eyed
boys, listening and glancing now and again toward
the picture with new interest, as they heard of
the city and its streets where this scene was laid, that
gave him inspiration? Or had his inspiration come
from that other rapt, sweet face, with earnest eyes fixed
on the picture, and yet showing by an occasional glance
at the speaker that she was listening and liked it?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yes, it had been a happy evening, and all over too
quickly. He would have liked to escort Miss Manning
to her home, but her pony phaeton, driven by a faithful
old servant, came for her, so he missed that pleasure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He found himself planning ways in which he might
often meet this charming young woman. And strange
to say, the mission with its various services stood out
pleasantly in his mind as a means to this end. Had
he forgotten his firm resolution of a few days agone,
that he would have no more to do with that mission in
any capacity whatever?</p>
<p class='pindent'>If this question occurred to him he waived it without
excuse. He was pledged to attend the session of the
school for the next Sabbath anyway, to give in more
elaborate form the talk about the picture and the scenes
in Jerusalem of which he had spoken to the boys. It
had been Miss Manning’s work, this promise, of course.
She had said how grand it would be to have him to tell
the whole school what he had told her class, and had
immediately interviewed the present superintendent,
who had been only too delighted to accept the suggestion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And now he sat by his fire, and with somewhat different
feelings from those he had experienced a few evenings
before, thought over his old life and his new.
Strangely enough the “ladye of high degree” came
no longer to his thoughts, but instead there stood in
shadow behind the leather chair a slender, girlish figure
with an earnest face and eyes, and by and by he gave
himself up to contemplating that, and he wondered no
longer that the boys had given up many things to please
her. He would not find it so very hard to do the same.</p>
<p class='pindent'>How earnest she had been! What a world of new
meaning seemed to be invested in the sacred scene of
that picture after she had been talking about it. He
had followed up her desire to read the account with it
in view, and begged her most eagerly to come and read
it and let him be a humble listener, offering also in a
wistful tone, which showed plainly that he hoped she
would accept the former, to let her have the picture at
her home for a time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It would be very pleasant to read anything, even the
Bible, with this interesting young person and study the
workings of her mind. He could see that she was unusual.
He must carefully study the subject so as not
to be behind her in Bible lore, for it was likely she
knew all about it, and he did not wish to be ashamed
before her. He reached over to the table where he had
laid the little fine-print Bible they had been consulting
earlier in the evening. It had been so long since he
had made a regular business of reading his Bible that
he scarcely knew where to turn to find the right passages
again, but after fluttering the leaves a few minutes
he again came to the place and read: “Now when the
even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as
they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one
of you shall betray me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man stopped reading, looking up at the
picture involuntarily, and then dropped his eyes to the
fire. What was it that brought that verse home to
himself? Had he in any sense betrayed his Lord?
Was it only the natural inquiry of the truthful soul on
hearing those words from the Master and on looking
into his eyes to say sorrowfully “Lord, is it I?” or
was there some reason for it in his own life that made
him sit there, hour after hour, while the bright coals
faded, and the ashes dropped away and lay still and
white upon the hearth?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thomas, the man, looked silently in once or twice,
and marveled to find his master reading what seemed
to be a Bible, and muttered “That pictur,” to himself
as he went back to his vigil. At last he ventured to
open the door and say in a respectful tone, “Did you
call me, sir?” which roused the master somewhat to
the time of night, and moved him to tell his man to go
to bed and he would put out the lights.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The days that followed were filled with things quite
different from what John Stanley had planned on his
return voyage. He made a good start in his business,
and settled into regular working hours, it is true; but
in his times of leisure he quite forgot that he had intended
to have nothing to do with the mission people.
He spent three evenings in helping to cover Sunday-school
library books and paste labels into singing books.
Prosaic work and much beneath him he would have
considered it a short time ago, but he came home each
time from it with an exhilaration of mind such as he
had never experienced from any of the whist parties
he had attended. It is true there were some young
men and young women also pasting labels whose society
was uninteresting, but he looked upon even those with
leniency. Were they not all animated by one common
object, the good work for the mission? And there was
also present and pasting with the others, with deft
fingers and quiet grace, that one young girl around
whom all the others seemed to gather and center as
naturally as flowers turn to the sun. She seemed to be
an inspiration to all the others. John Stanley had not
yet confessed that she was an inspiration to himself.
He only admitted that her society was helpful and enjoyable,
and he really longed to have her come and
read those chapters over with him. Just how to manage
this had been a puzzle. Whenever he spoke of it
the young lady thanked him demurely, and said she
would like to come and look at the picture some time;
but he had a feeling that she would not come soon, and
would be sure he was not at home then before she ventured.
This was right, of course. It was not the thing,
even in America, for a young woman to call upon a
young man even to read the Bible with him. He must
overcome this obstacle. Having reached this conclusion
he called in his mother to assist.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“By the way, mother,” he said the next evening at
dinner, “I met a very agreeable gentleman on the voyage
over, a Mr. Manning. He is the father of the
Miss Manning who was here the other evening, I believe.
Do you know them? I wish you would have
them to dinner some night. I would like to show him
some courtesy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The mother smiled and assented. It was easy for
her to do nice little social kindnesses. And so it was
arranged.</p>
<p class='pindent'>After dinner it was an easy thing for John Stanley
to slip away to the library with Margaret Manning,
where they two sat down together before the picture,
this time with a large, fine Oxford edition of the Bible
to read from.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That was an evening which to John Stanley was
memorable through the rest of his life. He had carefully
studied the chapters himself, and thought he had
searched out from the best commentators all the bright
new thoughts concerning the events that the imagination
and wisdom of man had set down in books, but he
found that his companion had studied on her knees, and
that while she was not lacking either book knowledge
or appreciation of what he had to say, she yet was able
to open to him a deeper spiritual insight. When she
was gone, and he sat alone in his room once more, he
felt that it had been glorified by her presence. He
lingered long before that picture with searchings of
heart that meant much for his future life, and before he
left the room he knelt and consecrated himself as never
before.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In those days there were evening meetings in the
mission and he went. There was no question in his
mind about going; he went gladly, and felt honored
when Mr. Manning was unable to escort his daughter
and he was allowed to take his place. There was a nutting
excursion for the school, and he and Miss Manning
took care of the little ones together. When it was over
he reflected that he had never enjoyed a nutting party
more, not even when he was a care-free boy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It came about gradually that he gave up smoking.
Not that he had at any given time sat down and deliberately
decided to do so, at least not until he found that
he had almost done so. There was always some meeting
or engagement at which he hoped to meet Miss
Manning, and instinctively he shrank from having her
know that he smoked, mindful of what his evening
visitors had told him. At first he fell into the habit of
smoking in the early morning as he walked in the garden,
but once while thus engaged he saw the young
woman coming down the street, and he threw away his
cigar and disappeared behind the shrubbery, annoyed
at himself that he was doing something of which he
seemed to be ashamed. He wanted to walk to the fence
and speak to her as she passed by, but he was sure the
odor of smoke would cling to him. Little by little he
left off smoking lest she would detect the odor about
him. Once they had a brief conversation on the subject,
she taking it for granted that he agreed with her, and
some one came to interrupt them ere he had decided
whether to speak out plainly and tell her he was one
whom she was condemning by her words. His face
flushed over it that night as he sat before his fire. She
had been telling him what one of the boys had said
when she had asked him why he thought he could not
be a Christian: “Well, I can’t give up smokin’, and
we know He never would ‘a’ smoked.” That had
seemed a conclusive argument to the boy.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg67'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i067.jpg' alt='A man stands behind some bushes' id='iid-0006' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“HE THREW AWAY HIS CIGAR AND DISAPPEARED BEHIND THE SHRUBBERY.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Was it true that he was sure his Master never would
have done it? Then ought he, a professed follower of
Christ? He tried to say that Miss Manning had peculiar
views on this subject and that those boys were
unduly influenced by her; and he recalled how many
good followers of Christ were addicted to the habit.
Nevertheless, he felt sure that no one of them would advise
a young man to begin to smoke and he also felt
sure about what Jesus Christ would do.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had been a long time since he had tried himself and
his daily walking with that sentence, “What would
Jesus do?” He did not realize that he was again falling
into the way of it. If he had it might have made
him too satisfied with himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There came to be many nights when he sat up late
looking into the fire and comparing his life with the life
of the Man whose pictured eyes looked down so constantly
into his own. It was like having a shadow of
Christ’s presence with him constantly. At first it had
annoyed him and hung over him like a pall, that feeling
of the unseen Presence which was symbolized by the
skillful hand of the artist. Then it had grown awesome,
and held him from many deeds and words, nay
even thoughts, until now it was growing sweet and dear,
a presence of help, the eyes of a friend looking down
upon him in all his daily actions, and unconsciously he
was beginning to wonder whenever a course of conduct
was presented to his mind whether it would seem right
to Christ.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last the happy winter was slipping away rapidly.
He had scarcely stopped to realize how fast, until one
night when letters had come in on the evening mail, one
from England brought vividly to his mind some of his
thoughts and resolves and feelings during that return
voyage in the fall. He smiled to himself as he leaned
back in the great leather chair and half-closed his eyes.
How he had resolved to devote himself to art and literature
and leave religion and philanthropy to itself! And
he had devoted himself to literature, in a way. Had
not he and Miss Manning and several others of the mission
spent the greater part of the winter in an effort to
put good pictures and books into the homes of the people
of the mission, and also to interest these people in the
pictures and books? He had delivered several popular
lectures, illustrated by the best pictures, and had assisted
at readings from our best authors. But would his broad
and cultured friends from the foreign shore, who had so
high an opinion of his ability, consider that a strict devotion
of himself to art and literature? And as for the
despised mission and its various functions, it had become
the center of his life interest. He glanced up at the
picture on his wall. Had it not been the cause of all
this change in actions, his plans, his very feelings?
Nay, had not its central figure, the Man of Sorrows,
become his friend, his guide, his Saviour in a very real
and near sense?</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so he remembered the first night he had looked
upon that picture and its strange effect upon him. He
remembered some of his own thoughts minutely, his
vision of that “ladye of high degree” with whose
future his own seemed likely to be joined. How strange
it seemed to him now that he could have ever dreamed
of such a thing! Her supercilious smile seemed even
now to make him shrink. The prospect of her trip to
America in the spring or early summer was not the
pleasant thing he had then thought it. Indeed, it annoyed
him to remember how much would be expected
of him as guide and host. It would take his time from
things—and people—more correctly speaking, one person
who had grown very dear. He might as well confess
it to himself now as at any other time. Margaret Manning
had become to him the one woman in all the earth
whose love he cared to win. And looking on his heart
as it now was, and thinking of himself as when he first
returned from abroad, he realized that he was not nearly
so sure of her saying “Yes” to his request that she
would give her life into his keeping, as he had been
that the “ladye of high degree” would assent to that
request.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Why was it? Ah! Of this one he was not worthy,
so pure and true and beautiful a woman was she.
While the other—was it possible that he had been
willing to marry a woman about whom he felt as he
did toward this other haughty woman of wealth and
position? To what depths had he almost descended!
He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>By and by he arose and put out the light preparatory
to going upstairs for the night, humming a line of an
old song:</p>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'>“The laird may marry his ladye, his ladye of high degree—</p>
<p class='line0'>  But I will marry my true love,”</p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<p class='noindent'>and then his face broke into a sweet smile and he added
aloud and heartily, “if I can”—and hummed the closing
words, “For true of heart am I,” as he went out
into the hall, a look of determination growing on his
face and the vision of Margaret Manning enshrined in
his heart.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The visit of the “ladye of high degree” to America
was delayed by wind and tide and circumstance
until the late fall, and in the meantime the people
of America had not stood still for her coming.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Among other things that had been done, there had
been put up and fully equipped a sort of club-house belonging
to the Forest Hill Mission. It does not take
long to carry out such schemes when there are two earnest
persons with determination and ability to work like
John Stanley and Margaret Manning.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The money for the scheme had come in rapidly and
from unexpected sources. Margaret declared that
every dollar was an answer to prayer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The house itself was perfectly adapted for the carrying
out of their plans of work. There were reading-rooms
and parlors where comfort and a certain degree
of refinement prevailed. There was a gymnasium in
which the privileges and days were divided equally between
men and women, and where thorough instruction
was given. There were rooms in which various classes
were carried on evenings for those who had no chance
otherwise, and there were even a few rooms for young
men or young women, homeless and forlorn, where they
could get good board for a time, and the whole was
presided over by a motherly, gray-haired woman and
her husband, whose hearts were in the work, and whose
good common sense made them admirably fitted for
such a position.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But amid all these plans and preparations for better
work John Stanley had found opportunity to speak to
Margaret Manning the words which had won her consent
to make his home bright by her presence and his
heart glad with her love.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Their wedding cards had traveled across the ocean,
passing midway the steamer that carried a letter from
the “ladye of high degree,” saying that she was about
to embark on her trip to America and rather demanding
John Stanley’s time and attention during her stay
near his home. She had been used to this in the days
when he was near her home, and he had been only too
glad to be summoned then.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His letter waited for him several days while he was
away on a short business trip, and it came about that
he opened it but three days before his wedding day.
He smiled as he read her orders. He was to meet her
at the steamer on the fifteenth. Ah! that was the day
when he hoped to be a hundred miles away from New
York, speeding blissfully along with Margaret by his
side. He drew a sigh of relief as he reached for pen
and paper and wrote her a brief note explaining that
he was sorry not to be able to show her the courtesies
he had promised, but that he would be away on his
wedding trip at the time. He afterward added an invitation
from his mother, and closed the note and forgot
all about the matter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so it was that the “ladye of high degree,” instead
of being met with all the devotion she had expected,—and
which she had intended to exact to its
utmost,—found only a brief note with a paltry invitation
to his wedding reception. She bit her lips in vexation
and spent a disagreeable day in a New York hotel,
making all those who had to do with her miserable.
Then she hunted up the names of other acquaintances
in America, noted the date of that reception, and made
up her mind to make her haughty best of it; at least,
when she returned home there was the laird and the
earl and the poor duke, if worst came to worst.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Stanley home was alight from one end to the
other, and flowers and vines did their best to keep up
the idea of the departing summer indoors that night
when John Stanley brought home his lovely bride.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a strange gathering and a large one. There
were present of New York’s best society the truest and
best of men and women, whose costumes and faces
showed that their purses and their culture were equally
deep. And there were many people, poor and plain,
in their best clothes it is true, but so different from the
others that one scarcely knew which costume was more
out of place, that of the rich or of the poor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It had been John Stanley’s idea, and Margaret had
joined in it heartily, this mingling of the different
classes to congratulate them in their new life.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They will all have to come together in heaven,
mother,” John had said in answer to Mrs. Stanley’s
mild protest at inviting Mrs. Cornelius Van Rensselaer
together with Joe Andrews and the mill girls from the
mission. “That is, if they all get there, and in my
opinion Joe Andrews stands as good a chance as Mrs.
Van Rensselaer. What is the difference? It will only
be a little in their dress. I think all of our friends are
too sensible to mind that. Let them wear what they
please, and for once let us show them that people can
mingle and be friends without caring for the quality of
cotton or silk in which each one is wrapped.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The mother smiled and lifted her eyebrows a little.
She could imagine the difference between those mill
girls and the New York ladies, and she knew her son
could not, but her position was established in the world,
and she was coming to the age when these little material
things do not so much matter. She was willing that
her son should do as he wished. She only said in a
lingering protest, “But their grammar, John. You
forget how they murder the king’s English.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Never mind, mother,” he said, “I shouldn’t wonder
if we should all have to learn a little heavenly grammar
when we get there before we can talk fittingly with
the angels.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And so their friends were all invited, and none belonging
to the Forest Mission were omitted. Mrs.
Ketchum, it is true, was scandalized. She knew how
to dress, and she did not like to be classed among the
“rabble,” as she confided to a few of her friends.
“However, one never knew what Margaret Manning
would do, and of course this was just another of her
performances. If John Stanley wasn’t sorry before
very long that he married that woman of the clouds,
she would miss her guess.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She took it upon herself to explain in an undertone
to all the guests, whom she considered worthy of the
toilet she had prepared, that these “other people,” as
she denominated the Forest Hill Mission, pointing to
them with her point lace fan with a dainty sweeping
gesture, were <span class='it'>protégés</span> of the bride and groom, and were
invited that they might have the pleasure of a glimpse
into the well-dressed world, a pleasure probably that
none of them had ever had before.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The “ladye of high degree” was there, oh, yes!
Her curiosity led her, and her own pique. She wanted
to see what kind of a wife John Stanley had married,
and she wanted to see if her power over him was really
at an end.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The rich elegance of her wonderful gown, ablaze with
diamonds and adorned with lace of fabulous price,
brushed aside the dainty white of the bride’s and
threatened to swallow it up out of sight in its own
glistening folds.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the bride, in her filmy white robes, seemed in
no wise disturbed, neither did her fair face suffer by
contrast with the proud, handsome one. The “ladye
of high degree,” standing in the shadow studying the
sweet bride’s face, was forced to admit that there was a
superior something in this other woman that she did
not understand. She turned to John Stanley, her
former admirer, and found his eyes resting in undisguised
admiration on the lovely face of his wife, and
her eyes turned again to the wife and saw her kiss the
wrinkled face of an elderly Scotch woman with beautiful,
tender brown eyes and soft waving hair. The
neat, worn brown cashmere dress that the woman wore
was ornamented only by a soft ruffle about the neck.
The hair was partly covered by a plain, brown bonnet with
an attempt at gala attire in a bit of white lace in front,
and the wrinkled, worn hands were guiltless of any gloves,
but one of those bare hands was held lovingly between
the bride’s white gloves, and the other rested familiarly
about the soft white of the bride’s waist. There was a
beautiful look of love and trust and appreciation in
both faces, and instinctively this stranger was forced to
ask the other onlooker, “Who is she?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“One of God’s saints on earth,” came John Stanley’s
voice in answer. He had been watching the
scene and had forgotten for the moment to whom he
was talking. Not that he would have disliked to speak
so to the “ladye of high degree” now, for he was much
changed, but he would not have thought she would understand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She is just a dear woman in the church whom my
wife loves very much. She is a natural poet soul, and
you may be sure she has been saying something to her
which would be worth writing in a book, and which
she will always remember.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then the “ladye of high degree” turned and
looked at her old acquaintance in undisguised astonishment.
John Stanley must have noticed this and been
embarrassed a moment, but Mrs. Ketchum came by just
then to be introduced, and she proved to be the kindred
spirit for whom this stranger had been searching. From
her was gained much information, some of which astonished
her beyond belief. She made one or two more
attempts to rally her power over John Stanley later in
the evening, but she too had fallen under the spell of
the lovely woman whose eyes her husband’s followed
wherever she went, and she finally gave it up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The final surprise came to the stranger guest late in
the evening, as she was making her way through John
Stanley’s study to the cloak room. She had been told
by the voluble Mrs. Ketchum that this room was Mr. Stanley’s
“den.” She had also noticed during the evening
at different times that people stopped opposite the picture
that hung on the wall over the mantel. She had
not before been in a position to see what this picture
was for the crowd, but she had supposed it some master-piece
that Mr. Stanley had brought home from his
travels. Her curiosity, or her interest, or both, led
her to pause now alone, and to look up.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As others were held under its spell, so was this
woman for a moment. The beauty and expression of
the work of art caught her fancy, and the face of the
Master held her gaze, while her soul recognized and
understood the subject. In great astonishment she
glanced around the room once more and back. Could
it be that John Stanley kept a picture like this in his
den? It was not like the John Stanley she had known.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And then a soft, little, white-gloved hand rested on
her shoulder, and a sweet, earnest voice said: “Isn’t
it wonderful? I’m so glad to be where I can look at
it every day as much as I wish.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg79'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/i079.jpg' alt='A lady looks through a door at a couple' id='iid-0007' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“THE ‘LADYE OF HIGH DEGREE’ . . . SAW THEM STANDING ALSO.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Turning she saw the bride standing by her side. She
scarcely knew how to answer, and before she could do
so she noticed that another had entered the room, and
she knew instinctively that Mr. Stanley had come.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is one of my treasures. Are you admiring
it?” he said in the strong voice that seemed so unlike
his old one, and the guest murmured something about
the picture, and looking about uneasily excused herself
and slipped away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>They stood a moment before the picture together, the
husband and wife. They were tired with the evening’s
talk, and a sight of this refreshed them both and gave
the promise of future joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The “ladye of high degree,” passing through that
hall, having purposely come by another route from the
cloak room rather than through the study, saw them
standing also, and understood—that she did not understand,
and went out into the night with a lonely longing
for something, she knew not what.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the two stood together the husband said: “Do
you know, dear, that picture has made the turning
point in my life. Ever since it came in here I have
felt that his presence was with me wherever I went.
And I have you to thank for it all. And through it
I have gained you, this richest, sweetest blessing of my
life. Do you know, I found a verse in my Bible to-day
that it seems to me fits me and that picture. It is
this: ‘The angel of his presence saved them. In his
love and in his pity he redeemed them.’ ”</p>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='lgc' style=''> <!-- rend=';' -->
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.3em;font-weight:bold;'>GABRIEL THE ACADIAN</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line'>BY</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='line' style='font-size:1.2em;font-weight:bold;'>EDITH M. NICHOLL BOWYER</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
</div> <!-- end rend -->
<hr class='pbk'/>
<p class='line' style='text-align:center;margin-bottom:1em;font-size:1.3em;font-weight:bold;'>GABRIEL THE ACADIAN<a id='gabTOC'></a></p>
<table id='tab3' summary='' class='center'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' style='width: 20em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0em;'/>
<col span='1' style='width: 0.5em;'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tab3c1-col2 tdStyle1' colspan='2'><span class='bold'><span style='font-size:larger'>LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS</span></span></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“ ‘<span class='it'>It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le Loutre</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg03'>3</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>Suddenly the girl raised her head</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg27'>27</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé commands</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg42'>42</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg69'>69</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“ ‘<span class='it'>Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer</span>’ ”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg82'>82</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>Far away at the mouth of the inlet . . . lay three small ships</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg91'>91</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“ ‘<span class='it'>And thou wilt make me a traitor too!’ he cried</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg120'>120</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'></td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'> </td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'> </td></tr>
<tr><td class='tab3c1 tdStyle2'>“<span class='it'>They sat down side by side before the empty hearth</span>”</td><td class='tab3c2 tdStyle3'><a href='#pg131'>131</a></td><td class='tab3c3 tdStyle0'></td></tr>
</table>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg03'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j084.jpg' alt='A man in religious garb scolding a man' id='iid-0008' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘It is a heretic name!’ exclaimed Le Loutre.”</span></p>
</div>
<hr class='pbk'/>
<div class='poetry-container' style=''>
<div class='lgp'> <!-- rend=';' -->
<div class='stanza-outer'>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>There is a history in all men’s lives,</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>Figuring the nature of the times deceased;</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>The which observed, a man may prophesy,</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>With a near aim, of the main chance of things</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>As yet not come to life; which in their seeds</span></p>
<p class='line0'><span class='it'>And weak beginnings lie intreasured.</span></p>
<p class='line0'>             —<span class='it'>Shakespeare, Henry IV.</span></p>
</div>
</div></div> <!-- end poetry block --><!-- end rend -->
<div><h1 class='nobreak'>GABRIEL THE ACADIAN</h1></div>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER I</h2>
<p class='pindent'>“It is the name my mother called me by,” quoth
Gabriel sturdily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a moment there was silence, save for a
murmur of horror that ran through the assembled Acadians
at the daring of a boy who thus defied the fierce
priest; yet his bearing was perfectly respectful.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is a heretic name!” exclaimed Le Loutre.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>, but it is said not. My father
also bare it, and his father before him. Never willingly
will I be called by any other. Did not my
mother swear on the crucifix to my dying sire that his
child should bear his name? And to break a holy vow—is
not that of all things the most sinful, O <span class='it'>mon
père</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thy father died unshriven.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My father was of the Protestant faith,” rejoined
the boy quickly. “He died faithful to his own, though
far from the land of his birth. He would have carried
my mother to join the colonists in Virginia, where abide
many of his kindred, but the prospect of leaving our
Acadian land did not please her, and he loved her
more than kin or country. My father was a good soldier
and brave, monsieur; he was but true to the flag
he served, and to which all we of Acadia have sworn
allegiance, and daily break our vows!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He raised his eyes of English blue, and looked straight
into those of the Abbé Le Loutre, black and angry as
a thundercloud.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A fine figure of a seventeen-year-old lad he was. At
his age many an Acadian youth was beginning to dream
of wife and home all his own. Tall and strongly
built, his light curls tossed back from a brow whose
tell-tale fairness showed through the ruddy bronze left
by the suns and storms of Acadia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This time the exclamations of horror rose louder than
before, and above them was heard the piteous remonstrance
of the village <span class='it'>curé</span>, “Ah, <span class='it'>mon fils</span>, submit thyself
to the good <span class='it'>abbé</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s fearless glance swept the rows of dull Acadian
faces. It seemed to him as if in actual bodily fear
the villagers crouched before the enraged priest, who
drove, rather than led, his timid, ignorant flock, and
the gentle <span class='it'>curé</span>, his subordinate. And the whip with
which he goaded them was none other than the ferocious
band of Micmac Indians, to whom he had been
sent by the French government, nominally as missionary,
but in reality that he might keep the Acadians, by
fair means or foul, in a continual state of rebellion to
their easy-going English rulers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The murmurs died away into awed silence. Then,
with a scornful lift of the hand, Le Loutre turned from
the boy and faced the trembling villagers. His address
at first was in the usual strain, only, if possible, more
intolerant and fanatic than at his last visit, and Gabriel
soon pushed impatiently out of the crowd, and flung
himself down upon the river’s bank. Presently, however,
he found himself listening intently. Here were
threats more terrible, even, than of old. Gabriel was
brave; his father’s blood did not run in his veins for
naught; but for once he wondered not that his countrymen
cowered beneath the lash of that fierce tongue.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The people of Acadia are the people of my mother,”
he often said, “and I love them. But they are cowards.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And when he looked forth from the harbor mouth of
Chebucto and swept with his eyes the wide Atlantic,
there burned in his young bosom a fire that would have
amazed his placid kinsmen had they known of it, content,
as they were, with the daily round of humble submission
to the priests, petty legal quarrels or equally
petty gossip with the neighbors, and daily tilling of the
soil—a fire that was kindled a hundred years before in
one who sailed the seas with Raleigh, and which burned
anew in this young scion of an ancient race.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I want to go, to see, to do!” he would cry, flinging
wide his arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But now, as he gave unwilling ear to Le Loutre, his
boyish heart sank. Could the <span class='it'>abbé</span> in truth fulfill these
threats of driving the people to French soil, whether
they would or no? Could he force them, in the name
of God and the king, to forsake their pleasant homes in
which the English, whatever might be their crimes
against the French, at least allowed the Acadians to
live in peace, unpunished too during all these years for
their want of loyalty to sworn allegiance? Gabriel’s
eyes traveled beyond that dominant figure, and dwelt
upon the savage band of “converts” gathered behind
the priest. Yes, he could, and would!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wrapt in his own thoughts, Gabriel noticed neither
the dispersion of the people nor the ominous fact that
his grandfather, Pierre Grétin, was accompanied on his
homeward way by Le Loutre himself. His eyes were
upon the flowing river, and the light step of his Cousin
Margot failed to arouse him. Her sweet face was close
to his, and her small hand on his shoulder ere he stirred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gabriel, I have somewhat to say to thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is it, <span class='it'>ma mie</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilt thou not depart to-night to thy friends whom
thou dost sometimes visit without the walls of the new
Halifax, by the harbor called of us Chebucto? There
lives that English priest who taught thee discontent
with our blessed religion and with our beloved <span class='it'>curé</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not with our <span class='it'>curé</span>, Margot. He is good; he
makes all religion beautiful and true. But wouldst
thou blame me because my heart turns to the faith of
my father? That in which my mother might have found
courage to rear me had she lived?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, <span class='it'>mon cousin</span>, no, not blame. But grievous
danger threatens all who defy the <span class='it'>abbé</span>, and thee more
than others, because of thy hated English blood. But
listen, Gabriel; dost thou indeed love Margot as
though she were thine own sister?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The boy was silent a moment, then he answered
simply:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That I cannot tell thee, Margot, seeing that I
never had a sister. But I love thee as I love none
other besides.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That is well,” she said with equal simplicity, “because
to save thy life for my sake thou must act contrary
to thy nature.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He sprang to his feet, his blue eyes flashing so that
for a moment Margot quailed before him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You would not have me play the coward and liar?”
he cried. “That I cannot do, even for thee. I am an
Acadian—yes. Yet neither of these things will I be!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I too am an Acadian,” replied the young girl with
quiet dignity, “yet am I not false. Timid I may be,
for such is the wont of my sex.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, <span class='it'>ma cousine</span>, pardon,” exclaimed Gabriel
remorsefully. “Thou knowest how it is with me; my
heart beats, and the words rush, and it is all over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilt thou never learn prudence?” she retorted,
smiling. “We Acadians have learned it in nigh forty
years of lying helpless like a lamb betwixt two snapping
wolves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Prudence, dost thou call it, Margot? My father
called it by a harsher name; and even my mother said
that was a poor thing we did, to live, a free people,
under one flag; untaxed, ministered to by our own
priests, the very necessaries of life supplied to us, and
yet intriguing, forever intriguing, with those of the
other flag.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The flag under which we live is an alien flag,”
said gentle Margot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That may be; but have we ever been called upon
to fight for it? And now that we are summoned to
swear the full oath of allegiance, we have richly deserved
this mild rebuke. The French are cruel; we go
with them only through fear of the Indians.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>, he goes with none,” interposed the
girl with a flash of spirit. “He tills the soil in peace,
meddling not with French or English.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, but even he will have to choose ere many days
are past; the <span class='it'>abbé</span> does not bring here his flock for
naught. And,” cried the lad, clenching his fists,
“who would be a neutral? Not I!” Then more
quietly: “Hast thou not heard them tell, Margot, how
when France yielded Acadia to England we were free,
all of us, to move within the year to French soil if we
would? But we would neither go nor remain and take
the oath of fealty; nevertheless we were permitted to
stay unsworn for seventeen years, intriguing then
even as we do now. At last the oath was won from us,
and more than twenty years since then have come and
gone, and once again, because of our untruth and the
cruelties practised upon English settlers, the word has
gone forth that we must swear anew. What kind of a
people, then are we, Margot, to be thus double-faced?
Thirteen thousand souls, and withal afraid of priests
and Indians! Not daring, not one of us, to play the
man and come out boldly for the one flag or the other.
Oh, we are cowards—cowards all!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He flung himself upon the ground and covered his
face with his hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>To simple, yet wise little Margot these bursts of passion
on the part of her cousin were almost incomprehensible.
Her nature was a still, clear pool, whilst his was
as the young torrent leaping down the rocks, unconscious
of its own power, but eager to join the strong and
swelling stream beneath, upon whose bosom the great
ships float down to the deep sea. But although she did
not understand, love gave her sympathy. She kneeled
beside him, and once more laid her hand upon his
shoulder; but the words she would have uttered died
in her throat, and instead she exclaimed in accents of
terror:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“O Gabriel, Gabriel, arise. It is the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>
who calls, and with him is still the <span class='it'>abbé</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>In an instant the lad was on his feet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gabriel, <span class='it'>mon fils</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The thin, cracked voice floated across the meadows
from the door of the small hut, which was considered
by even prosperous Acadians like Grétin all-sufficient
for the family needs. Without a moment’s hesitation
Gabriel took his cousin’s hand, and led her, half crying
now, toward their home, where the tall form of the
priest was plainly visible, towering over that of the
grandfather.</p>
<hr class='tbk103'/>
<p class='pindent'>These were stirring times for Acadie. Lord Cornwallis
was governor of the province—the Cornwallis
described by Walpole as “a brave, sensible young man,
of great temper and good nature.” He needed to be
all this and more, for the Acadians were a difficult
people to deal with. Vacillating, ignorant, and priest-ridden,
it was the easiest thing in the world for the
French to hold them in actual fact, while by treaty
ceding them to England, an alien power and race.
Fear, however, played a large part in French influence;
and this was invariably the case throughout the long
dissensions betwixt France and England. Indian savagery
was winked at, even encouraged, by French
authorities in their dealings both with English and
Acadians; and the fair escutcheon of France was defaced
by many a stain of blood cruelly, wantonly,
treacherously shed. That the Acadians should be in
sympathy with France rather than with England was
natural; their wrong-doing consisted not in that, but in
their readiness to accept English protection while plotting
steadily with the French against the flag to which
they had sworn fealty rather than move to French soil.
They were now in a somewhat sorry plight.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The long-patient English government, through Cornwallis,
was requiring of them a fresh oath, and better
faith in keeping it, if they continued to reside in the
province, whilst the governor of those French possessions,
now called Cape Breton and Prince Edward’s
Island, was using every means in his power, hideous
threats included, to induce them to come definitely
under the French flag. What those means might eventually
be even such young creatures as Margot and
Gabriel knew only too well.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The cousins found their grandfather looking troubled
and distressed, and the priest still wearing the menacing
air which had all that day awed his village audience.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is full time you of Port Royal bethought you of
your duty to your religion and your king instead of forever
quarreling among yourselves, and enriching pettifogging
men of law. But for thee, Grétin, though
special indulgence has ever been shown thee, it will be
well that thou shouldst take thought for thy family before
it is too late. Thou knowest my flock of old,”
alluding to his savage converts, “and the kind of lambs
they are. Homes await the loyal subjects of God and
the king on the Isle of St. Jean and Isle Royale, and
if they see not what is best for their own souls’ good I
have the means to make them see it!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Grétin was both morally and intellectually the superior
of those among whom he lived, and he was also
braver than his neighbors, but of what avail is superiority
when a man stands alone? It was for this reason,
combined with the habit of subjection to priestly authority,
that he replied hastily:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>, it is even as you say.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This boy must be disciplined,” continued the priest
sternly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>, so it must be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was at this moment that “the boy” presented
himself, his head erect, his face pale, and holding the
hand of his cousin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Drop the maiden’s hand and follow me!” was the
<span class='it'>abbé’s</span> harsh salutation. “I have that to say which is
not for feminine ears.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel obeyed, but there was something in his air
which, though promising submission, meant submission
within definite limits.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre entered the hut and closed the door on
the peaceful, pastoral scene without, lit up by the rays
of the declining sun. Then seating himself on a bench,
rude and plain as were the furnishings of all the homes
of the frugal and industrious Acadians, however rich
in land and stock, he addressed Gabriel standing respectfully
before him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is thine age?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I shall be eighteen at the Christmastide.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Humph! a well-grown youth! Dost thou call
thyself boy or man?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>An irrepressible smile curled Gabriel’s fresh lips, but
he answered demurely:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Neither, <span class='it'>mon père</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dare not to trifle with me, son of a heretic!”
broke out the priest, his imperious temper rising. Accustomed
to see all men cringe before him, this lad’s
fearless demeanor was particularly galling to Le Loutre.
He controlled himself again, however, and proceeded
with that persuasiveness of which when it suited him
he was master:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is as man, not boy, I call upon thee this day to
serve God and the king, and to prove thyself worthy
of the confidence I would repose in thee. I give thee
thy just due, thou hast a good courage, and it is men
of such mettle that Louis requires, <span class='it'>men</span>, hearest
thou?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s frank, yet searching, gaze was riveted on
the priest’s face; and so keen were those blue eyes that
Le Loutre shifted his, momentarily disconcerted. For
perhaps the first time in his remarkable career he was
conscious of difficulty in explaining the righteousness,
according to his creed, of “doing evil that good may
come.” Not that he himself doubted; he was too
honest a zealot for that; but in this case explanation
was somehow not easy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou knowest,” he said at length, “of this new
oath that the heretics would extort from God’s people.
To keep them in the fold and preserve their souls alive
at any cost is my priestly duty; but in order to accomplish
this I must have loyal aid. My Micmacs
waver, they have even made a treaty with the English.
This cannot be permitted to endure. It is therefore
the king’s wish that they be secretly encouraged to
break it, and to this end loyal Acadians in disguise
must accompany them when they go to Halifax. Later
these same faithful subjects will continue their work for
the holy cause in the old way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre paused and regarded Gabriel fixedly.
The boy’s face was alight with sudden comprehension.
It was not the priest’s custom to speak openly of his
plans, but he was fully aware that he was now dealing
with no ordinary dull-witted Acadian peasant. What
an invaluable ally this half-heretic lad would be could
he only mold him to his will.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel had not lived his brief span of life in Port
Royal for nothing. He already knew that Le Loutre
was quite capable of using force to drive the Acadians
from their thriving farms to make new homes for themselves
on French soil, rather than that they should
pledge their word to the English again, even though
that pledge might be broken as before. And there was
evidently some scheme more serious in process of hatching
than the well-worn one of painting and disguising
Acadians and sending them out with the Micmacs to
plunder and slay English settlers. The ancient farce
of “Indian warfare” was to wear a new face. The
existence of peace between the two countries had never
been any hindrance to French scheming. Gabriel had
only too vivid recollections of the fate of certain Acadians,
who had been cajoled or frightened into joining
those Indian war-parties, and who, when taken prisoner
by the English, had been disowned by the French and
declared to have “acted of their own accord.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The lad’s heart was heavy within him. If he defied
the priest and refused to stoop to that which in his
eyes was baseness and treachery, his life would be made
a torment, nay, perhaps forfeited, none could foretell
where Le Loutre would stop. And worse, far worse
than this, the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>, hitherto well regarded by the
bigoted priest and granted many indulgences, would be
ruthlessly hunted from the dear home to the bleak, uncleared
shores of Isle Royale, or, as the English named
it, Cape Breton. The <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>—he was old—he
would certainly die without the strong grandson to help
him. And Margot? Ah, it was too bitter! In spite
of himself Gabriel covered his eyes with his hand as if
to shut out the frightful vision.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The face of Le Loutre glowed with triumph. He
had not expected so easy a victory. To his present
scheme this youth, with his knowledge of the English
tongue and the customs of the fort, was well-nigh indispensable;
moreover, his intelligence and his sense of
honor were alike keen, and once pledged to him, the
priest knew that he would never turn traitor. Under
pretense of trading in furs a French vessel had brought
to Acadie guns and ammunition enough to arm both
Acadians and Indians, and the latter were already
being secretly bribed by the Intendant at Louisburg
through Le Loutre; for a signal act of treachery was
now required of them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the priest had triumphed too soon. When at
length Gabriel raised his head, though his young face
looked almost ghostly in the dying light, his eyes were
shining with high resolve. Not that the path of duty
was as yet perfectly clear before him, or that he knew
whither it might lead, but he was resolute to take no
other. Nevertheless he understood that mere defiance
would not help either himself or those far dearer than
self. Therefore he controlled himself and said quietly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> has without doubt heard of that <span class='it'>prêtre</span>
from the New England who instructs a flock outside
the walls of Halifax?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre scowled darkly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Art thou a heretic already? I feared as much.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” replied the boy in the same restrained
tones; “yet I confess that the faith of my
fathers holds much of interest for me. And he is good,
<span class='it'>monsieur</span>, oh, good! like our own beloved <span class='it'>curé</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Here he hesitated; then took courage, and went on
rapidly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He bade me always to remember, even if I should
not in the end turn to my father’s faith, that one of its
noblest commands is: Never do evil that good may
come. Also that my father obeyed that command.
O <span class='it'>mon père</span>, choose some one else for thy purpose;
one who is not divided in heart as I, but who hates the
English as my blood will not let me do, and to whom
the Holy Catholic Church is the only church!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a moment it seemed as though the priest would
strike the pleading face upturned to his, so fierce a
flame of wrath swept over him, but instead he said
with a sneer:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thou wouldst thrust the words of a heretic
down the throat of a priest of God and the king?
There is but one explanation, boy, thou art a coward!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The hot blood surged into Gabriel’s cheeks. All his
prudence was tossed aside beneath the lash of that
tongue. Flinging back his head he confronted Le Loutre
with an air which compelled, as it never had failed
to do, the reluctant admiration of the man to whom
courage seemed the best of God’s gifts to mortals.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” said the boy, in the low tones of an
unbending resolve, “I am no coward; but I should be
both coward and liar were I to do your bidding.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a breathing space the two pairs of eyes held one
another like wrestlers. Then:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As thou wilt,” rejoined the priest coldly. “But
forget not that no traitors to God and the king can
dwell at ease in Acadie. Mine are no empty threats.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He flung wide the door and called to the waiting
Micmacs. As they stepped out of the surrounding
gloom, the pine torches carried by them illuminated
their ferocious countenances. Margot sprang forward
and cast herself upon her knees before the priest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“O <span class='it'>mon père, mon père</span>, do with me what you will,
inflict on me any penance that seems unto you good;
but spare, oh, spare my cousin, if only for the sake of
the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girl’s agonized pleading rang out into the night.
Then, in a voice rendered tremulous by years and infirmity,
but still not devoid of dignity, Grétin himself
spoke.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” he said, “the boy is of heretic blood—yes.
But also is he of my blood—mine, who am a
faithful servant of the true church. If he has been
led astray, I myself will see to it that he returns to the
fold. For he is a good lad, and the prop and staff of
my old age.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre turned on the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> his piercing eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou hast reason, Grétin. Thou hast indeed been
a faithful servant of the church, but art thou that now?
Do not thy religion and thy king demand of thee that
thou shouldst leave, with all that is thine, the air
breathed by pestilential heretics, and dost thou not still
linger, battening in their green pastures, yea, feeding
from their hand? Art thou, therefore, fit to be the
guide of erring youth? It may be too, that thou wilt
have to suffer for his sin if he repent not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The old man bowed his head, and a low moan escaped
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Hurt not the lad,” he murmured. “He is as the
very apple of my eye.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My Micmacs will look to his repentance,” retorted
the priest grimly. “In the saving of the soul the
body may have to endure somewhat, but holy church
is merciful to the penitent.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>As he spoke Gabriel sprang from the detaining hands,
of the Indians, and kneeling at the feet of the old man,
lifted the shriveled fingers and laid them upon his own
fair head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bless me, even me, O <span class='it'>mon père</span>,” he cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> fell upon his neck and wept.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, Gabriel, my son, my son!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Before he could so much as speak to Margot, the Indians,
at a sign from Le Loutre, relentless always in
the performance of what he believed to be his duty
and now enraged by defeat, seized the youth and disappeared
with him into the forest. Lingering only
to make the sign of the cross over the helpless and bereaved
pair, Le Loutre himself followed.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER II</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel, hurried along through “brake, bush, and
brier,” each arm grasped by a brawny Micmac,
had no time for thought. A grown man of settled
convictions might have found his situation a very labyrinth
of difficulty. How much more, then, a growing
lad, unavoidably halting betwixt two nationalities and
two forms of religion?</p>
<p class='pindent'>After what seemed endless hours, but which in reality
was but a short time, the party arrived at the settlement
of wigwams on the bank of the Shubenacadie.
The priest was no longer to be seen. “Am I then to
be left to the mercy of these savages?” thought Gabriel.
Yet close on the heels of the thought flashed
the consciousness that the Indians’ violence had considerably
slackened since the disappearance of Le
Loutre. The bonds with which they had tied their
prisoner were so loose that he easily slipped out of them,
and approaching the squaws who were gathering wood
for the fires, he addressed them in their own language
and proceeded to help them. The braves merely
turned their heads and glanced at him indifferently.
“Not enough gold!” he heard one mutter to another.
He had already heard that the Micmacs had grown
shrewd enough to put their own price on the harassing
of recalcitrant or timid Acadians, and the taking of
English scalps; and like all ignorant or savage races
had quickly learned to overestimate their services and
become insatiate in their demands. Gabriel’s chances,
therefore, depended to some extent on the condition of
the priest’s treasury; also on the fact that he was personally
acquainted with certain members of the band,
to whom by reason of his skill in woodcraft and familiarity
with the habits of the forest game he had not only
occasionally been of service, but whose respect he had
won.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This is the white boy who knows even as does
the red man the lair of the wild deer and where in the
noonday heat they turn their steps to drink,” observed
one to the other, as Gabriel, restraining every symptom
of fear, quietly joined the group around the now blazing
fire and helped himself out of the common pot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he put in coolly, “and I can tell you more
than that if you will.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There are natures, those of women as well as of men,
whose vitality quickens in the face of actual danger.
They may be even cowardly in the mere anticipation,
but the trumpet-call of duty, honor, or sacrifice, or the
less high-sounding clarion of self-preservation, sets them
on their feet, face forward to the coming foe. In Gabriel
all these forces were at work, though Margot’s
sweet, pale face and the <span class='it'>gran’-père’s</span> bowed gray head,
were the strongest influences. And behind all these
was that irrepressible spirit of adventure, never wholly
absent from the normally healthy young mind.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Drawing on his store of woodland stories, and occasionally
pausing to give ear to those furnished by the
now interested Micmacs, an hour passed in total oblivion
by the captors of the commands laid on them concerning
their prisoner; and when at last a tall dark
form suddenly appeared within the circle of light, and
a well-known terrible voice broke forth in objurgation;
it was plain that the owner of both was scarcely more
welcome to his “lambs” than to the prisoner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What is that I behold?” exclaimed Le Loutre.
“Where is your Christian service, vowed to God and the
king? Instead, I find feasting and foolish gabbling,
with a traitorous captive in the midst!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The faces of the Indians clouded in sullen silence.
The lash of the priest’s tongue went unsparingly on.
At length the leader growled out, “The pale faces
from over the sea bring no more gifts. The red men
grow weary of taking the scalps of friendly white men
who are at war with your people but who do the Indian
no wrong. They at the new fort have treated us well.
And as for this boy, you give us not enough to take the
scalp of so mighty a hunter and true a tracker.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre’s face paled with baffled rage. True it
was that owing to some at present unexplained delay
the customary large remittances from France for the
bribing of Indians who were friendly to the English
were not forthcoming, and with a heart-leap of joy Gabriel
saw the truth written in his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fools! Did I bid you take his scalp? Did I not
bid you rather to chasten him for his faithlessness and
force him back to his duty? This you know well
enough how to do without my guiding presence. Yet
I come to find——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a gesture of unutterable scorn he waved his
black-robed arm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But his personal influence was on the wane, and he
knew it. It was money, gifts, that were needed, and
for these he must wait. Yet were there still a few
whose greed was of the kind that will take anything
rather than nothing, and on these he depended, and
not in vain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Stealthily, like dark spirits, two or three Indians
glided from behind their companions, and took up their
station beside the priest. Strengthened by these mute
allies he once more faced the group at the fire, and proceeded
to pour forth in fervid eloquence alternate persuasion,
threat, and glowing promise of future reward.
Gabriel soon discovered that he was not the central
figure in this tirade—that larger projects than the fate
of one boy were being held before the now attentive
Indians, who uttered guttural notes of assent or dissent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A hundred <span class='it'>livres</span> for each scalp—a hundred <span class='it'>livres</span>,
mark you! This boy knows, as you cannot do, the plan
of the fort at Halifax, and the number of its defenders.
If he be so mighty a tracker, let him track these English
dogs to their lair and fire them out of it, or in it,
it matters not which, so that to God and the king are
restored what is rightly theirs. But remember, a hundred
<span class='it'>livres</span> is yours for every English scalp! My people
may not do this thing, for they have signed a peace with
their enemies, but for your people it is otherwise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have we too, not set our totems to a solemn
treaty?” growled one dissenting voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Once more from the priest that gesture of contempt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what is that for such as you?” he said.
“What is a broken treaty to the Indian?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel, unable longer to contain himself, sprang to
his feet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Mon père!</span>” he cried, his heart in a flame, a blaze
of sudden illumination in his soul. “Nay, never more
<span class='it'>mon père! M. l’Abbé</span>, is this, then, the Christianity,
the fealty to God and the king, to which you would
have me faithful? Then, God willing, faithless will I
be.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a long minute there was dead silence, broken
only by the quick breathing of the excited boy. The
Indians, though not fully understanding the words,
realized their daring, and gazed upon him with all the
admiration of which their anger was capable.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do your work,” said Le Loutre at last coldly,
signing to the Micmacs at his side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a moment Gabriel was thrown to the ground, his
arms bound to his side, his feet tied. A hole was dug
in the ground, a post placed in it, and around the post
fresh logs were heaped.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such scenes, alas! were not uncommon under the
despotic rule of Abbé Le Loutre, and though no instance
is recorded of actual sacrifice of life, owing perhaps
almost as much to Acadian timidity as to priestly
forbearance, much terror and temporary suffering were
caused by his blind fanaticism. But in this boy of
mixed race there was stouter stuff to deal with, and his
English blood was to the priest as a thing accursed.</p>
<hr class='tbk104'/>
<p class='pindent'>Days passed, and Pierre Grétin and his granddaughter
could obtain no news of Gabriel. Tossed and
torn by conflicting emotions, communal as well as personal,
the old man’s strength seemed to be ebbing from
him. Yet never did he need it more. The village of
Port Royal (now Annapolis), nay, all Acadie, was in
the confusion of helpless distress. What should they
do, these poor ignorant habitans? To whom should
they listen? In their hearts they knew that every
word of Cornwallis’ proclamation was true, that under
English rule they had enjoyed freedom, both secular
and religious. On the other hand, Le Loutre swept
down upon them continually with the firebrand of his
eloquence. “Come to French soil,” he cried, “seek
new homes under the old flag! For three years <span class='it'>le bon
roi</span> will support you. You are French at heart—what
have you to do with these English? Refuse, and the
consolations of religion will be denied you and your
property shall be given over to the savages.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>True, they were French at heart, the most of them,
but not all; and their tranquil, sluggish lives had
drifted so peacefully on the broad river of the English
governor’s indulgence. It was almost worth while to
renew the oath of allegiance to these foreigners and
sleep quietly once more under their own rooftrees.
But would they sleep quietly? Ah, there was the rub!
Le Loutre had ever been a man of his word.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Therefore it came to pass that French ships passing
to Isle St. Jean, now called Prince Edward Island, and
Isle Royale, now Cape Breton, had for two years
many hundred Acadians for passengers, some willing,
more reluctant, destined to semi-starvation and unutterable
misery in the new and desolate country in
which their small stock of courage was to be so grievously
tried, and in which few of them plucked up spirit
sufficient to clear new land for their subsistence, but existed,
or ceased to exist, on such meagre supplies as the
French government furnished them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Gran’-père</span>,” said Margot one evening, as bereft
of most of their near neighbors they clung almost alone
to their humble home, “<span class='it'>mon gran’-père</span>, what think
you, has become of our Gabriel?” Her eyes were heavy
with weeping, her round cheeks pale.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Grétin, in yet worse case, had scarce strength to take
his turn with her behind their yoke of oxen at the
plow. He sat on a bench at the door of the hut,
both hands leaning heavily on his staff. For a while
he answered nothing, but his sunken gaze wandered
along the banks of the river, from one desolated home
to another. In scarcely more than two or three still
burned the sweet fires of home, and those that were forsaken
had been plundered by the Indians, fresh traces
of whose presence were daily visible. The good village
<span class='it'>curé</span>, beloved of all, and the influence of whose noble
life and teachings represented all that was best in the
Catholic church, was gone too. Torn by contending
duties he had decided that the forlorn exiles needed his
ministrations more than those still remaining in their
homes, and had followed them to French soil.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Le bon Dieu</span> knows, my child!” Grétin answered
at last, in the dull tones of hopeless old age.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Surely <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> would not permit that—that——”
her voice broke.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That his fair young life should be destroyed by
those savages? No, my child, no—that can I not believe.
Moreover, Jean Jacques, Paul Pierre—they
were his friends among the Micmacs. And <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>—no,
he would bend but not break the boy.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a long silence. The evening dews, tears
of the soil for the banishment of her children, sparkled
on the wide meadows beneath the now rising moon.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Margot, we can no longer resist the priest’s will,” he
said again, “and alone we are not able to till the land,
so that it may bring forth crops for our sustenance.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But a burst of tears from the girl interrupted him.
Flinging herself at his feet, she threw her arms around
him and hid her face in his breast.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Gran’-père, mon gran’-père!</span>” she cried, “I will
work! I can plow—I can dig! I am young it is
true, and small, but we women of Acadie are strong.
You shall care for the house—it is I who will till the
land. Let us not leave Acadie. Gabriel may return—sick,
wounded, who knows? and we gone, the house
desolate! If <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> sets his Micmacs on us to drive
us forth, I will plead with them. They have hearkened
to me before now, they will again. If not, then
we must go forth indeed, but not yet, not yet!”</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg27'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j110.jpg' alt='A man and a woman outside by a cabin door' id='iid-0009' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“Suddenly the girl raised her head.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Weeping they clung together. Suddenly the girl
raised her head. A moment more she was on her feet,
gazing intently into the black depths of the forest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Gran’-père</span>,” she whispered, “do you hear?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Only the night-hawk, my daughter.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, but the night-hawk! Many a time have I
heard my cousin call thus in the woods in our happy
play times. There, again!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Like an arrow from a bow she was gone, speeding
through the long grass, but keeping well in the shadows.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The old man rose with difficulty. He was weary
and cramped with the long day’s work, of which since
his grandson began to grow toward manhood his share
had until these evil days been slight. As the minutes
crawled by and Margot did not return, anxiety swelled
to terror. The Indians—they did not all know
her. With shaking hand he took his ancient-fowling
piece from the peg where it hung.</p>
<p class='pindent'>His vision was dim, and as he started blindly on his
way, he found himself arrested, gently pushed back
into the hut, the door barred, the small windows shuttered.
All was done quickly and quietly, as by an
accustomed hand. Pine cones were thrown upon the
half-dead fire, there was a blaze of light, and Pierre
Grétin fell into the arms of his grandson.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But joy sobered as Grétin and Margot surveyed their
recovered treasure by the additional illumination of
home-made tallow dips. Gabriel, indeed, was but the
ghost of his former buoyant, radiant self. Only the
blue, brave light in his eyes betrayed the old Gabriel.
His cheeks were hollow, his frame gaunt, his home-spun
clothing torn to rags.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That I can soon remedy,” said the little housewife
to herself, as she thought of the new suit in the oaken
chest, set aside for his first communion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Strange scars were on his legs and hands, and these
Margot soon fell to examining, a growing dread in her
face, though he strove to draw his fingers from her
clasp.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Heed them not, <span class='it'>ma cousine</span>,” he said tenderly.
“I have weightier matters to speak of with thee and
with the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Speak on, my son.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nay,” said the girl quickly, “let him rest and
eat first.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Glancing into the pot, which hung, French fashion,
over the fire, she added to it shredded meat and vegetables
until the whole was a savory mess. While she
prepared it, the boy sat with his head in his hands, a
man before his time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The meal ended and the kitchen restored to its
wonted order, Margot, in whom, as in all Acadians,
the frugal spirit of the French peasant prevailed, extinguished
the tallow dips; then, taking her seat on a
cricket at her grandfather’s knee, she eagerly awaited
Gabriel’s story.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This story of Gabriel’s was no easy one to tell; this
he felt himself. In the brief time that he had been
absent from his home, brief in actual duration, but to
himself and to his loved ones so long, life had acquired
for him a wholly different meaning. Hitherto his nature
had been as plastic material prepared for some
mold, the selection of which had not as yet been made
known. He knew now for what he was destined, and
was conscious that the boy was rapidly hardening into
the man he was intended to be. The fanaticism permitted
in one of its most potent instruments had upset
his faith in the form of religion in which he had been
reared, and he was too young for the tolerance that is
often the fruit of a larger experience. Moreover,
strange as it may seem, there was in this generous,
tender-hearted youth elements not unlike those in the
relentless and vindictive priest. The fanatic and the
enthusiast not seldom spring from the same root. But
how to explain to these two, who, dear to him as they
were, could not be expected to share his convictions?
At last he roused himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“First, dear <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>,” he said, “I must learn
how it fares with you and with <span class='it'>ma cousine</span>. God grant
that you be left here in peace!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a pause. They too had their difficulties.
How could they tell him that Le Loutre might even
yet have spared them their home had it not been for
what he called “the contumacy of that young heretic”?
Margot’s woman’s wit, however, came to the rescue and
she told simply and truthfully the tale of the gradual
banishment of their people. “We still are spared,”
she concluded, “but it cannot be for long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then my sins were not visited on your head,” said
Gabriel eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As others fare, so must we in the end,” was the
somewhat evasive reply. “But come, my cousin, to
thy tale.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So Gabriel began, but when he came to the scene of
the torture, hesitated. Margot’s indignant sympathy,
however, divined what he would not tell.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Was it very bad, dear cousin?” she cried, the
tears in her dark eyes, as she pressed his hand.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, not so very bad,” he replied with forced lightness.
“The friendly Micmacs rebelled, and I do not
believe <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> ever pushes things to extremes at
first. He strove only to scare me into submission to
his will, and I have got a bit of tough English oak
somewhere in me that doesn’t bend as do tender Acadian
saplings.” He smiled down into his cousin’s wet
eyes. “Don’t weep, little cousin. See, I am well;
none has hurt me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, but thou art thin, thou art pale, thou art
changed,” she cried, breaking down completely. “Oh,
<span class='it'>mon gran’-père</span>, is it that we must love and obey so
cruel a priest?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The old man’s trembling hand smoothed her hair;
he could not speak yet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Mon gran’-père</span>, Margot,” Gabriel said bravely,
“I have that to tell you which may grieve your hearts;
but my mind is made up. I have, indeed, changed
since we parted. I am no longer a Christian as your
church holds such.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Your church!” This could mean but one thing—their
Gabriel was then, in truth, a heretic! But the
low-breathed “Helas, <span class='it'>mon fils</span>,” which escaped the old
man was not echoed by his granddaughter. She raised
her head and looked at her cousin, who had sprung
to his feet and was pacing the floor like a young lion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No,” he cried. “If to do such in the name of the
Father and the gentle mother of a gentle Saviour is to
be a Christian, then am I none! If to be a missionary
of the church is to spur poor savages on to be more
cruel, more treacherous, than in their ignorance they
were, then heaven grant that no holy church may ever
receive them! If to be false to every given vow, to
strike the enemy in the back, to hate even as do the
devils in hell, is to be a Christian, then no Christian
am I!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He returned to the fireside, and sinking upon the
high-backed settle, relapsed into reverie so profound as
to become oblivious of his surroundings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And if thou dost proclaim thyself a heretic, <span class='it'>mon
fils</span>,” observed Grétin at length fearfully, “what is to
become of us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas, at best what can I do for you, honored <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>?
Is not even now that vindictive priest on my
track? And may it not be that he may yet take my
life because I will not aid him in his treacherous plot?
I have escaped him once, but only by the aid of Jean
Jacques, and now that gold has come from France,
Jean Jacques will love French crowns better than my
life.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> never takes lives, my son,” said the old
man rebukingly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why not, <span class='it'>mon gran’-père</span>? May it not have
been because none dared oppose him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Grétin sighed heavily, but made no reply, and Gabriel
continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“All here are his tools, the Acadians from fear, the
Indians for gold. I am no tool, and for that, if needs
be, I must suffer. But you—ah, my beloved and
dear!” He sank impulsively upon his knees, and
throwing his arm around his cousin and leaning his
head on his grandsire’s knees, yielded himself to an
abandonment of grief.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Finally Margot spoke, quietly and decisively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dear Gabriel, thou canst indeed do nothing for us
and thou art in peril here. Thou must make thy way
with all speed to thy friend, the New England <span class='it'>prêtre</span>;
he will succor and aid thee. Thou art like the Huguenots
and the Puritans; thou wilt have to suffer for
conscience’ sake.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She smiled bravely, but her lips trembled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you,” Gabriel groaned, “you!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The poor boy was passing through that bitterest trial
of all, experiencing what to all martyrs is worse than
any fiery stake, the helpless, incomparable anguish of
bringing suffering on those dearer to him than life.
What if in the saving of his own soul alive he should
have to trample over the bodies of the beloved? Might
not his course be the very acme of self-seeking? What
recompense could the martyr’s crown confer for this
mortal agony of vicarious suffering?</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Margot’s steady, quiet voice went on; her soft
touch was on his head. Timid she might be, but ah,
brave, brave too!</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He will not hurt us, the <span class='it'>abbé</span>,” she said. “Do
not fear, my cousin. If thou dost stay with us, thou
wilt have to act a lie every day. Even should he refrain
from pressing thee into his schemes, he will watch
thee, and not one single ordinance of our church wilt
thou be permitted to elude. He can be very hard, our
<span class='it'>abbé</span>. No, dear Gabriel, vain is it to strive to serve
two masters; if of our faith, thou must remain here
and profess it; if of the other, thou must go.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She averted her head and further speech failed her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At that moment there was a violent knocking on the
door. Gabriel was on his feet at once, alert, resolute
once more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I knew he would track me,” he said, “but I had
hoped not to be found here, and neither will I. Adieu,
<span class='it'>mon gran’-père</span>. God in very truth keep you! Margot,
the small door into the cowpen.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At a word from the girl, Grétin crept into his covered
bed in the wall, while she and Gabriel slipped
noiselessly away through a back entrance.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let us go with thee, dear cousin,” implored Margot,
as they paused for an instant among the cows, her
fears for him making her once more timid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Ma chérie</span>, no! Ah, my best beloved!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He clasped her to his breast, kissed her passionately,
as never before, on brow, cheek, and lips, and was
gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the house door the knocking continued, and the
<span class='it'>gran’-père’s</span> voice was heard in the accents of one
aroused from sleep. Margot, hastily composing her
features and trusting that the traces of tears would not
be visible in the light of the dying fire, re-entered the
kitchen and, after much fumbling and delay, opened
the door. Without stood Le Loutre, accompanied as
usual by his “lambs.” Without deigning to address
her, he snatched a torch from one of the Indians and,
striding into the small house, explored every corner.
Even the cowpen was not left unsearched. On pretense
of arranging the bed-covering, Margot bent over her
grandfather.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Delay him if you can,” she breathed; “every
moment is precious.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the priest was already at her side.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is the malicious heretic, at last avowed?”
he thundered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, where is he, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>?” exclaimed Grétin,
raising himself on his elbow, endued with a sudden
excess of courage at the thought of Gabriel wandering
alone through the perils of the forest. “Where is the
boy, the son of my loved and only daughter, my heart’s
treasure? Where is he, Gabriel, staff of my old age?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a moment the furious priest was confounded.
The color mounted to his dark cheeks and he hesitated.
The old man’s aspect was almost threatening, and if
fanaticism had left Le Loutre a conscience, it surely
spoke then. But the momentary weakness passed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thou wouldst shelter a heretic,” he said
sternly, “recusant son of Mother Church that thou
art! But she chastens, if in love, yet she chastens.
Hope not for further grace. As for the boy, he must
be brought back into the fold. This I have ere now
told thee, and I repeat it. Me, the chosen instrument
of God and the king, he cannot escape. Faithless as
thou mayst be, thou canst not keep him from me. This
very night he shall be forced back to his duty. As for
thyself and the girl——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He paused, the terrible look in his eyes. But it was
enough. Further words were unnecessary. And as
the torches danced away like fireflies into the forest
shades, Margot, now completely exhausted, flung herself
down beside the old man and, with an arm about
his neck, wailed: “<span class='it'>Gran’-père</span>, my <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>, they
will find him!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the hopeless response came: “<span class='it'>Ma fille</span>, they
cannot fail to do it. Let us pray.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Feebly he arose, and hand in hand the helpless pair
kneeled before the image of the sorrowing Christ.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER III</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Concealed in the branches of a wide-spreading
oak, Gabriel hoped against hope to remain hidden
from the Micmac trailers, now close on his heels.
White men his woodcraft would enable him to elude,
but Indians hardly. His very breathing seemed as if
it must betray him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Listening thus, every nerve an ear, he heard a slight
sound in the deep glade beneath. To the novice it
might mean anything or nothing; to his practised understanding
it was the crack of a twig beneath a human
foot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Carefully he surveyed his position. The moon,
though near its setting, still afforded light sufficient to
betray him should its rays fall on face or hands. Then,
for the first time, he perceived that, as he lay face
downward on a branching limb, the hand with which
he sustained himself was palely illuminated; the moon,
in her swift course, had penetrated the sheltering foliage.
What should he do? To move meant certain
discovery. He resolved to lie still, the chances being
slightly in favor of absolute stillness. Then he became
aware that some one was standing beneath the tree.
Now in actual fact he held his breath; for though his
sight could not pierce the leaves, every other sense told
him that it was an Indian. But his hopes were vain.
Another moment and he knew the tree was being
climbed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the green grasshopper clings, even after detection,
blindly to the leaf that it so closely resembles, so Gabriel
clung instinctively to his branch, and even when a
sinewy hand grasped his ankle, made no sign. The
forest-bred boy obeyed the instinct of all woodland
creatures; besides, there was one hope left, faint as it was,
and were he to move or speak he might lose even that.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wild Deer?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jean Jacques?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Wild Deer was the name by which the friendly
Micmacs called him. Now for the test. Was the
Indian true?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wild Deer, the great medicine man of your tribe
is on the trail.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know. What wilt thou do? Betray me to
him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The low-breathed question and answer swept quickly
back and forth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The red man betrays not him who is skilled as
himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What wilt thou do then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let Wild Deer descend and follow his friend.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gliding to the ground with a noiselessness and rapidity
equal to that of the Indian, Gabriel, at a sign from
his companion, followed him on his sinuous track. Was
he his friend? He had dwelt too long with the red
men not to dread the treachery which is the inevitable
consequence of centuries of savage and relentless warfare,
tribe with tribe, red man with white man. Nevertheless,
he pushed on; what else could he do?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The gray dawn peered beneath a veil of cloud before
they paused on the edge of the forest. Gabriel’s powers
were well-nigh spent; ill treatment and privation
had sapped his young strength. The spot where they
had halted was the last camping-ground of the Micmacs.
Going to a hollow tree, Jean Jacques drew from it
some strips of sun-dried beef and a few dried leaves,
which Gabriel recognized as those of the coca plant, on
which, when unable to obtain food, the red man makes
arduous journeys, lasting for days together.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Eat,” he said with native brevity; “then put
these leaves in thy mouth and chew them as we go.
The strength of the pale face will come back to him as
that of the young eagle.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel obeyed, imitating the taciturnity of the
Indian. When at length, refreshed and strengthened,
he arose to prosecute his attempt to reach Halifax, Jean
Jacques, with a grunt, declined not only to be thanked,
but to leave him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I too go to the new fort,” he remarked calmly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou wilt go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A sudden suspicion overwhelmed him. Could it be
that his apparent rescue was one of the priest’s deep
laid plots? That Jean Jacques, heavily bribed with
French gold, was but carrying out some scheme of
treachery which should involve the defenders of the fort
as well as himself? The supposition was an only too
plausible one, given such a man as Le Loutre and such
lucre-lovers as the Micmacs. The Indian’s impervious
countenance revealed nothing. To question him would
be vain. Well, he must go forward and hope for the
best; no other course was open to him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Silently, at the steady Indian dog-trot, the pair
pressed on. As mile after mile was covered, Gabriel’s
strength seemed to renew itself, even, indeed, as that of
the young eagle; hope revived within his breast, ministering
to his keen vitality; and when at last the
Indian paused, and kneeling, examined in ominous
silence a bent twig here, a crushed blade of grass there,
and finally laid his ear to the ground, Gabriel was inclined
to scout Jean Jacques’ fears and his own suspicions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Feet have passed this way,” muttered Jean Jacques,
“feet of red men, with them a white man. Let Wild
Deer put his head to the ground, and he will hear them
yet. But our trail they have lost. They wander,
seeking it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Striking in the opposite direction, they proceeded
cautiously. Then again the Indian stopped and listened
after his manner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They come,” he said, as he once more arose,
“many of them. They go to the fort; but they will
not go until they find Wild Deer to carry him with
them. But Jean Jacques will be his guide, he shall
escape them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At nightfall they crept beneath a pile of brush and
leaves, concealing the deserted lair of a gray fox, and
Gabriel, worn out now, and happy in the thought of at
sunrise being free to abandon the circuitous route and
making straight for the fort, but a few miles distant,
soon fell asleep.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But there is many a slip, etc. It seemed to him that
he had slept but five minutes when he was aroused by
a flash of light in his eyes, and he opened them to find
himself in the grasp of half a dozen Micmacs, behind
them Le Loutre. Jean Jacques was nowhere to be
seen. Speechless, he looked from one dark face to
another; every one of them he knew to be unfriendly,
or at least corrupted by French gold. His young heart
felt nigh to bursting. So near the goal and to be
thwarted thus! So near the new life, in which, in his
youthful enthusiasm, he believed he could be true
to the highest that was in him, true to his grandfather
and Margot, vaguely but ardently hopeful that he
could save them. And Jean Jacques? Had he indeed
betrayed him?</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was one of those moments of discouragement in
which even the falsity of an untutored savage can pierce
the very soul.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Bind him, and bring him on!” was the priest’s
stern command.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bewildered by fatigue, sick with disappointment,
Gabriel offered no resistance, uttered no word. He was
dragged about a mile and then dropped rudely by the
embers of a camp-fire. Waving his “lambs” to a
distance, Le Loutre addressed him in accents cold as
steel and merciless as the hand that drives it home.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Have I not told thee that thou canst not escape
me, I, the chosen instrument of God to bring stragglers
back into the fold? My duty is clear. He who will
not bend must break.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He paused, but his hearer made no sign.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou knowest what is demanded of thee. This day
my converts go on a friendly mission to the new fort.
Must I instruct thee yet again in thy duty?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He waited for the response that came not. Gabriel
lay as if life itself were already crushed out of him;
every drooping finger of his strong, right hand nerveless,
hopeless. Yet must there have been something of tacit
resistance in his air, for Le Loutre continued in tones
of exasperation:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Opposition will avail thee nothing, and for thy
grandfather and cousin it will mean suffering and
privation beyond their wildest dreams. Every Acadian
is rewarded according to his loyalty to the king and to
the true church. Hitherto I have spared them, but it
is I alone who have the ordering of their going, and of
the new home to which they journey. The <span class='it'>gran’-père</span>
is old, Margot more tender than is the habit of Acadian
maidens, yet must the church not stay her hand when
the saving of souls is in the balance. She must make
example, she must discipline. I am no man meting
out man’s justice,” continued the fanatic, raising his
hands solemnly, “but chosen of the church to execute
her righteous will. This being so, thou wilt find me
relentless in my duty.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s benumbed senses, together with the spirit
that in some natures never slumbers long, were reawakening.
He found himself wondering why this
autocratic priest, before whom all trembled, should find
it necessary to explain his conduct to a mere boy.
Then, as mental vigor returned more fully, he drew his
exhausted body into a sitting posture, and said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> commands that I shall go with these
savages?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Converts to the true church,” interrupted Le Loutre
imperiously. “Who dares call baptized Christians savages?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I name them according to their deeds,” continued
Gabriel, with a certain manly dignity which had come
to him of late. “Holy water on the brow does not
change the heart.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It doth not!” cried the priest in the same tone.
“Jean Jacques is a pervert—perverted by thyself from
the true faith.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet he has played me false,” exclaimed Gabriel
bitterly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Dull-witted boy! Knowest thou no better than
that?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Could it be? Was Jean Jacques faithful? Not only
that, but free to help him again? Hope kindled once
more within his breast. Then he rose to his feet and
looked straight into the eyes of Le Loutre.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg42'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j127.jpg' alt='A man in religious garb standing over a young man' id='iid-0010' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘M. l’Abbé commands——.’ ”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“It is the will of <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” he said again, “that
I should go to Halifax on this ‘friendly’ mission? The
Micmacs will camp without the fort, I shall be received
within, and can then learn more than I know already
of its defenses and of the habits of its defenders. The
Indians, being friendly, will pass in and out with me,
two or three perhaps only; I am to guide them with
what secrecy I may from one portion of the stronghold
to another, and they in turn will pass on their knowledge
to the waiting horde concealed within reach, and
then at a given signal the attack is to be made, and,
they and I alike familiar with the weak points of the
fort and other matters, they will easily gain entrance,
and put all to fire and sword? Is this the will of
<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre looked back at him consideringly. Keen-sighted,
as he was, he scarce knew what to make of this
boy. Then he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You swear it in the name of the Holy Mother of
God?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I promise nothing,” said Gabriel steadily.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Then,” cried the priest with a sudden burst of
fury, “remember this: If thou dost play the traitor——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He can be no traitor,” Gabriel interposed, with a
calm which compelled a hearing, “who gives no promise,
except that if it be within his power he will defeat
the plot laid.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No matter what thou art,” burst forth Le Loutre
again, “thou art false to the faith in which thou hast
been reared. But forget not that thy course will be
watched, and that if my commands are not obeyed thy
grandfather and cousin will pay the forfeit—yes, with
their very lives. Dost hear me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel, pale before, whitened now to the lips. But
he kept his steadfast eyes on the priest’s face as he replied:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I hear, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>.”</p>
<hr class='tbk105'/>
<p class='pindent'>The blue waves of the harbor of Chebucto leaped
gayly landward before the strong south wind. On the
wooden ramparts of Halifax the sentinels kept watch,
specks of scarlet betwixt the blue of sea and sky,
moving, automaton-like, on their appointed rounds.
But the automatons possessed eyes, nevertheless, and
those directed north were riveted on a band of Indians
who, since sunrise, had been busy getting into camp
about half a mile from the post.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The British colony at Halifax was now, counting
those within and without its walls, over three thousand
strong, and though the settlers without had been sorely
harassed by Indians—whom the governor was beginning
at last to suspect were set on by the French, despite
the peace nominally existing between the two nations—they
continued to thrive and increase. The Indians at
present camping so near were soon recognized as Micmacs,
who had made a solemn treaty with the British
the previous year, consequently their appearance created
but slight interest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In his own simple apartments the “brave, sensible
young man, of great temper and good nature,” was
writing, with what for him was unusual irascibility,
a letter to the Bishop of Quebec. But his patience
had been sorely tried. “Was it you,” he wrote,
“who sent Le Loutre as a missionary to the Micmacs?
And is it for their good that he excites
these wretches to practise their cruelties against those
who have shown them every kindness? The conduct of
the priests of Acadia has been such that by command
of his majesty I have published an order declaring that
if any one of them presumes to exercise his functions
without my express permission he shall be dealt with
according to the laws of England.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Having finished his letter he gave orders that the
French priest, Girard, should be invited to a final
audience. Obedient to the summons, an elderly man,
of strong and gentle countenance, made his appearance.
Bidding him be seated, Cornwallis addressed him courteously
in French.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>,” he began, “you know that you are
one of very few who have been required to take the
oath to do nothing contrary to the interests of the
country I serve. Is not that so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The priest bent his head with quiet dignity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I believe now that of you it was not necessary to
exact it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, <span class='it'>M. le Gouverneur</span>, of me it was not exacted.
I rendered it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>, you are in the right. I owe
you an apology.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Monsieur</span> has nothing for which to make amends.
He is all honor and generosity.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Cornwallis bowed in acknowledgment of the compliment,
then continued:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“There are many, however, of whom it would be as
well for these simple Acadians as for helpless English
settlers that the oath of allegiance to my king were
demanded. This Abbé Le Loutre, for example, he is a
very firebrand. Nay, rather a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
working havoc in the poor, silly flock. Know
you him, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The priest lowered his eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. le Gouverneur</span>,” he replied in a constrained
tone, “it is contrary to the habit of my order to say
of our superior, He is wrong or he is right.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Once more, pardon!” cried the younger man
frankly. “I made an error. Tell me, M. Girard, on
your return to Cobequid, what course will you pursue?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In accordance with my oath, <span class='it'>M. le Gouverneur</span>, I
shall inform M. Longueuil that I can make no effort
to prevent my people from submitting to you, according
to their own desires.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what, think you, your governor will reply?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know not, <span class='it'>monsieur</span>, but it is probable that I
shall be compelled to retire from my position.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two men, of different creed and antagonistic
blood, looked each other full in the face. Then, with
manifestations of mutual respect, clasped hands.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Adieu, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Adieu, <span class='it'>M. le Gouverneur</span>. The saints have you in
their holy keeping, and bring you to the shelter of the
true fold.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But as Girard turned to go, Cornwallis spoke again:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“M. Girard, there is a lad here, half Acadian, half
British, know you aught of him?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gabriel—ah, the hard name! I cannot call it.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet did the name and he that originally bore it
sail once with your own conquering William from the
land of your birth. Champernowne—it is a Norman
name—and you, you yourself come from <span class='it'>la belle Normandie</span>,
is it not so, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is true, <span class='it'>monsieur</span>. But this boy, I have heard
of him from the <span class='it'>curé</span> at Port Royal. He is a good
boy, though, alas, no longer of our faith.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“He is to be trusted?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“So I have been assured, <span class='it'>monsieur</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Meanwhile another scene was being enacted under
the eastern rampart. “In the name of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Gabriel, I baptize thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The brief ceremony was at an end, and the few witnesses
departed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Feeling somehow encouraged by this open profession
of his inward convictions to thread the difficult maze
that lay before him, Gabriel joined the New England
minister at his frugal meal, and then at his advice betook
himself to an upper chamber to rest his weary
body. But rest to aching heart and tired brain would
not come. In whom should he confide? What should
he do? Even his knowledge of the English tongue
was limited, though it fitted readily to his own, and he
felt that he would soon be master of it. Of but one
thing was he certain; come what would, he must now
cast in his lot with his father’s race. There were ways
by which he could earn his bread—he, active and vigorous
and accustomed to labor. And the colonists,
they would need defenders; he could handle a musket
with the best, and endure long marches. Then, with
a groan he turned his face to the wall. Margot—the
grandfather! Like a knife turning in his heart the
harrowing dread would not be stilled. Nothing could
be done, no revelation of intended treachery made,
until these two were beyond the reach of Le Loutre
and his terrible threats. And the days would slip past
as the hours were slipping now. Could, would, the
English governor help them? Then slowly, like swallows
sailing circlewise ever nearer and nearer their resting
place, his revolving thoughts settled down upon
their nest. Yes, there was one hope. He sprang from
the bed and was out of the house in less time than it
takes to write the words.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“M. Girard, M. Girard,” he said to himself as he
hastened along. But when he arrived at the priest’s
lodging, he was informed that <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span> had started
two hours before for Cobequid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The woman of the house, mother herself of stalwart
sons, felt her heart stir in pity for this splendid-looking
youth, with the “air noble” and the sad face. She
was a former parishioner of M. Girard, an Acadian
come hither from Cobequid.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But see,” she said, following him out of the door,
“<span class='it'>M. le Curé</span> was to tarry awhile at the Indian camp.
Maybe he is still there.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a word of thanks Gabriel hastened away. Yet
back to the Indian camp, that nest of traitors. There
was, however, no help for it. In any case he would
have to return to the camp at nightfall, for he was
closely watched, and his plans were not yet ripe for defying
his dusky guardians, two or three of whom on
the morrow expected to be conducted within the walls
of Halifax. To obtain private speech with the <span class='it'>curé</span>
would no doubt be difficult, but it must be done. Fortune
favored him. As he skirted the low hills to the
eastward of the camp, watching his opportunity, he
beheld a man in priestly garb, escorted by some Cobequid
Acadians, who had voluntarily visited Halifax to
take the new oath of allegiance, making his way across
the levels in the direction of the forest. Girard’s
adieu to Le Loutre’s “lambs” was, then, made.
Weary and spent as he was, Gabriel put forth his last
remaining strength and ran swiftly forward to intercept
the party. He accomplished his object, and standing
respectfully before the priest returned his gentle
greeting.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And who art thou, my son?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My name, <span class='it'>mon père</span>, is Gabriel, grandson of Pierre
Grétin, habitan of Port Royal.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A long-drawn “Ah!” escaped M. Girard’s lips.
Then taking the boy by the arm he led him out of
earshot, and seating himself on a small hillock, said
kindly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Rest, my son. The sun is yet some hours high,
and thou art weary, and hast a tale to tell.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, <span class='it'>mon père</span>!” cried Gabriel, then stopped, unable
to proceed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This son of a mixed race could be steadfast as well
as brave, but that intense vitality which sends the
warm life-blood coursing through the veins like a torrent
instead of as a calm and sluggish stream, even while
acting as a spur to noble endeavor and keeping the
heart forever young, exacts also its penalties. Now
that the moment had arrived on which all his hopes
hung, Gabriel was past speech. He lay face downward
on the short turf, struggling with a burst of passionate
tears that would not be repressed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Weep, my son, weep,” said the kind old man, laying
his hand on the fair head, “thou hast endured
much, and thou art but a lad. Moreover, thou hast
this day solemnly abjured thy mother’s faith. I reproach
thee not, but for a youth such as thou, thou
didst take upon thyself a grave responsibility.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Gabriel was pulling himself together, and presently
he sat up and shook the curls back from his
eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Mon père</span>,” he said, still clinging to the old loved
title familiar to him from earliest childhood, “that I
know; I considered long; and forget not that the faith
to which I have turned was the faith of my father.
But it is not of myself I would speak, it is of those
dearer to me than life.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then briefly he narrated the events that had occurred,
his forced abandonment of his grandfather and
cousin, their desolate and helpless condition, and the
<span class='it'>abbé’s</span> threats should he fail in the task demanded of
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And this task I cannot and will not fulfill,” concluded
Gabriel firmly; “then should I be traitor indeed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>M. Girard’s face had grown very sad. The conduct
of Le Loutre had caused him and many another gentle-hearted
priest much sorrow. Yet he was the superior;
his authority could not be questioned. He remained
silent for a while; then spoke, not without hesitation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My son,” he said, “there is a way, but even that
way is not without difficulties. Thy cousin—Margot—our
Acadian youth are often householders at thine age.
Yes, I know, those of English blood are more backward
in such matters, but there must be true affection
betwixt you, and for thy wife she is altogether suitable.
Thus thou couldst protect her and the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> also.
The saints forbid that I should encourage a union betwixt
a heretic and a daughter of the church were
there any other way, and did I not hope much from
her influence. Wives have brought erring husbands
back to the true fold ere now, and thou art scarce experienced
enough to have embraced for reasons that will
endure another faith. It was resentment, not conviction,
that led thee astray.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Among the Acadians protected by the fort the followers
of the Holy Catholic Church dwell in peace,
ministered to by priests who have taken the oath of
allegiance to the English king. There, with Margot
for thy wife, thou wilt return to the true faith.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The good old priest, pleased with the future his imagination
had created, rambled on. But after the first
Gabriel hardly heard him. <span class='it'>Margot his wife!</span> The hot
blood flamed to cheek and brow, then the flash faded,
leaving him paler than before. Who was it that dared
thus to handle the sweet familiar affection, from whose
leaves the delicate bud, destined in the fullness of time
to expand into the radiant flower of a strong man’s
love, peeped forth so timidly that he himself had not
yet ventured to do more than glance at it and then
avert his eyes? When had he first known that those
cool, green leaves held for him such a pearl of price?
It was at his last parting from Margot, when forced to
flee and leave those so helpless and so dear to the mercy
of Le Loutre. The remembrance of this parting had
never left him, despite danger, suffering, dread, not for
one little hour. But that any one should speak of that
of which he had never yet spoken to himself! Gradually,
however, the sense of shock, of desecration,
faded; and when after a long and patient waiting M.
Girard addressed him almost in the very words once
used by the <span class='it'>abbé</span>, but with very different intention, his
answer this time was prompt and decisive.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Mon fils</span>, art thou boy or man?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I am a man, <span class='it'>mon père</span>.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, think on what I have said.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The priest gathered up his skirts and arose.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, Margot, <span class='it'>mon père</span>? Her desires may be quite
other——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s cheeks were hot again. He faltered in his
speech. The old man looked him up and down. Yes,
he was a goodly youth. A queer little smile flickered
on the priest’s thin-lipped mouth, but all he said was:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My son, these things arrange themselves.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He turned to go. Gabriel stood where he had left
him, dreamy-eyed and quiet. Then, with a start he
came to himself. He was allowing M. Girard to go,
and nothing was settled. This was no time for dreams
impossible of immediate fulfillment; there was work to
be done, and that quickly. With one bound he had
overtaken the priest and laid his hand on his arm.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But soon—in a day, two days—the <span class='it'>abbé</span> will know
me disobedient here,” he cried. “I cannot go to Port
Royal, neither can the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> endure the toilsome
journey hither. O <span class='it'>mon père</span>, advise, counsel me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The priest paused, irresolute.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My son, in this matter of the fort I cannot advise
thee. For the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> and the little Margot I will
give them what protection I may. <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> visits
Cobequid on matters concerning the oath I have taken,
and I will represent to him that thou art one whom to
drive is vain, but that thou canst be led. Put thy faith in
the Holy Mother, <span class='it'>mon fils</span>, she will intercede for thee
and thine. Ah, I had forgotten, thou art no longer of
the faith. Adieu, then, poor youth.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With a cold chill at his heart, and a sense of desolation
such as never in his young life he had felt before,
Gabriel watched the figure of him who represented his
last hope disappear into the now darkening shades of
the forest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But sometimes it happens that hope is never so near
us as when we deem her fled. As Gabriel slowly bent
his steps toward the settlement by the way that he had
come, a dusky form glided out from the hills and confronted
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have sought Wild Deer long,” said a well-known
voice, “and at last I find him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jean Jacques.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is he. But say not that Jean Jacques was faithless
to the paleface boy. He was not. Let Wild Deer
clasp hands with the Micmac, and all may yet be well.”</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IV</h2>
<p class='pindent'>Night had closed in around the new fort of Halifax
and upon the houses clustered about its
walls. With a beating heart Gabriel leaned
against the postern, waiting for the expected summons
from the lambs of Le Loutre. What if his plans
should fail? What if the governor’s trust in the word
of a mere boy should falter? What if the feet of Jean
Jacques should waver ere the goal was reached?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel had followed that rarely misleading impulse
which impels one soul of honor to confide in another,
no matter what the dividing line between them, whether
of sex, age, or degree. Cornwallis knew all, and Jean
Jacques was on his way to remove the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> and
Margot to a place of safety, if yet there might be
time.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Time! Yes, time was all that Gabriel needed for
the escape of those whom he loved, happen what might
to himself. Yet on his own safety theirs in part depended,
he thought. How should the riddle be
solved?</p>
<p class='pindent'>The peace and well-being of those two once secured,
he would spread his untried wings and do more than
merely dream of a new life beyond the bars of the narrow
cage in which his life had hitherto been passed.
He longed to lead a man’s life,—worthy of Margot,
worthy of his dead father,—not that of a dull steer
hitched to a plow!</p>
<p class='pindent'>He had not told Cornwallis that among the Micmacs
incited to this deed of treachery there were in all
probability some of his own countrymen disguised as
Indians. It was the policy of Le Loutre to induce by
threats or bribes the more or less reluctant Acadians to
perform such services. It was easy for the priest to
protest in case of the capture of the Acadians that it
was not the French who had broken the peace, but the
inhabitants themselves, of their own free will. The
Acadians were useful for the encouragement of the Indians;
therefore were they used. Gabriel reasoned
that not until the presence of the Acadians was discovered
would the time arrive to plead for them. The
governor was a man of kind heart as well as of good
sense, and the boy would represent to him the simplicity
and ignorance of these his country-people, who,
although not loving those of alien blood, would assuredly
have lived peaceably under their rule, had it not
been for their priest’s threats and their terror of eternal
damnation. Gabriel knew, but would never add, that
the cowardice of weak natures was allied with its almost
inevitable comrades, deceit and untruthfulness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whilst Gabriel waited without, Cornwallis sat in his
room, the tallow candles in the silver sconces brought
from England shedding their flaring light upon his
bowed head. He had dismissed his council and was
alone with his secretary. His kind, manly face was
clouded with dejection. His term of service was drawing
to a close, and despite his efforts, the Acadians were
no better off than before. Presently he arose and began
pacing the floor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Poor, unhappy people!” he exclaimed. “Why
cannot they understand that France but uses them as
in the ancient fable the monkey used the cat? They
were contented enough before this priest came to scare
their small wits out of them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yet, my lord,” put in the secretary, “I have
heard that the Acadians were ever a contentious race,
given to petty strife and over fond of the law.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The governor smiled.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And who would deny them those simple joys in
their dull lives? Their harmless disputes kept the
sluggish blood moving in their veins and serious trouble
was rare. Now all is changed. If by their vacillation
they drive us to stern courses, sad, alas, will be their
fate. We have borne much treachery, but the end is
at hand.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It will be well for them, my lord, if your successor
is as forbearing as yourself,” observed the secretary
gathering up his papers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a knock at the door, and Gabriel’s fair
head appeared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are here, my lord,” he said in a low voice.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Do you retire, then, my son,” replied the governor;
“your safety demands that you should not
know too much if it be that you still desire to go with
these savages.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is my only hope, my lord.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And if you fail?” Cornwallis added, laying his
hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder. “What then?
Remember, that if you find neither Jean Jacques nor
those dear to you, the country to whom your father
proved his allegiance owes you in turn something.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whether my quest be vain or no,” and Gabriel’s
voice faltered, “God sparing me, I shall return to
serve under the flag for which my father fought and
died, and in the faith that was his.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God keep you, then,” said the governor fervently,
and turned aside.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Great, indeed, was the astonishment of Jean Baptiste
Cope, the favorite chief of Le Loutre, when he
found himself ushered into the presence of the governor.
He knew that the priest had commanded
Gabriel to take advantage of his knowledge of the fort
and of the habits of the sentries to admit the Micmacs
into the building at the dead of night, while all save
the sentries slept; yet here was the dead of night and
here stood the governor himself, cool and grave, and
the fort was alive with wakeful and armed men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Cornwallis held in hand a treaty of peace, to which
these same Micmacs had solemnly affixed their totems
less than one year before. He was empowered by his
government to go to almost any length in the matter of
bribes and presents to bind the Indians to peace, as by
such means alone was peace for the whole unhappy
country to be secured. Le Loutre, deprived of his
lambs, would be practically powerless to stir up strife.
Already Cornwallis foresaw the tragic outcome of this
long-continued trouble. The vacillations and treachery
of the wretched Acadians rendered justice, law, and
order alike impossible, and peace and prosperity were
out of the question so long as they hesitated betwixt two
masters. That Le Loutre was well paid for his services
Cornwallis was assured. As the French minister wrote
to Prévost, the intendant at Louisbourg, a French possession
in Acadie: “The fear is that the zeal of Le
Loutre and Maillard,” another equally bigoted priest,
“may carry them too far. Excite them to keep the
Indians in our interest, but do not let them compromise
us. Act always so as to make the English appear as
aggressors.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bearing these things in mind, Cornwallis bent all his
energies to winning over the Micmac lambs, and after a
long pow-wow, the pipe of peace was again smoked and
“Major” Cope, as he called himself, swore for his
tribe allegiance to the English government. Laden
with gifts and escorted by the governor in person, they
forsook their camp the following afternoon and embarked
on a small schooner, manned by an English
crew which outnumbered the little band of savages.
With them went Gabriel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Four weeks later Prévost wrote to the French minister:
“Last month the savages took eighteen English
scalps, and M. Le Loutre was obliged to pay them
eighteen hundred <span class='it'>livres</span>, Acadian money, which I have
reimbursed him.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> and Margot, where were they?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean Jacques, with the subtlety of his race, did not
go direct to Annapolis. He was aware that many of
the Acadians had been induced by Le Loutre to leave
the river valley and had betaken themselves to the
larger settlement of Beaubassin; and later rumors had
reached him that the English were about to lay claim
to their own and send a small force under Lawrence—destined
to be governor of the province—to quell the
constant disaffection created by the French troops at
Beauséjour, across the Missaguash. It was to Beaubassin,
then, that the Micmac turned his steps.</p>
<p class='pindent'>He arrived to find a scene of wild terror; that which
has been termed the first expulsion of the Acadians
was in full progress.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was evening, and the western sky was dark with
clouds, but as Jean Jacques, at the rapid Indian dog-trot,
stole swiftly toward the settlement, he observed to
himself that the villagers would have scant need of
their tallow dips that night. In huddled groups—the
women and children wailing, the men almost equally demoralized—the
unfortunate Acadians watched the destruction
of their homes; not only so, but what was
worse to the many devout among them, the same devouring
flames consuming their church. And the moving
spirit of this tragic scene was their own <span class='it'>abbé</span>—he
whom they had revered and wholly feared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The imposing figure of Le Loutre stood out in bold
relief against the blazing edifice. Crucifix held aloft,
he incited his Micmacs, genuine and spurious alike, to
the dreadful deed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Jean Jacques mingled unremarked with his tribe.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is for the good of your souls, my people!”
thundered the enthusiast. “You refused to obey the
gentle voice of the true church and follow where she
leads. Now your salvation must be wrought for you;
to live at ease under the protection of heretics will bring
damnation on your souls.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Charlot, what does the priest to the palefaces?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the sound of his own name the Acadian, disguised
in paint and feathers, started violently, but peering into
the face of Jean Jacques his fears were quieted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“ ’Tis for the good of their souls,” he repeated, as a
sullen boy reciting a lesson.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Seizing him by the arm, the Micmac drew him out
of the throng. A brief colloquy ensued, punctuated
by Jean Jacques with grunts of disapproval; then, releasing
the Acadian, he made his way unheeded in the
commotion toward a small hut, as yet beyond the reach
of the flames. Pushing open the door, he entered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Upon a couch of moss in a corner lay an old man,
evidently dying. Beside him knelt a priest performing
the last sacred offices of the Catholic Church, and a
young girl, the tears upon her pale, worn cheeks. At
a glance the Indian perceived that he had found those
he sought—Pierre Grétin, Margot, and the good priest
of Cobequid, M. Girard. Had the priest not been too
much absorbed in his solemn duty to notice the newcomer,
the significant fact that the so-called ‘convert’
failed to cross himself would not have passed unobserved.
Jean Jacques kneeled down, however, reverently
enough.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All that night the circle of fire slowly widened,
spreading ever more slowly because the clouds broke in
heavy showers; but at length, soon after the poor old
man had breathed his last and the bright dawn was
illuminating the clearing sky, Jean Jacques saw that
another place of refuge must be sought from the fire.
Gathering up the few articles the miserable hut contained,
he sped with them to the shelter of the near-by
woods, and then returning he wrapped, with characteristic
taciturnity, the body of the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> in the
blanket and, followed by the priest and the weeping
Margot, bore it also away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For the sainted <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> there is no consecrated
ground!” moaned the girl, casting a backward glance
at the smouldering ruins of the church.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Weep not for that, my daughter,” said the priest
in soothing tones, as he led her forward, “for the faithful
servant holy ground shall be found.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He drew from beneath his robe a tiny vial of holy
water and in due form consecrated the spot of earth in
the forest in which the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> was to rest. Then
seizing one of the two mattocks brought from the hut,
he set to work with the Indian.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Few, indeed, were the tools or other possessions Pierre
Grétin had contrived to save in their compulsory flight
from the pleasant home in the Annapolis Valley—a
flight which had taken place shortly after Gabriel’s departure.
Even then they might have held on longer
had not an ancient grudge on the part of a neighbor
served to keep their obstinacy ever before the eyes of
Le Loutre; for it has been said that the Acadians were
a people given to petty squabbles. At Beaubassin they
had found refuge with many others of their race, but
on English ground, and it was on this account that the
bigoted priest sought to remove them. Long had the
Acadians tacitly resisted, not out of love for the English,
but out of love for the peace so dear to their sluggish
natures and which they were permitted to enjoy
under British rule, so long, at least, as they refrained
from meddling or from bearing arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No coffin, <span class='it'>mon père</span>?” said Margot timidly at last.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For answer the priest stuck his spade into the ground;
the work was done. Then he pointed to a white sail
upon the waters of Chignecto Bay.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The English!” she murmured awestruck; and
then again, “And no coffin, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The English are heretics, my daughter, but they
do not desecrate graves. The body of God’s servant
will be as safe here as in his loved Annapolis.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then Jean Jacques and M. Girard laid the body in
the grave, and as the priest took out his breviary and
began to read the first words of the office for the dead,
the Micmac slipped away to the hut, thence to remove
the scanty remains of Margot’s possessions. The short
service over, Margot herself helped M. Girard in the
filling of the grave.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But even as they worked the mingled sounds of lamentation
and exultation drew nearer, and just as the
grave was filled, the imperious figure of Le Loutre, his
face alight with religious fervor, stood beside it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What doest thou here, brother?” he said sternly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What thou seest, <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>. I lay in consecrated
earth the remains of this our brother in the faith.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“In consecrated earth,” cried Le Loutre. “What
earth is consecrated trod by the feet of heretics? M.
Girard, I exhort thee, in the name of the holy mother
of God, to remove to uncontaminated soil the body of
this servant of the true church.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pointed as he spoke to the crowd of hurrying
fugitives pressing across the water in boats and on rafts.</p>
<p class='pindent'>M. Girard faced his superior calmly. Well he knew
that when, for the sake of his flock as also for the sake
of right, he had taken that oath at Halifax, he had incurred
the suspicion, nay anger, of his clerical superiors;
but in the mild eyes which he raised to the fierce
ones of the <span class='it'>abbé</span> there was no fear—only the firmness
which has led many as gentle a martyr to the stake.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> knows,” he said quietly, “that the
ground consecrated by a priest of the church becomes
holy ground, and that to disturb the dead laid therein
is profanation.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It seemed a long time to the anxious Margot before
the silent duel was decided, for some moments elapsed
ere either spoke again. Then the hand of Le Loutre
slowly fell, and he averted his eyes. Not even his arrogance
could forswear the tenets of the church for
which he fought so zealously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But this maiden?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He spoke with forced indifference.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“She would go under my protection to Cobequid.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That shall never be!” exclaimed Le Loutre violently.
“Is not one of the most rebellious of my flock
her near kinsman, and shall that dangerous and seditious
youth have access to her? If thou dost desire so
great a wrong, <span class='it'>M. le Curé</span>——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But before M. Girard could reply Margot was on
her knees.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” she cried, “only tell me that Gabriel—<span class='it'>mon
cousin</span>—is alive and well, and I will ask nothing
further.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre looked down upon the girl in silence, a
contemptuous pity in every line of his strongly marked
features.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If he is alive? that I cannot tell thee, maiden.
One last chance have I given the would-be renegade
lest he become ere his time an outcast. How he hath
borne himself, I as yet know not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But M. Girard laid his hand kindly on the bowed
dark head.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My daughter, it is the wish of <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> that thou
shouldst seek the French shore. Louis Herbes, thy
neighbor, crosses even now with his wife; it would be
well for thee to go with these kind friends.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And may I not pray one little hour beside the
grave of him who was all of father and mother I ever
knew?” said Margot in stifled tones.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre shrugged his shoulders; then crossed himself
piously.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As thou wilt, daughter. One little quarter of an
hour will I give thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He linked his arm in that of the curé and walked
away with him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Scarcely had the priestly pair disappeared than the
bushes at Margot’s side rustled and Jean Jacques crept
into view. Seizing her wrist in his sinewy fingers he
led her toward the shore, close to which was now
anchoring the English ship.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Micmac will find thee a refuge, maiden,” he
said. “Follow Jean Jacques, and all will be well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But the timid Acadian girl shrank from the Indian.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“To go among those redcoats—and alone, Jean
Jacques? Oh, I cannot.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Did not Jean Jacques swear to Wild Deer that
he would save his kinswoman from the cruel priest?”
said the Indian with stoicism, “and will he not do it
even with the strength of his arm? Neither do the
white braves harm women.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes—no—oh, I know not,” faltered Margot;
“oh, leave me, Jean Jacques! Yet tell me first,
where is Gabriel?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Indian grunted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The Great Spirit knows, not I. But, maiden,
while we waste words the priest comes, and Jean
Jacques is no longer of his faith; the faith of the Micmac
is the faith of the Wild Deer. Wilt thou come,
or no?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot started. “Then Gabriel is in truth a heretic!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Whilst she hesitated, Jean Jacques, who was in no
mood for delay, led her deeper into the woods.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now Margot, though, as we know, possessed of that
kind of courage which will bravely choose and do the
right, and even be physically brave for those she loved,
was naturally timid, and now she was worn and exhausted
and scarcely mistress of herself. Her inborn
terror of Indians got the upper hand, and she uttered
a piercing shriek, promptly stifled by the Micmac’s
hand upon her mouth. Then he suddenly released
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maiden,” he said, “Jean Jacques can do no more.
Thou wilt not seek safety? So be it then. The priests
come—Jean Jacques goes.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The girl made a great effort, and though still very
pale, held out her hand with a smile to the Indian.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Forgive me, Jean Jacques,” she said in tones
which would have won forgiveness anywhere; “my
heart is sick, I know not what I do. Take me whither
thou wilt—whither Wild Deer wills.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And it shall not be to the redcoat braves,” said
the Indian, as together they sped through the undergrowth.
“Down beside the crimson Missaguash there
are homes in which thy race still dwells in peace, even
as those who remain beside the Annapolis. Thither
will the Micmac take the maiden of Wild Deer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Halt!” thundered a familiar voice. “A straying
lamb, indeed—a lamb in sore need of chastisement.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But for once the fierce priest had reckoned amiss.
Quicker than the lightning’s flash the hand of the Indian
went to his tomahawk, his eyes glittering balefully.
With a motion almost as rapid the whistle
wherewith Le Loutre summoned his lambs was at his
lips, while with his disengaged hand he held a crucifix
aloft. But that almost might have ruled betwixt life
and death had not Margot sprung forward and placed
her slight body as a shield for the priest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jean Jacques,” she cried, “is this thy new faith?
to strike the anointed of God?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The upraised tomahawk dropped, and the Indian
grunted sullenly. But Le Loutre, the full violence of
whose fanaticism was aroused by the ‘perversion’ of
one of his lambs, was not to be so easily pacified,
though life itself were at stake; and the influence of
the paleface maiden might not have availed to save
him, so irritating was the language he used toward the
already enraged Micmac, had not Margot, aghast at
the prospect of beholding the <span class='it'>abbé</span> murdered before
her very eyes, hastily promised to go with him whither
he would, if so be he would permit the Indian to depart
in peace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Swear upon the crucifix,” insisted Le Loutre,
“that you will follow me back to the true fold.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Scarcely realized by herself, the girl’s heart and
sense, and perhaps also the recollection of Gabriel’s
persecution, were combining to lead her in spirit away
from that fold; and now she drew back.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will take no oath, <span class='it'>mon père</span>,” she said gently,
“but I promise to go with thee now; more I cannot
promise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then she turned to Jean Jacques, holding out her
hand in grateful farewell.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg69'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j156.jpg' alt='A priest by a man and woman with a native person looking on' id='iid-0011' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“Seek thine own safety,” she said hurriedly, “and
if <span class='it'>mon cousin</span> lives, tell him——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her voice broke, and she started to follow the already
moving priest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If Gabriel lives!” cried another voice, and in a
moment she was in the arms of its owner.</p>
<p class='pindent'>What matter that he wore the scarlet coat of the
British soldier, that he had forsworn the faith of their
common forefathers? Was he not Gabriel still, the
playmate of her childhood, and now, as she suddenly
understood, the lover of her youth?</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was but for a moment, and then the priest tore
them asunder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Heretic boy!” he exclaimed, regardless of the
Micmac, who once more approached threateningly, “release
this maiden, unworthy as thou art to touch the
hem of her garment.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Gabriel had neither eyes nor ears for the priest.
He freed Margot from his embrace indeed, but held
her hand firmly in his, and flushed and smiling gazed
upon the small, downcast face bright with rapture.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is with me thou comest, is it not so, <span class='it'>ma cousine</span>?”
he said softly, bending over her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>She lifted her dark eyes, and for a long minute they
rested on his, heedless of the objurgations of Le Loutre.
Then she remembered, and her face grew suddenly so
pale that its wanness struck Gabriel with a great fear.
How much, ah, how much, she had suffered. He
seemed to see it all now.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I have promised—I dare not break my sacred word.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her voice was barely audible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is true,” cried the priest, thrusting himself so
abruptly betwixt the cousins as to compel Gabriel to
drop the hand of the girl, “she has promised to return
to the true fold, and as the daughter of mother church
the touch of the heretic is defilement.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel lifted his fair head with the old fearless air
that had ever exasperated the priest, while winning his
reluctant admiration.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It may be that I am no longer a boy,” he said
coolly, “at least I am no longer of your church; and by
all laws human and divine, she being my next of kin,
this maiden has a right to my protection. Also, <span class='it'>M.
l’Abbé</span>, you are upon English ground.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pointed to the thin line of redcoats deploying
upon a low hill some distance away.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The face of Le Loutre was convulsed with hatred.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The more reason that we swiftly depart,” he said.
“Come, daughter, bear in mind thy vow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s blue eyes flashed as Margot had so often
seen them do in the past. She pressed by the <span class='it'>abbé</span>,
and taking her cousin’s outstretched hands, said in a
low, persuasive voice:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gabriel, <span class='it'>mon ami</span>, it is even so. I promised to
go with <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> in order to save his life; there was
no other way. But the promise was only for the day;
I would make no further vow.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre watched the girl uneasily, for had she not
refused to swear upon the cross, and what was a mere
promise without some appeal to superstition? He could
not comprehend the force of a higher influence than
that of mere symbolism.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Pale now as Margot herself Gabriel moved aside
with her, holding her hands, and looking down into
the pathos of those dark eyes which possessed, even as
in the days when they were children together, power to
still the tumult in his breast—the rebellion of a nature
more passionate than her own.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is but for this one day, <span class='it'>mon</span> Gabriel,” she murmured.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But for this one day!” he repeated. “And our
force is small, and God alone knows where we may be
on the morrow. Margot, must it be?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Gabriel, it was thou who didst first tell me, when
thy heart began to change toward our church, that to
break the promised word was to lie, and that to lie was
deadly sin. Oh, <span class='it'>mon cousin</span>, dost thou not remember?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do, I do!” he groaned, passing his hand over
his eyes in unbearable anguish.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The priest will not harm me,” she went on, “and
I shall be with friends—Louis Herbes and his good
wife. They will build them a hut close beside the
water, so that if chance offer they may return to English
soil—dost hearken, Gabriel?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s face cleared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, yes, sweet cousin. I will take a boat—to-morrow—toward
the sunsetting—remember.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is well. But, Gabriel, go. See the lambs—they
come.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I fear them not,” he cried, the warrior spirit
awake in an instant; “let them come. Have I not
baffled them already many times? I would bear thee
through a host of them, my Margot.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Go, I beseech thee!” she implored, a prayer in
her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God keep thee in his holy keeping then, until we
meet again,” and seizing her in his arms he pressed his
lips to her brow, and was gone, followed by Jean Jacques.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER V</h2>
<p class='pindent'>In that hurried meeting and parting Margot had been
unable to learn from Gabriel the history of his life
since they had looked upon one another last. Of
his conversion to the Protestant faith she already knew,
and of his sojourn in the fort of Halifax, but of the
rest nothing. Most of all, nothing of his miraculous
escape from the treacherous Micmacs during the voyage
from Halifax. Le Loutre, too well acquainted
with his lambs to repose trust in them, and writhing
under the knowledge that he could not bend the white
boy to his will, had made use of a well-known half-breed
spy to keep him informed of the doings at the
fort. This man was instructed, should the murderous
plot fail or the Micmacs be once more won over to the
English, to offer the savages yet higher bribes, so that
they should at the last moment turn again to France.
These higher bribes of course prevailed, and reinforced
by members of their own tribe, who boarded the vessel
under cover of the darkness, the English crew was
overpowered, and all, with one exception, massacred.
The exception, needless to say, was Gabriel. When
the priest heard of the boy’s escape he scarce knew
whether to mourn or to rejoice; for, until he had seen
him actually in English uniform, he had still hoped to
win over this choice spirit to his service.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel, being an expert swimmer, had contrived to
make his way to the shore, and from thence by a toilsome
route to the fort. Arrived there, all hesitation
was at an end. Once and forever he threw in his lot
with his father’s race; and chiefly in the hope of rescuing
the <span class='it'>gran’-père</span> and Margot, but also because his
natural bent was to a soldier’s career, he offered his
services to the government. Cornwallis accepted them
gladly, placing him advantageously from the first, and
recommending him strongly to his successor, to make
way for whom he shortly after crossed the ocean.
Cornwallis carried with him at best a heavy heart, but
it was in some degree lightened by the gratitude of the
many to whom he had shown kindness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is doubtful whether the French government invariably
approved of the lengths to which the zeal of
Le Loutre carried him. At all events, the home ministers
occasionally found it advisable to shut their eyes to
his method of interpreting their instructions; which
were, in brief, to keep Acadie at any price, or rather
to keep their share of the unhappy country and take
all the rest that was not theirs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When Jean Jacques told Gabriel of the <span class='it'>gran’-père’s</span>
death, and of the privations he and the girl had endured,
even the new hope for Margot could not keep
back the tears. For Gabriel had loved and revered
the good old man; therefore he wept and was not
ashamed. But doubly necessary was it now to carry
Margot away, though where to bestow her in the English
camp he hardly knew—only he felt sure that a way
would be opened. Major Lawrence was acquainted
with his story and would certainly aid him. Moreover,
the smallness of the force caused him to believe
that their stay on the Missaguash would be brief, and
once at Halifax, Margot would find refuge with her
country-people assembled there. Perhaps there too,
she might learn to love his faith and be turned wholly
from the Romish Church, and then perhaps—perhaps—who
could say?</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Gabriel’s daydreams were rudely dispelled, and
the struggle betwixt love and duty was not yet at an
end.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The very next day, when he, with the aid of the
faithful Micmac, was about to carry out his carefully
laid scheme, Major Lawrence, having satisfied himself
that his force was too small for the work it would have
to accomplish, gave orders for immediate re-embarkation.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The fortunes of war, my lad,” he said, with a
shrug, and gave the matter no further thought; for
Lawrence was made of very different stuff from Cornwallis,
as the Acadians were to discover when he became
governor of the province soon after. Not by
nature a patient man, such patience as he had acquired
soon vanished when appointed to direct a people who,
it must be confessed, were not without trying characteristics.
Already he marveled at the leniency of Cornwallis.
To plead with Lawrence for a few hours grace,
therefore, Gabriel knew to be unavailing; probably it
would have been so with Cornwallis also, for after all
“discipline must be maintained.” But at least the
governor would have shown some sympathy. There
came a moment when the young soldier was inclined to
rebel, then duty triumphed, and he had learned his
hardest lesson in self-restraint, which if a man fails to
learn he becomes little better than a castaway. So
duty and honor prevailed, and Gabriel confided his
cousin to the care of Jean Jacques for as long a time
as the Protestant convert dared to remain in that dangerous
neighborhood; thereafter, if possible, the Indian
was to convey the girl to the fort at Halifax,
where were gathered many of her countrymen. Nevertheless,
Gabriel leaned with straining eyes and an almost
breaking heart over the bulwarks of the vessel that
bore him rapidly away from all he loved best on
earth, his only consolation being that he was keeping
faith and doing his duty, and that the God of love and
faith would not forsake either him or Margot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And, indeed, he was to be yet further tried. Upon
his arrival at Halifax he found great changes. Cornwallis
had departed, and his place was already taken
by Hopson, his immediate successor. In the excitement
of new arrangements, heightened by the information
that the French were invading the colonies, the
recruit was suddenly plunged into another existence.
By the special recommendation of the late governor he
was attached to a lately arrived regiment marching
south, and thereupon his boyhood’s dreams of escaping
from the dull Acadian round, and of making himself
of some account in the world, began to show signs of
future fulfillment. Courage, fidelity, and intelligence,
were virtues then as now sure to make their mark. The
day came when the young soldier served under Washington
himself, sharing with him the failure that made
the fourth of July, 1754, the darkest day, perhaps, of
his whole eventful life. But Gabriel’s relations with
the Father of his country belong to a part of his career
with which Acadie had nothing to do, and which therefore
does not belong to this story. For him the long
separation was in truth less hard than for the girl. He
at least could drown the torturing sense of powerlessness
to aid her in constant activity, and in a succession of
duties and dangers; and the hours of his saddest
thought were often interrupted by some stirring call to
arms.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Far other was poor Margot’s lot. Hers was that of
endurance—the hardest of all.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day of her parting from Gabriel went heavily
by; and when in the waning afternoon she crouched
in the long marsh grass while the tide fell lower and
lower and still no craft appeared upon the waters, she
wrung her hands in helpless anguish, knowing that in
two short hours neither boat nor canoe could pass up
or down the river; for of the Missaguash nothing
would remain but deep red mud. Yet Gabriel came
not, and the precious minutes flew.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Herbes and herself, pressing far into the woods
in the hope of returning ere long to peaceful English
soil, had missed the weighing of the anchor at early
dawn and the skimming seaward of the white-winged
ship bearing Margot’s fondest hope with it. So the
girl crouched in the grass and waited, while the wife
of Louis built a fire upon the firmer land and cooked
from their scanty store of provisions.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then at last, breasting the falling tide, a canoe came
creeping up the Missaguash; and though it came not
down, as it should have done from the English camp,
Margot rose to her feet, and shading her eyes from the
westering sun, watched it with beating heart and a
prayer on her lips. Nearer and nearer—but that was
no bright head bending over the paddle, but a dark and
swarthy one—the head of an Indian; and it was Jean
Jacques who presently grounded his little vessel, and
slipped through the long grass toward Margot, who was
waiting sick at heart. The Micmac spoke first.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Maiden,” he said, “Wild Deer has sailed toward
the setting of the sun. The braves of his nation commanded
and it was for Wild Deer to obey. But the
Micmac has found for thee a shelter until the youth
comes again. Let us go quickly, ere the river too
follow the sun.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bitter indeed was the disappointment, but Margot
faced it bravely. After all, though their fashion of
faith was no longer the same, were not she and Gabriel
both in the hands of the one God?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will go with thee, Jean Jacques,” she said, after
a moment’s struggle with her grief; “but Louis and
Marie, they too desire to go. Whither do we follow
thee?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Indian pointed down the Missaguash, where
upon the opposite shore, removed from the burned settlement
some two or three miles and concealed from it
by a bend in the river, pleasant farmhouses and cultivated
acres brooded in the hush of evening.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And those good people will receive me?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Indian nodded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I can work,” she added eagerly. “I can
work well, Jean Jacques.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was true. The slender, dark-eyed maiden, though
of a frailer build than the majority of Acadian women,
possessed the ambition they so often lacked.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Come, then,” urged Jean Jacques. “The white
man and his squaw they must wait. The waters of the
Missaguash droop in their bed.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilt thou come for the white man and his wife at
the rising of the tide?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The Indian grunted in acquiescence.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thou, Jean Jacques, whither wilt thou go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pointed southward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, to the new fort! There thou wilt be safe.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thither am I to bear thee, maiden, when the
trail is safe for thee.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is well. And now, wait but the flashing of an
arrow,” cried the girl, and was gone.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then, as Jean Jacques squatted in the marsh grass,
there was borne to him a sound which caused him to
fall prone upon his stomach and crawl as the snake
crawls toward the woods. For the sound was the cry
of the paleface maiden, and had not Wild Deer delivered
her into the faithful keeping of the Micmac?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now it was not sweet to the heart of Jean Jacques
to turn his hand against those of his own tribe, well as
he knew that the lambs of Le Loutre, with whom he
had before his conversion, slain and pillaged many a
time, were in disposition rather birds of prey than
lambs.</p>
<p class='pindent'>On the edge of the marsh he paused, lifting his head
and gazing. To see was to act. With the swift and
silent motion of the true Indian the arrow was on the
string, and in a moment more buried in the heart of the
feathered brave with whom Margot was struggling. In
the background knelt a woman, clasping a crucifix to
her bosom; beside her the prostrate form of a white
man—Louis Herbes and Marie, his wife.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As Jean Jacques sprang forward Marie screamed again,
whilst Margot uttered a cry of joy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Jean Jacques! It is our good Jean Jacques!
Hasten, Marie! We will lift Louis, and bear him to
the river. He is but wounded, he is not dead.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>With the taciturnity of his race at a crisis Jean
Jacques spoke not. Wiser than Margot, he knew that
the Micmacs never hunted singly, and that if their
coveted prey reached the river in safety—well, the
attempt could at least be made. As for the wounded
man, he also knew that, though enjoined by Le Loutre
to do the Acadians no injury, the lambs constantly
employed means more in keeping with their savage
natures than persuasion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Motioning to the women to take the feet of Louis,
who was unconscious, he raised him by the shoulders,
and the small party began a hurried retreat through
the marsh grass. Instinctively they all stooped as they
walked, and well it was for them that they did so, for
more than one arrow whistled over their heads.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The brave is now alone,” grunted Jean Jacques
in tones of satisfaction. “Alone he fears Jean Jacques.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot, panting and breathless, made no reply, but
she rejoiced, knowing that the Indian spoke truth. So
doughty a warrior as he would not be attacked single-handed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The canoe was already stranded by the falling tide,
and the red mud was over ankle deep. Plunging into
it, Jean Jacques, ably assisted by the strong, thick-set
Acadian Marie, laid Louis in the canoe, and all three
proceeded to push it toward the sluggish, ever-narrowing
river.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“God and the Holy Mother be praised,” ejaculated
Marie, as impelled by the paddle of the Indian the
little vessel glided at last down the stream.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The words had scarcely left her lips when the air at
her ear was cut by an arrow, which swept on to bury
itself in the back of Jean Jacques.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The women uttered an exclamation of dismay, but
the Indian, though his swarthy face went ashen gray,
said not a word; only when Marie would have extricated
the arrow, muttered, “Touch it not.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Fortunately there was a spare paddle in the canoe,
and both women in turn put their whole strength into
the work, so that aided by the tide they made rapid
progress. And well that so it was, for as the canoe
bore up against a green promontory, upon which houses
and groups of people were visible, Jean Jacques fell
forward on his face, the life-blood gushing from his
nose and mouth. Willing arms lifted him and laid
him upon the green turf, for the habitans had for some
time been anxiously watching the approaching canoe,
and were ready with their aid. But Margot’s first and
only thought was for the faithful Micmac. Carefully
as the arrow was withdrawn, the shock was too great;
and as the girl bent weeping over him, it was but glazing
eyes he raised to hers.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then he fell back upon her arm and spoke no more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Faithful unto death, indeed, was this poor Indian.
And, heretic though he was, they laid him in consecrated
earth, blessed by one of the priests who, French
assertions to the contrary notwithstanding, were always
permitted to minister to their flocks upon English soil,
unless detected in acts of treachery.</p>
<hr class='tbk106'/>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg82'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j171.jpg' alt='A group surrounds a fallen man' id='iid-0012' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘Wild Deer; tell Wild Deer.’ ”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>So for a time poor, little, hunted Margot found peace
and a refuge with her country people, but only for a
time. When in a few months news of Lawrence’s return
with a larger force reached the ears of Le Loutre
he sent forth his Micmacs to destroy the cluster of
homes yet remaining on the English side of the water.
The Acadians, caring not much for fighting any one,
refused to obey his mandate and take arms against the
redcoats, so fled in helpless terror, some to Halifax and
Annapolis, but the larger number across the Missaguash.
Whether Le Loutre honestly desired to found
a settlement in this locality, or merely desired to
vent his hatred for the English, cannot be rightly
known; at all events his calculations were at fault
regarding a new settlement. The French shore was
already crowded, and if he really entertained hopes of
filling up the marsh and turning it into fertile land for
the benefit of the refugees, these hopes were defeated
by the corrupt practices of his own government, which
cared not at all for the welfare of the unhappy Acadians,
but used them merely as tools. Half clothed
and half starved, the men were at once put to hard,
labor, with scanty or no remuneration. The strong
new fort of Beauséjour, built in opposition to the less
imposing one of Fort St. Lawrence, was the handiwork
of Acadian refugees. Even then they might not have
fared so ill had the supplies actually sent by the French
government ever reached their rightful destination, but
this was far from being the case. Official corruption,
bad as it was throughout New France, was worse, probably,
at Beauséjour than elsewhere. One of the most
incompetent and unworthy of the numerous “office
seekers,” to use a modern term, was in command
there, and the “spoils system” was at its height upon
the shores of the Missaguash. Vergor, the commandant,
applied but a small portion of the food and clothing to
the uses for which they were intended, and sent the
large remainder back to Quebec, or to Louisbourg,
where his confederates sold them, greatly to his and
their profit, but not at all to that of the poor Acadians.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Terrified at Le Loutre, Vergor, the Micmacs, and
French soldiers, not naturally loving the foreign race
across the water, yet craving peaceful homes with
them, the refugees dragged on a miserable existence,
finding themselves becoming daily more of a burden
to their countrymen in the settlements about Chipody.
At length they resolved to inquire secretly of the English
whether they would be allowed to return to their
homes, could they make their escape? The answer was
that they could return if they renewed the oath of
fealty to the English crown, the oath they had so often
broken in their weakness and vacillation. They would
not be required by English law to bear arms, but if on
the contrary they were found fighting for, or aiding the
French, they would be dealt with as traitors. Among
those who joined in this request were Margot’s guardians,
the Herbes, also the family with whom the fugitives
had found shelter on the south bank of the Missaguash
close to the Pont-à-Buot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Furious, indeed, was the anger of the <span class='it'>abbé</span> when he
heard of the backsliding of his people. His ravings
were rather those of a lunatic than of an anointed
priest, as he flung himself hither and thither in the
pulpit, calling down the wrath of God upon his recreant
flock. And Le Loutre was a man who never stopped
at mere words. So one night two things happened;
one, however, which had nothing to do with him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The people for whom Margot worked in return for
bare sustenance were not unkind, but they found Louis
and Marie of more service to them, being stronger and
stouter, and little Margot, in losing heart and hope,
was losing physical strength too. That night, as she
crossed the meadows behind the home-going cows, she
was very sad. Slowly, very slowly, her faith in the
church of her fathers was being dragged up by the
roots, and the fury of the <span class='it'>abbé</span>, his cruel words in the
sacred building a few hours since, had uprooted it yet
more. Yet she had no other spiritual guide but him—none
to direct her in new, untrodden ways. Gabriel,
who could have helped her, was far away. M. Girard
she had not seen since the burning of Beaubassin, and
she feared that the good old man was in trouble. It
was working and waiting in the dark for Margot.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As she neared the marsh a sound struck on her
ear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tst!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She glanced around fearfully, and her eyes fell on
the head of an Indian, stealthily upreared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Terror of the Micmacs amounted to an inborn instinct
among the Acadians, and common sense alone intervened
to stay Margot’s flying feet. Perhaps the man
had some message for her, a message from him who was
ever in her thoughts. She paused, therefore, with as
fair a show of courage as she could muster.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be not afraid, maiden,” said the Indian in broken
French. “Come nearer. Bent Bow carries a message
for thee from one whom Jean Jacques called ‘Wild
Deer.’ ”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot’s eyes brightened, and oblivious of fear she
approached the Indian, who she now perceived was no
Micmac. He held toward her a little billet which she
eagerly took. Now the good <span class='it'>curé</span> at Annapolis, at
Gabriel’s earnest entreaty, had taught the cousins to
read and write, and never was Margot more thankful
than at this moment for the blessed privilege, though
she had often times found the lesson hour a toilsome
one.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah!” she cried. “I have nothing to give thee,
Bent Bow, to reward thy faithfulness. The poor Acadians
have not so much as a handful of beads.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is enough that I bring thee the billet,” replied
the Indian, “and that I serve Wild Deer. Together,
many moons from here, we drove before us the foreign
devils, and there came a night on which the paleface
youth saved the life of the Indian brave.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Wilt thou see him again?” cried the girl eagerly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Bent Bow shook his head, and with a sign of farewell
began to crawl away through the marsh grass.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Is it well with Wild Deer?” she called after
him.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is well.” And she saw the messenger no more.
Still walking behind the cows, she read the precious
letter:</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'><span class='sc'>Ma Cousine</span>: Would that I knew it was as well with thee
as it is with me. But, alas! this I cannot know. Yet Jean
Jacques is faithful, and he has vowed to care for my pearl of
price. Long ere this he will have told thee why I failed to
meet thee. Margot, I have for leader one of the noblest
young men God ever created. It was a happy day for me
when, through my father’s name, I was appointed to serve
under such an one. Sad it is that a soldier’s life takes me
far from thee, but I shall come again, sweet cousin, to find
thee safe and sheltered beside the Missaguash, far from
the cruel priest. The family to whom Jean Jacques was to
carry thee are known by me, and will protect and cherish
thee.</p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, Gabriel,” said Margot to herself, the tears
upon her cheeks, “well is it that so much is hid from
thee.”</p>
<div class='blockquote'>
<p class='pindent'>For I am coming back. Little is said, but Washington
himself thinks that some great move is to be made, and
that the men of New England are gathering, and that the
governor of Massachusetts and the governor of our poor
distraught country are planning alike against the French.
Then I and others who came southward with me will
return. Till then, <span class='it'>ma cherie, mon amie</span>, adieu. In English,
though I have grown to like my father’s tongue, methinks
these words are not so sweet.</p>
<p class='line' style='text-align:right;margin-right:2em;margin-top:0.75em;'><span class='sc'>Gabriel.</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>And all the way along the meadows her heart sang,
“He is coming back.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But at home a scene of confusion and distress awaited
her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Le Loutre, not content with thunders from the pulpit,
had been making a house to house visitation of
those whom he considered the most rebellious members
his flock. Among these were classed Louis Herbes and
his host, François Marin. Banishment to Isle St. Jean,
where many exiled Acadians were already in a fair
way to starve, was the priest’s usual punishment; and
should any man refuse to obey, refusal was met by a
threat to permit the Micmacs to carry off, and possibly
kill, his wife and children. A yet worse fate than banishment
awaited Herbes and Marin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>That morning in the church Le Loutre had assured
the signers of the two documents of appeal—to the
French and to the English governments—that if they
did not take their names from both papers they should
“have neither sacraments in this life nor heaven in
the next.” What could the poor, hunted Acadians
do but obey? And even with obedience came banishment
for many. As for Herbes and Marin, they were
given the grievous permission to proceed to Quebec as
deputies on behalf of the Acadians who desired to return
to the English side of the river. Grievous permission,
indeed! For even slow-witted Acadians were bright
enough to understand that the <span class='it'>abbé</span> would prepare the
way before them in such a manner as to make their
mission not only useless, but terrifying. And truly
they were correct in their anticipations, for after the
visit Duquesne, the governor, wrote Le Loutre as follows:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I think that the two rascals of deputies whom you
sent me will not soon recover from the fright I gave
them.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Such was the heartlessness with which this unhappy
race was treated.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VI</h2>
<p class='pindent'>The last sad scenes in the sad story of the Acadians
in Acadie are now drawing near. Possibly had
those two patient gentlemen, Cornwallis and Hopson,
continued in command of the country, such scenes
might never have come to pass, or at least might have
been long delayed. But, as we know, Governor Lawrence
was soon worn out by what he described as “the
obstinacy, treachery, and ingratitude” of the Acadians,
and he and Shirley, the governor of Massachusetts, determined
to settle this troublesome affair once and for
all. The two governors knew, moreover, that the
French were merely waiting for a good excuse to attack
the English, whose defenses in Acadie were of the
feeblest, and that if they hoped to be successful they
themselves must strike the first blow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The result of their decision was an act which has
been well described as being “too harsh and indiscriminate
to be wholly justified,” but which is explained by
the fact that the Acadians “while calling themselves
neutrals, were an enemy encamped in the heart of the
province.”<a id='r1'/><a href='#f1' style='text-decoration:none'><sup><span style='font-size:0.9em'>[1]</span></sup></a></p>
<hr class='footnotemark'/>
<div class='footnote'>
<table summary='footnote_1'>
<colgroup>
<col span='1' class='footnoteid'/>
<col span='1'/>
</colgroup>
<tr><td style='vertical-align:top;'>
<div class='footnote-id' id='f1'><a href='#r1'>[1]</a></div>
</td><td>
<p class='pindent'>“Montcalm and Wolfe.” Francis Parkman.</p>
</td></tr>
</table>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>The first step was to lay siege to Beauséjour; and to
the aid of the regulars flocked volunteers under the
command of that warlike farmer, John Winslow. These
men enrolled themselves under the orders of General
Monckton, having responded to the call of the New
England governor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was the afternoon of a June day when the two
deputies wearied, cowed, and helpless returned home.
Their passage through the settlements had been greatly
delayed by the questions showered upon them by anxious
habitans, and it was late ere they arrived. Then again
the tale of failure had to be told, and listened to with
tears and lamentations.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“If the Acadians are miserable, remember that the
priests are the cause of it,” wrote a French officer to
a French missionary.</p>
<p class='pindent'>News had quite recently come to Chipody, the adjacent
settlement, that many of the Acadians banished
by Le Loutre to Isle St. Jean had found their way to
Halifax, had taken the oath of allegiance to the British,
were reinstated in their former homes, and were being
provided temporarily with supplies by the English government.
Yet it was not love for the English that had
drawn them back again—simply the love of home and
peace. The returned deputies had scarcely finished
their tale when the women began to try and persuade
them to remove to Halifax, immediately if possible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot alone neither wept nor argued. There was a
hope within her breast that would not die, a hope
aroused by Gabriel’s letter. She stole away from the
clatter of tongues down to the edge of the marsh-grass.
The sun was near its setting, as it had been when she
had waited in vain for Gabriel so long, so very long, as
it seemed to her, ago. Where was he now? When
would he—— Then suddenly her heart stood still, to
beat again with mingled dread and expectation.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg91'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j182.jpg' alt='A woman by a tree looks at ships in an inlet' id='iid-0013' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“Far away, at the mouth of the inlet . . . lay three small ships.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Far away, at the mouth of the inlet, where it broadens
into Chignecto Bay, lay three small ships, English
beyond a doubt.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a minute Margot lingered, giving herself up to
speculation. Then like a bird she flew back to one of
the rude and simple dwellings of the kind which even in
happier days fulfilled the frugal Acadian’s highest idea
of home. Flinging open the door without ceremony
she cried, “English ships in the bay!” and sped upon
her homeward course.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Herbes and Marin and their wives were still planning
and discussing, but the words on their lips were checked
by Margot’s breathless ejaculation. In silence they
gazed at one another, with the characteristic slowness
of their race. What was now to be done?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot, whose mind moved more swiftly than those
of most of her country-people, soon spoke again, with
as much impatience as the habit of respect for her
elders permitted.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What shall we do, you say? Oh, good friends,
let us escape to the English ships, they will help us to
Halifax! But oh, quick, quick!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“You forget, maiden,” said Marin with pompous rebuke.
“There is the oath of allegiance in the way.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what of that?” cried all three women this
time. Marie Herbes continuing:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What hurt did the oath do us in the past? Did we
not till our own land and gather in our crops unaffrighted
and undisturbed?—untaxed too? Did not
our own priests minister to us?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>A crafty gleam crept into the little eyes of Marin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he said, “and if we broke faith with our
rulers for our good or advancement, why—pfui! What
matter!” He shrugged his shoulders and spread his
hands. “A small matter! Let the habitan take the
oath anew, said the governor. But now—now it is
otherwise. As we came through the settlement the new
proclamation was made known to us. Should the
French—and verily are they not of our own blood?
make fair offers, such, for instance, that under their
rule too, we should live in peace, and it became the duty
of a good habitan to give ear to them, what then? Then
would we be called traitors, and meet the fate of such!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Marie lifted her eyebrows, and made a little sound of
dissension in her throat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is true,” he persisted doggedly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The good friend is in the right,” put in Herbes,
speaking for the first time. “This Governor Lawrence
is not as the others, he is not to be cajoled.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But why should we break faith with the English?”
It was Margot who spoke in a low voice. “With the
Acadians the French have never yet kept faith.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What knows a young maid of great affairs such as
these?” growled Marin; while his wife added with a
taunting laugh:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But thou must remember, <span class='it'>mon ami</span>, that the child
has an English lover; what wouldst thou, then?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The color dyed Margot’s cheek, then fled, leaving
her very pale. But she was, as we know, no moral
coward, so she quickly controlled herself, and replied
quietly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Pardon, madame, thou hast forgotten that my
cousin’s mother was an Acadian, even as we are, and
that he himself was my cousin ere he was my lover.
The country of his birth is dear to him, though whether
he be yet alive I know not, or whether I shall ever see
him more.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her voice choked, and her dark eyes filled. The
good Marie clapped her briskly on the shoulder crying
vehemently:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Be of a better courage, <span class='it'>mon enfant</span>! Thou and
thy heretic will meet again, never fear!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Sometimes it misgives me that our Margot is already
part heretic herself,” said Louis with a suspicious
glare.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Shame on thee, shame on thee!” protested his
wife. “And hast thou so soon forgotten to be grateful?
Could the maiden not have left us that day on the
banks of the Missaguash—you a mere helpless burden
hindering her flight?” Then, while Louis hung his
head in abashed silence, she hastily brought the conversation
back to its former subject. It was finally decided
that the whole party should proceed to the house
of the neighbor whom Margot had warned of the arrival
of the ships, there to discuss the advisability of further
action. Thus slowly did the minds of Acadians work.
The result was that the commandant at the fort received
no notice of the enemy’s approach until the small hours
of the morning. The attacking force was then at the
very doors, and all was confusion and alarm. Messengers
were sent in hot haste to Louisbourg for aid, and
by alternate threats and promises the poor Acadians,
who so much preferred to have their fighting done for
them, were forced either to assist in the defense of the
fort, or worse still, oppose the enemy in the open.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was a case of English regulars and provincials
against French regulars and Acadians—on the one side
the whole heart, on the other but half a heart; for
the French soldiers corrupted by corrupt officials, were
no match either in resolution for the stout New Englanders,
or in discipline for the British troops. The
Acadians and Indians sent out of the fort were as mere
puppets in the path of Monckton’s army, and the second
night beheld the invaders safely across the river and encamped
within a mile of Beauséjour.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Herbes and Marin had of course been pressed into
the service, but unlike their neighbors had decided to
leave their families in the farmhouse instead of hiding
them in the woods. The crafty Marin declared that
the home was far enough from the scene of the conflict
to insure safety, but in truth he depended far more
upon the almost certain hope that Margot’s English
lover would take care that she, therefore they, would not
be molested. By this it may be seen how vague were his
notions concerning army regulations, discipline, and so
forth. Depending on this hope, however, the women
and the two half-grown sons of Marin were left behind,
to listen to the distant roar and rattle of the bombardment
of Beauséjour,—for the attack was not long in beginning.
The wives told their beads, weeping and
praying for the safety of their husbands, while Margot,
pale and still, and alternating betwixt hope and fear,
turned now consciously in her petitions to the faith of
him whom she loved. For Margot’s nature like that
of Gabriel, was clear and straightforward; and now
that the forms of the Catholic religion were getting to
mean little to her, she faced the knowledge bravely,
dropping these forms one by one, striving to wait patiently
until light and help should come; and this
lonely waiting amounted to heroism in a timid Acadian
maid. But the length of the loneliness, the yearning
for counsel and support, was forming the girl’s character,
and ripening it as the seed ripens within the pod.
It was Margot, the woman, who now awaited the return
of Gabriel, and such a woman as she might never have
become had she led the effortless, unaspiring existence
of the average Acadian peasant, without mental struggle
or any higher object than that of living from day to
day.</p>
<p class='pindent'>News of the siege came but fitfully to the three
women, bereft as they were of neighbors and the usual
neighborly gossip; for the inhabitants of the scattered
houses, or rather huts, within reach had all fled to the
shelter of the woods. Now and then some head of a
family, wearied of what seemed to him profitless combat,
having succeeded in eluding the unwelcome task,
paused at the farmhouse to drink a cup of milk on his
way to rejoin wife and babes, and shake his head over
the news he brought; or a fugitive Indian, prowling
along the river’s bank, bade the paleface squaws make
ready for flight, declaring that the great medicine-man
could not much longer induce the braves to hold the
fort against the foe. But secure in their simple faith
that Marin would contrive to see Gabriel, and that
Gabriel would protect them, the women refused to face
the perils of the forest.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The day was the sixteenth of June. For several
days they had heard nothing, and growing hourly more
anxious, the three would once and again drop their
household tasks, and stepping one by one to the door,
call to the boys perched upon the tall trees to know if
aught might be seen or heard. When at last a shout
went up, it chanced that all the women were in the
house. As they ran out into the open, young François
cried:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They come, they come! a host of them!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Who come?” inquired his mother impatiently.
“Speak, boy!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I cannot yet tell, <span class='it'>ma mère</span>; but yes, yes!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And little Jules took up the cry:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, yes! It is our own dear Acadians. And
they laugh, they are glad, they carry bundles and
shout!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And see the <span class='it'>bon père</span>, Jules; he waves his cap,
he espies us!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And sliding down the tree, François was off and
away, deaf to his mother’s calls and commands, followed
as promptly as the shortness of his legs would
permit by his little brother.</p>
<p class='pindent'>What did it all mean? The three women left behind
looked into one another’s eyes, with the unspoken
query on their lips. Then, with an air of determination,
the wife of Marin threw her homespun apron
over her head and went after her sons. Marie Herbes
dropped upon the rude bench before the door, and
began rapidly telling her beads, tapping her foot upon
the ground meanwhile in an agony of impatience and
anxiety.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Margot? For the lonely girl how much was
now at stake! Leaning against the wall of the house,
her hands idle for the reason that she no longer owned
beads to tell, her dark lashes resting on her pale
cheeks, and a prayer in her heart for resignation if the
worst was to be, she waited.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then it was that for the first time she fully understood
that she was ever hoping and praying for the success
of the alien race; that she had ceased merely to
tolerate them for the sake of the peace they gave, but
that she had in very truth gone over,—as a few others
of her race had done, and were doing,—heart and soul
to the enemy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Undoubtedly the siege of Beauséjour was at an end;
the question trembling on the lips of the waiting
women was, In whose hands was the victory? For
peaceful Acadians, released from the perils and toils of
war, would for the moment rejoice in either victory or
defeat; both would sound alike to them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Without, the sun burned more and more hotly.
Within, the soup in the iron pot, hung above the
crackling sticks, boiled—presently boiled over. None
heeded.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Half an hour dragged by, the minutes ticking
slowly along in the old clock in the corner. Then
Marie sprang to her feet.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They come!” she cried.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Verily they came—a strange spectacle. Out of the
woods and across the bridge poured a little horde of
Acadians—all Acadians, Margot saw in one swift
glance, many of them excited by the red French wine,
but every man of them singing and shouting, as they
tramped along laden with what was evidently plunder
from the fort.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Beauséjour has fallen—has fallen!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Thus they sang, as if exulting in the defeat of an
enemy.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The wife of Marin, almost as wild as the men, had
loaded herself down with part of her husband’s burden,
and her voice rang shrill above the tumult in response
to Marie’s vociferous queries:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Beauséjour has fallen, I tell thee. And the English
have pardoned our men because they said they but
fought under compulsion. All is well.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But whence came this, and this?” persisted the
more practical Marie, pointing to the motley collection
of food, wearing apparel, wines, and even furniture,
with which the ground was now littered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Questions for long brought no coherent reply, and it
was not until late in the afternoon, their comrades having
scattered in search of their respective families, that
either Herbes or Marin was able to give a clear account
of all that had happened.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was significant of the religious dependence and
docility of the Acadian nature that one of the first
questions asked and answered should be concerning the
fate of Le Loutre. At the query the two men, who
since their vain trip to Quebec had wavered somewhat
in their allegiance to the tyrannical <span class='it'>abbé</span>, shrugged
their shoulders and spread their hands as those who
knew nothing.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, Louis,” Marie cried, “it is important that
we know, for without him are we not but lost sheep in
the wilderness?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“As to that, good wife, I cannot tell thee,” answered
Louis. “When we left that villainous fort <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>
was nowhere to be seen. Depend on it, he was with
the commandant. All was hurry and confusion from
the moment the shell fell upon the officers’ table while
they sat at meat, killing six of them, yes, six!” Here
he crossed himself, shuddering, and Marin took up the
tale:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, and the <span class='it'>bon Dieu</span> alone knows how great was
the wonder of the English, who expected to fight many
more days, when the white flag flew from the ramparts.
<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> I beheld everywhere then. He ran
from one to the other, pleading that the flag of the
coward, for so our brave <span class='it'>abbé</span> called it, be taken in.
Well, we Acadians know that he hath the gift of speech,
but now it was in vain. The French were glad to cease
this foolish killing of men for naught, glad even as we
were. So presently it was arranged that they should
march out with the honors of war,—whatever honor
there be in slaying and quarreling,—and proceed at once
to Louisbourg. Then the officers fell to drinking and
plundering ere they departed, and we gathered up what
little we could lay hands on, and so took leave with our
pardon. Of the priest I saw no more. That is all that
has happened.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot, who during this recital had been leaning
forward with clasped hands, at last ventured timidly,
addressing Louis Herbes:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And <span class='it'>mon cousin</span>; of him you saw nothing?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No, little one,” replied Louis kindly; “but, I
learned that one Gabriel, with another name that cracks
the jaws even to think of, was much spoken of during
the attack by reason of his valor, and that he fought
well. Rather he than I,” he concluded with a grimace.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Margot fell back and said no more. She had all for
which she had dared to hope; again she must wait, it
was true, but this time not wholly uncheered.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The sun sank and the moon rose and the wearied
household was wrapped in slumber, all but Margot,
who leaned from the window of the shedroom she occupied
apart from the common sleeping apartment, which
according to Acadian custom also served for a kitchen.
She had tried to sleep and had failed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Secure in the pardon granted them by the English,
heedless of the future, the Acadians were once more
collected under their own rooftrees, and as Margot’s
eyes roamed along the banks of the Missaguash they
rested with a sense of sympathetic peace upon the little
farmhouses containing so many re-united families.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yet it was strange how constantly on this night of
apparent peace her mind reverted to the relentless
priest who had caused herself and others so much misery.
Involuntarily her mind strayed backward to the
days when they had all hung on every glance of that
strong, imperious man, whose word was law to a weak
and vacillating people, and who represented to the
simple villagers salvation here and hereafter. Now, in
his hour of defeat, how would it be? His influence had
already waned, she thought.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Her window was raised only a few feet from the
ground and, unseen by her, a figure came gliding along
in the shadow of the wide eaves. Another moment and
her quick ear had caught the sound of hushed steps,
but before the flashing thought had had time to concentrate
in the cry, “Gabriel!” a grasp of iron was
laid upon her shoulder and a hand crushed down upon
her mouth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>There was a hideous interval before a word was
spoken, after her terrified eyes had taken in the fact
that she was in the clutches of one of the dreaded Micmacs.
Then, was it with increased horror or with relief
that she recognized the voice which at last spoke?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Margot! maiden!” The whisper was harsh.
“It is thy priest and father in God who commands
thy service.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The shock temporarily deprived the girl of power to
reply, but finding that she made neither struggle nor
outcry, Le Loutre, for it was indeed he, released her.</p>
<p class='pindent'>This man was her enemy, so ran her swift thought;
he had robbed her of all that made life dear.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Now Margot, though gentle in heart and deed, was
human and intolerant, as the young usually are. Forgiveness
of cruel wrong could only come through prayer
and striving. She remembered the destroyed and abandoned
home, made desolate by this man; the beloved
<span class='it'>gran’-père</span>, dead from exposure and want; the beloved
cousin, an outcast and a wanderer; and it was this man
who had done it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yes, she guessed what the priest wanted. He was a
hunted fugitive. But why did he come to her, whom
he had so greatly wronged?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then she remembered also the words Gabriel had
once read to her from an ancient printed page treasured
by his mother as having been the property of his father:
“Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those that
trespass against us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>She was so long silent that the voice of Le Loutre
had in it a quaver of apprehension when he again addressed
her, and when she looked up and saw, even in
the moonlight, how almost craven were the glances the
once arrogant priest cast over his shoulder into the dim,
wide-stretching woods, compassion as well as higher
emotions was aroused, and her resolve taken.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>,” she said simply, “there are none
here who would harm their priest, even should they
awake. As for me, I will do what I can, and God will
teach me to forgive you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the sound of such words from one of the least of
his flock, the priest’s imperious temper sprang to his
lips. But the situation was too perilous for anger.</p>
<p class='pindent'>None here who would harm him? He was not over
sure of that. The men, did not they both believe he
had harmed them? Yet all that he had done had been
for their souls’ good. And of a surety he knew his dear
Acadians, who for the sake of peace and freedom from
alarms would hesitate, even though the life of the guardian
of those souls were at stake. But this maiden,
with her it was otherwise. True, she was half-heretic,
but she was made of sterner stuff than most of her compatriots.
Her he felt sure that he might trust.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Minds work quickly in hours of danger, and it was
but a minute before he replied:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will pray for the salvation of thy soul, maiden,
if yet it may be won. But now,” his voice in spite of
him trembling with anxiety, “where wilt thou conceal
me until such time as my trusty Cope arrives to go with
me to Baye-Verte? There tarries my brother in God,
Manach, and together we seek safety at Quebec.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the name of Jean Baptiste Cope, the Micmac at
whose hands Gabriel had endured so much, Margot’s
heart contracted with something like hatred. There
was a short, sharp struggle within her. This, then, was
what forgiving your enemies meant? Oh, it was hard,
hard! And this priest and this Indian had injured so
many, was it right to help them to escape?</p>
<p class='pindent'>Little did she guess the thoughts pouring forth from
the <span class='it'>abbé’s</span> fertile imagination as he watched her—new
thoughts, new ideas. Anxiety for the maiden’s soul,
he would have said, was the mainspring of his intended
actions, the desire to make one final effort to save her
from perdition. Like many another too sure of his own
holiness, the taint of personal malice, personal revenge,
ran like a dark and dirty thread through the whiteness
of his own soul’s garment. Le Loutre was as honest
with himself as he was able to be, and certainly his
fanaticism was real and true.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yet he judged Gabriel entirely by himself, by his
own capacity for righteous (?) hatred: Gabriel was at
the head of the party searching for him betwixt Beauséjour
and Baye-Verte, and it was for this reason that
he had made a wide détour, appointing the meeting
with his factotum, Cope, at a house where dwelt one who
could be depended upon not to betray him. Her influence
over the young heretic, he believed, could also
be depended upon, should the fugitives be intercepted
by him in their flight. Honor, loyalty to duty, counted
for nothing in the estimation of the religious fanatic.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is for her soul’s salvation,” he repeated to himself
with pious emphasis. From the woods near by
floated the quavering cry of a night owl.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Await me here, Margot,” exclaimed the priest
authoritatively, and stepping backward was lost in the
shadows.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Force of habit was strong, and still leaning from the
window she instinctively obeyed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>A few minutes elapsed, and then the terrifying Indian,
who no longer had terrors for her, re-appeared.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But this time no words passed. A brawny arm
seized her by the waist, while at the same time a cloth
was pushed into her mouth. Unable to utter a sound,
she was dragged from the window, and borne away.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VII</h2>
<p class='pindent'>When Gabriel, two or three days later, rode up to
rejoin Monckton’s command under the walls of
Beauséjour, his heart—despite his failure to capture
the fugitive priest—beat high with joyful anticipation,
for Monckton had promised that upon his return
he should be given a few hours to visit his cousin
and assure himself that all was indeed well with her.
The general himself was subject to the orders of Governor
Shirley, and Gabriel had come to him with a letter
of recommendation from George Washington. Washington,
himself a Virginian, rightly guessed that the
young soldier, of English birth and bound to Virginia
by ties of blood and sympathy, would not harmonize
comfortably with the New England Puritans under
Winslow.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“The maiden were best at Halifax,” had been
Monckton’s comment on hearing Gabriel’s briefly told
tale. “There abide many of her people.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Best! Yes, how far best! But wishes were vain.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The general, when Gabriel arrived in camp, was
busy in his tent, and merely waved his hand hurriedly
as the young man saluted and began to make his report.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I know, I know!” he exclaimed. “The rascally
priest has slipped through our fingers, disguised
as one of his infernal Micmacs, I understand. Well,
the country is well rid of him. I shall soon have other
work for you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Chancing to glance up, something in his lieutenant’s
face struck him—something in the tense eagerness of
the fine, soldierly figure.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Speak,” he said kindly, “what is it?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then suddenly he remembered, and a smile illumined
his anxious, rather worn face, while that of Gabriel
flushed in response.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, I bethink me. Well, rest and eat, and then
go to the house on the Missaguash where dwells the
cousin. Ere long I will have less pleasant work for
you.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The color ebbed from Gabriel’s face. He longed to
inquire further; to ask if the rumor were true that in
consequence of persistent refusal to take the oath of allegiance
the Acadians were to be expelled from English
soil, from the places of refuge still left them by the
French after forcing them from their former homes.
Poor, unhappy people; driven like sheep before the
wolves! But discipline forbade anything but prompt
and silent obedience. And, as an hour or two later,
he swung at a gallop toward the home of Herbes and
Marin, of whose precise locality he had been informed
by a friendly Acadian, his high hopes of the morning
were tinged with gloomy forebodings.</p>
<p class='pindent'>One by one the French forts were falling into English
hands, and in a few days Acadia would once more
be an English province. Already the land over which
he rode—called the Chignecto district—belonged no
more to France.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Across the bridge he thundered, and there in the
midst of the meadows stood the rough cabin and outlying
sheds inhabited by those he sought. Faster and
faster flew the horse, conscious of his rider’s impatience,
and Marin, lolling on a bench before the door, arose
in mingled alarm and curiosity. To the women and
children, crowding to the front at the sound of galloping
hoofs, the young soldier was a splendid apparition
as he sprang from his excited steed and greeted them
bareheaded, the glory of the May sun in his ruffled
blonde curls, and his eyes shining blue as the waters of
far Chignecto Bay.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then of a sudden knowledge came to Marie.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, the cousin!” she ejaculated; and then could
say no more. How could she tell him?</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes,” he cried, “I am Gabriel. Where is Margot?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, <span class='it'>la pauvre petite</span>! Who knows?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And the kind-hearted woman threw her apron over
her head and burst into loud sobs, in which she was
joined by Julie, the wife of Marin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Frantic as he was with anxiety, Gabriel could extract
nothing coherent from either the women or Marin,
the latter a stupid fellow at best, with just enough
brains to be suspicious and obstinate; but fortunately
Louis Herbes arrived on the scene, and from him the
sad tale was forthcoming.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Nevertheless he was no Indian,” concluded Louis
shrewdly, glancing over his shoulder and speaking in a
whisper; “it was <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> himself.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“How knowest thou that?” growled Marin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I do know it,” asserted Herbes with quiet confidence.
“There were some who also knew and told.
I have spoken aloud and sorely of the loss of our
Margot.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, <span class='it'>bon ami</span>,” sneered Marin. “Now tell it all.
Give <span class='it'>le bon prêtre</span> into the hands of the heretics.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Whom I may trust, that also I know,” exclaimed
Louis vehemently, turning upon his friend. . . Then
more calmly, “No matter for that. <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> is out
of Acadie ere now, and we, say I, are well rid of him.
Only grief and trouble did he bring us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He glanced around defiantly, but the little group remained
passive. Gabriel stood apart, his face hidden
in his horse’s mane. At length he spoke:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thou knowest no more, good Louis? Thou
hast no clue?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“This only: that from Baye-Verte <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span>, and
his brother priest made sail for Quebec, and it was said
that he would leave our Margot at Isle St. Jean,
where is a goodly colony of our people, driven out of
Acadie long since and living miserably.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel groaned. Julie stepped forward and laid a
kindly hand upon his shoulder.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Better that than the Indians,” she exclaimed in
the sanguine tones habitual to her. “And something
tells me that <span class='it'>la petite</span> escaped. Who knows?
She may have made her way to Halifax.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Impossible!” returned Gabriel sadly. “All
alone, those many leagues?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But,” put in Herbes confidently, “there was a
party of our country people landed at Baye-Verte from
that melancholy isle, on their way to Halifax to take
the oath of allegiance. One party had already done so,
with the result that they were reinstated in their old
homes and furnished by the heretic English with provisions
for the winter. This second party looked for
the same indulgence, if not too late. Who knows?
the maiden may have joined them. One coming hither
from Baye-Verte vowed that he saw her not with the
priests.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And I?” exclaimed Gabriel, in a sudden burst of
anger with himself, “why did not I capture that man,
who over and over again has brought misery into my
own life and the lives of all dear to me? From
Beauséjour to Baye-Verte it is but twelve miles, and
meseemed I rode with my company over every inch of
it, yet saw neither priest nor Indian.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The face of Louis took on a peculiar expression.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>M. le Capitain</span>,” he said, “it hath been related of
us that we, the Acadians, love gold. And why not?”
shrugging his shoulders and spreading his hands.
“Gold, it is good, and we are poor. <span class='it'>M. l’Abbé</span> has
gold always, and so there are those who would hide
and help him, even though he be shorn of his strength.
Also, is he not our father in God?” Here his expression
became devout, and he crossed himself. “Also,
there are some who have wearied of his rule—worse,
say I, than that of a dozen kings—and would speed
him in his flight.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Marie interrupted her husband:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Halifax,” she cried, whirling on the two men;
“and was it not your wife, she who knows nothing,
and the wife of the good friend, and <span class='it'>la petite</span> herself,
women all, who gave you the wise counsel to go to
Halifax while yet there was time, and take the honorable
oath of allegiance, and live in peace in the fair
Annapolis meadows, and you would not? What have
the French done for us, I ask thee once more? What
matter the flag? I tell thee once again. Give us peace
in the homes of our fathers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And at the thought, Marie wiped the tears of memory
from her eyes.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Louis continued silent, and Marin it was that answered
with a shrug.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“No need to weep, <span class='it'>bonne femme</span>! There is yet
time. The English are a dull race. They permit
themselves to be deceived once and yet again.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But not again,” put in Gabriel sternly. “Look
you, Marin, and you too, friend Herbes, you would
have done well to listen to the sage counsel of your
wives, and of the little Margot,” here his voice faltered,
“who was ever wise, and for whose safe keeping
so long I owe you all thanks which may not be
measured. Yet I tell you, England’s lion may sleep
long, but he wakes at last; so hath it ever been. Our
governors, Cornwallis, Hopson, were men of large and
tender heart; they forgave and forbore. With this
governor it is otherwise; with Governor Shirley is it
also otherwise; these are men who will not forbear;
they strike, and they strike hard. Greatly I fear me
that naught will avail you now; yet I know nothing
absolutely.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He mounted his horse, and held out his hand to the
group, all the brightness gone from his young face.
But they clung to him, unwilling to part from their
last hope, beseeching him to intercede for them, promising
that if he succeeded they would start for Halifax
at once, searching constantly for the maiden by the
way.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas, good friends!” replied the young man
sadly, “I am insignificant. No word of mine has
weight with general or governor, although it is true
that Monckton favors me somewhat. My time, my
person, are at the disposal of my superiors. I cannot
even go myself to search for and rescue the beloved!
Even with you, my friends, I have lingered too long.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He pressed each hand in turn.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But you will try, <span class='it'>M. le capitain</span>?” they cried in
chorus.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I will try. But I am not even a captain!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>He smiled kindly upon them, but in his eyes was a
sorrow akin to despair. Another moment, and the
thunder of his horse’s hoofs sounded upon the bridge.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was as he foretold. The long years of indulgence
were at an end. The storm so slow in gathering broke
at last with the fury of the long-delayed. Winslow and
Monckton, the New England and the British generals,
their tempers ruffled by distasteful duty, were already
inclined to fall out; and Gabriel soon saw that in order
to intercede successfully for his Acadian friends he must
bide his time. But the peremptory orders sent by
Governor Lawrence neither general was in a hurry to
carry out; and so it happened that one day Gabriel
perceived his chance and seized it.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“They are friends of yours, you say?” said Monckton,
“and cared for the cousin in her time of need?
How came it, then, that they gave her not better protection
now? They tell you she is safe, but how know
they? How know you?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, if I did but know!” broke from the young
soldier involuntarily. Then controlling himself, he
proceeded: “General, the women of the household
have long striven with the men that they should return
to live under the English flag. Herbes and Marin were
among those who signed the petition to the French
and English governments that they should be allowed
to do so, thereby grievously displeasing Le Loutre, so
that he selected these men to go to Quebec as deputies,
well knowing the reception that awaited them there.
Thus did he punish them; and my lord can guess that
it was punishment indeed!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Monckton half smiled; then rubbed his forehead in
weariness and perplexity. Finally he said:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well, lieutenant, go! But bid them do quickly
that which they desire. The order has gone forth, and
in a day or two at farthest I may spare none.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So once more Gabriel flew across the Missaguash, and
although he could hear nothing more of Margot, he at
least had the consolation of feeling that he had saved
her benefactors, and that there was always hope she
might be found at Halifax, whither the party started
that same night in their ox-wagons, driving their milch-cows
before them.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER VIII</h2>
<p class='pindent'>And now followed bitter days indeed. A merciless
guide and shepherd might Le Loutre have been,
but at least in him the helpless flock had found a
leader; he had forsaken them, and like silly sheep they
ran hither and thither, halting more than ever betwixt
two opinions. Looking vainly to the French for assistance,
they shilly-shallyed too long with the oath of
allegiance to the English government, and began to
reap the terrible harvest accruing from long years of
deceit and paltering with honor. It has been written
that a man may not serve two masters, and too late
the unhappy Acadians realized the truth of these words.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel gave thanks that it was the New England
troops that were sent out from Beauséjour, re-christened
Fort Cumberland, to gather in all the male Acadians
in the vicinity, since but a small proportion had obeyed
the summons to report themselves at the fort. But he
rejoiced too soon. Winslow was soon ordered to the
Basin of Mines, and especially requested that the
lieutenant who had distinguished himself during the
siege might accompany him with a few regulars.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The entire Basin of Mines, including the village of
Grand Pré, having been left comparatively undisturbed
by Le Loutre and his “lambs,” still continued to be
prosperous Acadian settlements; and it was therefore
upon them that the storm broke most destructively, and
it was there, perhaps, that the saddest scenes in this
sad history took place. Yet it was here too, that the
people had benefited most by the lenient English rule,
and had shown themselves most unreliable and treacherous;
or, to speak more accurately, had yielded with
the greatest weakness to the <span class='it'>abbé’s</span> instigations, in particular
as regarded the disguising of themselves as Indians
that they might plunder English settlements. By this
means they had saved their own skins, so to speak, and
had been spared many persecutions at the hands of Le
Loutre. And now these unhappy peasants, too dull of
brain to thoroughly understand what they were bringing
upon themselves, refused to sign the oath of allegiance
“until after further consideration.” Already
six years of such “consideration” had been granted
them by the indulgence of former governors; and instead
of considering, they had been acting,—acting the part of
traitors. As has been said, the present governors of New
England and Nova Scotia were in no mood for longer
dalliance, even had they been able to afford it. If
more time were given, the French, whose forces were
the stronger, might regain all they had lost. The
Acadians were aware of the superior strength of France,
and this knowledge was one of the causes of their suicidal
tardiness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was with a gloomy brow, therefore, that Gabriel
stood one bright September morning at the window of
the vicarage at Grand Pré, gazing forth upon the rich
farms and meadowland spread before him, backed by
the azure of mountain and water. Winslow was a
thorough soldier, if a rough man; and, like every
officer, regular or colonial, loathed his task, though
convinced of its necessity. At Fort Edward, farther
inland, he had found both sympathy and good fellowship
in the English lieutenant stationed there; but
sociabilities had to end now, although a friendly intercourse
was kept up, Winslow and Murray remaining
on the best of terms throughout their detested work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The two officers had decided not to interfere with
the farmers until the crops were gathered; but as Winslow’s
force was greatly outnumbered by the Acadians,
he put up a palisade around the church, graveyard, and
vicarage, thus making a kind of fort. Before doing so,
however, he had directed the Acadians to remove from
the church all sacred emblems lest through the bigotry
and fanaticism of the Puritan soldiers these revered
treasures should be destroyed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The New Englander expressed his own feelings thus,
in a letter to his commanding officer: “Although it is
a disagreeable path of duty we are put upon, I am sensible
it is a necessary one, and shall endeavor strictly
to obey your excellency’s orders.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Winslow and Murray arranged to summon the habitans
at the same day and hour, in order that the stunning
blow might fall on their respective districts at
once. A natural antipathy, needless to say, existed
betwixt the Puritan soldiers of New England and the
habitans of Acadia. The former, moreover, were
hardened by a life of struggle and difficulty in a climate
and with a soil less genial than that of Acadie; and
these soldiers belonged to the same age and race that
put to death helpless women for witchcraft and hanged
harmless Quakers for the crime of refusing to leave the
colony of Massachusetts. Yet even they must at times
have felt some pity for the unfortunate peasants, driven
from their peaceful homes. Le Loutre, however, had
felt none during all the years he had been at the same
work.</p>
<p class='pindent'>When the hour arrived in which the assembled
Acadians were to be told that they were prisoners,
Gabriel had begged of Winslow’s clemency that he
might be absent from the church; and now, as he stood
sadly at the window of the vicarage parlor, the door
of the room was softly pushed open, and Marin stood
before him. His little eyes were restless with fear, and
his naturally crafty countenance was drawn and pale.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel uttered an exclamation, and sprang forward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tchut!” The peasant put his finger to his lips.
“I was in Halifax, eh, <span class='it'>M. le Capitain</span>?” he whispered.
“Nay, but here am I at Grand Pré—and so much the
worse for a good Catholic! I said, I have tricked these
heretics before and I will trick them again. It is a
good deed—but this time the holy saints were not
with me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young officer made a gesture of despair and disgust.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But, friend Marin, what of thy given word? Didst
thou not promise me that if I obtained permission for
thee to go to Halifax, thither thou wouldst go?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The man shrugged his shoulders.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Assuredly. But what of that? One more or less—what
matters it? At Grand Pré no foolish oath was
then required—at Halifax, yes!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But how didst thou escape from the church?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Oh, that was not difficult. We were caught, we
men, as rats in a trap; but the general yielded to our
tears and prayers, and we are to choose daily twenty to
go home and console the wives and children. I am
among the first lot chosen, and——”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel interrupted him impatiently.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But Louis Herbes, is he also at Grand Pré?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Alas, no! the wife, she was too strong. They
proceeded to Halifax. I too desire to go thither now
if thou, who art of Acadie, wilt aid me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“When thou needest help before, I was of the hated
English,” retorted the young man grimly. “But be
I what I may, English or Acadian, I serve honor first—and
so bethink thee!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Honor? Assuredly, <span class='it'>M. le Capitain</span>! Yet listen.”
He came nearer, lowering his voice to a whisper.
“I come not back, hearest thou?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And what of thy countrymen here? Of a certainty
they will be held answerable for thy treachery.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That will be thy part to arrange,” observed Marin
coolly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel, ever quick to act, sprang upon the peasant
and seized him by the collar of his blouse. For a
moment anger deprived him of the power of speech.
Then—</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And thou wilt make me traitor too!” he cried.
“Almost I could wish that no blood of Acadie ran in
my veins!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And Margot—is she not Acadian?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Marin was quite unabashed, and there was a leer in
the small eyes he turned up to the young giant who
held him as a mastiff holds a rat.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At the name of Margot, Gabriel loosed the man,
covered his eyes with his hands and sank into a chair.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, Margot!” he groaned.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Yes, Margot, I say again. Thou wilt let me go,
and thou wilt swear that thou knowest of a truth that I
overstayed my time, and was drowned in the marshes
hurrying hither in the darkness of the night, that thou
didst strive to save me and failed. The salt marshes
receive the dead, and cover them kindly. All this
thou dost know, and my good character also. Who
will doubt the word of a brave soldier?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“A clumsy plot, indeed, even were I willing to forswear
my honor for thee!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel had his friend by the collar again.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Release me, or I will not tell thee what I know!”
ejaculated Marin sullenly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell, and be done!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man let go of his prisoner so suddenly
that the fellow nearly fell upon the floor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Not so fast, my brave <span class='it'>capitain</span>!” Marin was eying
him now from a safe distance. “Not a word of the
<span class='it'>belle cousine</span> dost thou win from me until I have thy
promise to aid me to escape.”</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg120'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j214.jpg' alt='Two men in a dispute' id='iid-0014' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“ ‘And thou wilt make me traitor too,’ he cried.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel was silent.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is as I say. I know where Margot is to be found,
but——” Marin paused expressively.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel still did not answer. When at last he spoke,
his voice was low and stern.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Marin, I owe thee somewhat in that thou didst
open thy doors to my cousin and her friends in their
time of stress. Thou hast said that I am Acadian.
True! But also am I English, and an English soldier
and a Protestant. There is my faith and my honor—both
forbid a lie. Not even for Margot can I do this
thing.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>His voice broke, and he turned away. Well, he knew
the combined obstinacy and ignorance of the typical
Acadian peasant, such as in some sort Marin was, and
he hoped nothing. Marin, on the contrary, not understanding
the situation, would not give up, and, in the
few remaining minutes left uninterrupted, worked his
hardest. The temptation was sore indeed, and by the
time his tormentor was summoned to accompany the
deputies, Gabriel’s young face was pale and drawn with
the struggle.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Tell me but one thing,” he said ere they parted,
“is it well with her?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Well? How know I?” retorted the Acadian,
surveying the result of his work with mingled complacency
and disgust. “Perhaps!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But for the tremendous pressure already being put
upon his unhappy commander by the events of this fifth
day of September, Gabriel would have gone directly to
him, and despite his gratitude to Marin for past services,
would have requested that he be detained until he
should reveal the whereabouts of Margot. But Winslow,
New England Puritan though he might be, was
finding, in common with his English brother-in-arms at
Fort Edward, “things very heavy on his heart and
hands”; so Gabriel forebore to trouble him with his
own matters.</p>
<p class='pindent'>And if his superior’s heart was heavy, how much
heavier was his—born and reared an Acadian of the
Acadians, and now with personal loss and grief added
to his other sorrows!</p>
<p class='pindent'>Marin, though crafty and self-seeking, had not the
daring to break his word, unsheltered as he was by
Gabriel from the righteous wrath of his compatriots; so
night saw him back within the stockade. He kept his
secret, nevertheless, and neither persuasion nor threats
prevailed with him. The rest of the prisoners were all
strangers to Gabriel, and had never heard of him before;
and for reasons of his own, Marin kept their previous
acquaintance dark.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the days went on, and the prisoners increased in
number both at Fort Edward and Grand Pré, the commanding
officers grew uneasy. The transports that
were to bear away the Acadian families with their
household goods were slow in arriving, and it would
have been easy for the prisoners, had they been men
of courage and resolution, to overpower their guards
and escape. Unfortunately the Acadian character
possessed none of those qualities necessary for the
preservation of freedom, or for the reclaiming of it
if lost. Gabriel’s duties kept him constantly within
the stockade; and the small force having no horses with
them, and the village of Grand Pré, together with the
other settlements, straggling for many miles, he had
never been within a league of the house of Marin or
encountered any chance acquaintance. The times were
too strenuous, the crisis too tremendous, to permit of the
least relaxation on the part of a loyal officer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But although the transports delayed, ships from
Boston came and anchored in the Basin. Winslow thereupon
resolved to place about half of his prisoners upon
these ships, and keep them there for better security
until the transports should arrive. To Gabriel, because
of his complete understanding of the language and the
nature of his fellow-countrymen, the general left the
hard task of explaining to the prisoners what was
required of them, and of persuading them to submit
quietly.</p>
<p class='pindent'>All were very silent as they stood in the churchyard
guarded by soldiers. Winslow himself kept rather in
the background, leaving his subordinate to enact the
part of principal in this trying scene. The general,
though a good soldier and popular with his men, had
hitherto passed for a person somewhat ignorant and
over-much addicted to self-satisfaction. But in the last
few weeks he had had little opportunity for satisfaction
even with himself. “This affair is more grievous to me
than any service I was ever employed in!” was his
constant lament. And now, as he stood quietly watching
Gabriel, he observed for the first time the change
in the young man. He was pale and wan, and his
eyes wore the look of one who is forever seeking and
never finding.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In a low, clear voice he announced the decision of the
general, assured them of their perfect safety, and also
that the wives and children of the married would soon
be restored to them.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For a while a great murmuring prevailed, which Gabriel
was powerless to subdue; it seemed as if, despite
every effort, bloodshed must be the result of the manifesto.
The New England soldiers, as has been said,
had little sympathy with the “idolaters,” and were
ready at a word to make short work of them. But
Winslow was reluctant to say that word, and ere long
Gabriel had the prisoners once more under control. A
given number of unmarried men were then selected,
these being sent off under guard to the ships; after
them were to follow a smaller number of married
men.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel stood like a figure carved in stone at the
head of his handful of soldiers, whilst the commanding
officer himself selected the Acadian husbands and
fathers. Suddenly, before the guard could interfere, a
figure hurled itself out of the chosen group and precipitated
itself upon Gabriel, while a voice shrieked:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Thou, thou who art an Acadian, thou canst save
me! me, who took the cousin into my house and fed
and sheltered her! Answer, dost hear?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>But Gabriel was on duty, and made as though he
neither heard nor saw. Shaking Marin from his arm,
he motioned to his men to replace him in the ranks.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Winslow’s curiosity, ever active, was, however,
aroused, and seizing his opportunity, he drew his subordinate
to one side and questioned him. Gabriel replied
with his customary brevity and straightforwardness.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“And why did you not come at once to me, sir?”
rejoined Winslow, puffing and mopping his fat, red
face.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The young man stated his reasons, adding that though
Marin might possibly know where Margot was, no reliance
was to be placed upon the word of a man who
was concerned only for his own comfort and had no
respect for truth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“That may be, that may be,” fussed the kind-hearted
general. “But, lieutenant, you will now conduct
these men to the ships. Their women will of a
surety line the way along which you have to pass. Assure
them of my permission to visit their men-folk daily
until this troublesome job be at an end—as God grant
it may be ere long. Your eyes may be on the women
as well as on your duty, eh? You are young, yet I
have proven you worthy of trust.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So saying, the general bustled off, and shortly after
the gates of the stockade were again opened and the
procession started for the shores of the Basin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>For one of Gabriel’s years and position the task set
him, though kindly intentioned, was a heartbreaking
one. But a few miles distant, near the mouth of the
Annapolis River, he and Margot had been born and
reared. In spite of his manhood, or perhaps because
he was so true a man, the hot tears rose to his eyes,
kept from falling only by the might of his iron will;
for all along the wayside toward the water’s edge
kneeled or stood the wives and children of the men
tramping beside him through the late summer’s dust,
gazing as they passed not merely on those wives and
children, but upon the wide and fertile meadows whose
harvests they should never gather more.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At intervals as he walked Gabriel proclaimed the
general’s behests and promises; and one or two women,
who knew now for the first time of his presence in the
neighborhood and recognized him, pressed forward to
clasp his hands and cover them with tears, and plead
with the man who, as a little babe, they had held upon
their strong knees and pressed to their broad Acadian
bosoms. Unable longer to endure in silence, on his
own account he at length called a halt, and in loud,
ringing tones spoke these words:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Fellow-countrymen, I serve my general, and him
I must obey. But his heart, even as my own, is heavy
for your sufferings, and again I tell you that your husbands
and fathers are not being borne away from you.
They will remain on the ships but a short distance from
the shore, and every day you can visit them until such
time as the transports arrive and you all sail away together,
you and your children and your household
goods. Grieve not, then, for loss which is not yours.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Concluding his brief address he stepped down from
the low mound upon which he had mounted, and confronted
the wife of Marin. Evidently she belonged to
the class of women whose indifference had so greatly
astonished the English lieutenant; for her face was
calm, and she smiled as she met Gabriel’s eyes. It
was impossible for him to pause longer, but although
her husband’s malevolent gaze was riveted upon her,
Julie extended her hand and caught that of the young
officer as he swung past on the march.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Look for me at the church,” she whispered, “at
the hour of vespers.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel’s impulsive heart leaped within him, and in
an instant a thousand wild hopes and imaginings were
seething in his brain; and the women, being appeased
and many of them hurrying homeward to prepare meals
to carry to the ships, he was left unmolested. He concluded
his task without further difficulty, and returned
to the church.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The general, relieved from pressing anxiety, was in
a mood to satisfy his natural curiosity, and having received
his lieutenant’s formal report, began to ply him
with questions respecting his personal affairs. Gabriel
answered without reserve.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Mark me, sir!” exclaimed Winslow delightedly,
“the maiden comes hither this night with the woman.
Then will we have some romance in these melancholy
times.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>And forgetting his dignity, he clapped his subordinate
violently on the shoulder. And Gabriel found
nothing to say.</p>
<h2 class='nobreak'>CHAPTER IX</h2>
<p class='pindent'>But Winslow was in error. The wife of Marin
came alone, and Gabriel’s yearning eyes traveled
in vain beyond the sturdy figure of the Acadian
peasant woman for the slight one of his cousin.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The meeting took place in the general’s private parlor.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Ah, you expected <span class='it'>la petite</span>!” began Julie volubly,
“but that may not be—not yet.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Where is she, friend Julie?” interrupted the young
man impatiently. “How did she escape from the
priest? Is she well? Is she happy? Does she think
of me? Only tell me.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But that is much to tell, my brave boy,” laughed
Julie. “Listen now to me, who am indeed thy friend.
Thou shalt see her, and she shall answer those many
questions with her own lips, but on one condition: the
marriage must be at once—on the instant. Otherwise,
Marin——” she shrugged her shoulders expressively.
“It is not well, seest thou, to fall out with a husband.
Now, Marin is a prisoner, therefore am I a weak woman
left alone to deal with a young man of violence, seest
thou? Thou dost seize thy bride, thou dost carry her
to thy priest, who am I? But shouldst thou delay,
and I bring <span class='it'>la petite</span> to visit thee once, twice, many
times, Marin, he will say, ‘Thou, <span class='it'>bonne femme</span>, wast
the guardian of this child, and thou didst take her to
visit a heretic, allowing her also to neglect the duties
she owes thee.’ But once thy wife, <span class='it'>M. le Capitain</span>,
and all is over.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Gabriel listened to this harangue with eyes upon the
ground and the red color slowly flushing to his fair
face. He continued silent so long that the woman
lost patience.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“<span class='it'>Mon Dieu!</span>” she ejaculated under her breath, “is
it the English blood that makes him so dull?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last he spoke hesitatingly:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Good friend, thou sayest, ‘Seest thou?’ I reply,
‘Seest thou not also?’ There has been no talk of
marriage betwixt Margot and myself. Truly do I desire
it,” his eyes flashed, and he raised his head. “I
desire it with all the strength that is in me, but with
Margot, the maiden, it may be otherwise.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Again the wife of Marin laughed. So loudly did
she laugh that the general, pacing the vicarage garden,
paused at the open window to acquaint himself with
the cause of her mirth.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is the brave <span class='it'>garçon</span>, my general. He knows
nothing. Let him but arrange for the marriage, and
I, even I, Julie, will answer for the maiden.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Then, on being questioned by Winslow, she went
over her tale once more, and the two gossips would
have promptly settled the whole affair out of hand
had not one of the principals interposed.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“Let me but see her once—only once—first,” implored
Gabriel.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The general, promptly won over to the side of Julie,
hesitated, in such haste was he for the pleasurable excitement
of a wedding; but finally it was resolved that
the young lover should go the following morning to
Julie’s little cabin, and there win his fair young bride
for himself.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As Julie drew on her hood preparatory to departure,
Winslow inquired of her how it fared with the women,
remarking that she herself seemed to bear her fate with
much cheer.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“For the others—well, while many lament, all do
not. For myself I care not. I weary of the French
rule and the fighting and wandering and the savage
Indians. Anywhere I go willingly where there is
peace, and the soil is fruitful—<span class='it'>v’ là tout!</span>”</p>
<p class='pindent'>So she went; and the early sun was glistening on
meadows yet dewy when Gabriel, forgetful for the moment
of the sorrows around him and his own distasteful
duties, strode along the same dusty road he had traversed
the previous day, arriving in the course of an
hour or so at the small hut inhabited by the Marins.
Julie, hastening forth to milk, greeted him with a
broad smile, and waved to him to enter.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Enter he did, and in a second, neither knew how, he
held Margot close to his heart.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It was long before a word was spoken. It was enough
that they were together; and when at length Gabriel
found voice, it was at first only for expressions of pity
and endearment for the frail little creature who seemed
lost within his large embrace.</p>
<p class='pindent'><a id='pg131'></a></p>
<div class='figcenter'>
<img src='images/j226.jpg' alt='A man and a woman seated at a hearthside' id='iid-0015' style='width:70%;height:auto;'/>
<p class='caption'><span style='font-size:smaller'>“They sat down side by side . . . before the empty hearth.”</span></p>
</div>
<p class='pindent'>“But I am not so frail, <span class='it'>mon cousin</span>,” she protested.
“I can work and endure, ah, thou knowest not how
much!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“But never again, <span class='it'>chérie</span>!” was Gabriel’s reply;
and grown strangely and suddenly bold, he added:
“and remember, it must be ‘<span class='it'>mon cousin</span>’ no longer,
for from this very day there shall be an end of
‘<span class='it'>cousin</span>’—it will be ‘wife’ and ‘husband.’ Hearest
thou?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Yes, Margot heard, but had nothing to say. Finally
she remarked in a low voice:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“I would be baptized into thy faith first.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>“What?” cried Gabriel joyfully. “Is that really
so, my Margot? What glad news! Now is all indeed
well with us! There is a chaplain at Fort Edward;
he will baptize thee, and marry us.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>They sat down side by side upon the rude bench before
the empty hearth, and talked and made plans as
lovers have done since lovers first began. Gabriel’s
mind, as we know, worked quickly, and he soon had
beautiful schemes mapped out for being transferred to
Washington’s command in Virginia, that rising young
general having been recently appointed commander-in-chief
of the army there.</p>
<p class='pindent'>“My noble captain is now stationed at Winchester,”
he concluded, “and with him is that grand old soldier
Fairfax, the lord lieutenant of the county. They are
engaged in subduing the Indians. At Winchester we
will live, and then shall I be ever at hand to protect
my wife.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>News traveled slowly in those days, and Gabriel
had heard nothing of the panic at Winchester, and
with the confidence and faith of youth believed that
his hero, George Washington, could accomplish even
the impossible.</p>
<p class='pindent'>But duty called, and Julie returned, and Gabriel
had to depart; yet not before it was arranged that, with
Winslow’s permission, assured in advance, Julie should
bring Margot that evening to the church, there to meet
the chaplain from Fort Edward, who would perform
the two sacraments of baptism and marriage.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Winslow, naturally of a cheerful disposition, rejoiced
in this break in the monotony of misery, hastily dispatched
a messenger to Fort Edward, and but for
Gabriel’s entreaties would have made the marriage as
jovial an affair as Puritanical principles admitted of.
Discipline forbade that a woman could be received as an
inmate of a fortified camp, neither could Gabriel be
spared often from duties destined to become daily more
onerous and troublesome; but to the two, scarcely
more than boy and girl, who stood that evening with
bowed heads before the chaplain, there was more than
common comfort in the solemn words: “Those whom
God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”</p>
<p class='pindent'>Joy and thankfulness, deep and unutterable, swelled
the heart of the young husband as, from the gate in the
stockade, he watched the slight form of his girl-wife
disappear into the gathering shades of night. She was
his now—his to claim, to protect, to have and to hold
till death did them part.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In the excitement and rapture of meeting, Gabriel
had hardly bethought him to ask her how she had
escaped from Le Loutre. The fact that she had
escaped, that she was alive and well and with him,
filled his mental horizon. The tale, however, was
short. The priest, hard pressed, had been compelled
to give her up to a party of fugitives hastening to Halifax
to take the oath. This party had come upon the
Marins, and thinking they also were bound for Halifax,
Margot had willingly joined them, finding out
when it was too late Marin’s change of view.</p>
<p class='pindent'>In those last sad days for her country-people Margot
showed of what stuff she was made. Consoling, upholding,
encouraging, she seemed to have arrived suddenly
at a noble womanhood. This, however, was not
the case. She had been growing toward it slowly but
surely through years of adversity.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The continued delay in the coming of the transports
bred trouble betwixt the soldiers and the Acadians.
“The soldiers,” we are told, “disliked and despised
them,” the Acadians, and the general found it necessary
not only to enforce discipline more sternly among
his troops, but to administer the lash also on occasion.</p>
<p class='pindent'>At last, one October day, Winslow had four transports
at his disposal. Orders and counter-orders, lamentation
and weeping, disturbed the clear, still air.
Villages had to be arranged to go together in the same
transport as well as families; and this, with so few
troops at his command, was no easy task for the general,
who naturally was possessed of very little experience
as regarded organization. Gabriel, who while
under Washington had received of necessity some training,
was his right hand man. The male prisoners were
removed from the ships to land while the mustering
went forward.</p>
<p class='pindent'>As the women filed past the spot where for a moment
the harassed general and his subordinate had come together,
and the pair gazed upon the melancholy confusion
of young and old, and household belongings in
carts, Winslow groaned: “I know they deserve all
and more than they feel; yet it hurts me to hear their
weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth!”</p>
<p class='pindent'>At Fort Edward, as well as at many other places in
the province, the same terrible scenes were being
enacted—those in command, without one single authentic
exception, carrying out the stern decree as
mercifully as possible. Beside the long train of women
walked the priest of each village, encouraging and upholding
his flock. A few of these priests accompanied
the exiles, but most of them returned to Canada.</p>
<p class='pindent'>Not all the women, however, were “weeping and
wailing.” Some, as has been remarked, appeared to
be wholly undisturbed. Among these latter was Julie,
in the cart with whom was Margot, bound to see the
last of her benefactress. As they passed, both women
waved their hands to the two officers, Julie calling gayly
to Gabriel:</p>
<p class='pindent'>“It is well, <span class='it'>M. le mari</span>! Our ship goes to Virginia,
where we shall again meet. Is it not so?”</p>
<p class='pindent'>For weary weeks the misery was prolonged, and it
was the close of the year before Winslow’s and Murray’s
bitter task about the Basin of the Mines was completed.
But improved organization rendered even
difficult things easier, and by the last of October the
general was able to part, though with extreme reluctance,
with his most efficient subordinate. Gabriel, promoted
to a captaincy, set sail with his wife on one of
the transports for Virginia.</p>
<p class='pindent'>The poor exiles, with comparatively few exceptions,
were scattered around in the various States from Massachusetts
southward, meeting with no cruelty certainly,
but also with no welcome from the struggling colonials,
and only in Louisiana thriving and becoming a permanent
colony. Canada, and even France and England,
were also forced to receive them, and in Canada,
among the people of their own faith, their lot was the
hardest. Help in their own church they found none,
and indeed in many instances implored to be taken
back to the English Colonies, where at least they were
not treated with actual inhumanity. The war at last
at an end, many, the Herbes amongst the number,
found their way back to their own country. A large
portion of the fertile province lay waste, however, for
years, the New England soldier-farmers refusing either
part or lot in it, and English settlers finally being
brought from over sea.</p>
<p class='pindent'>It is doubtful if the Acadians ever learned the fate
of their leader and tyrant. Captured on the ocean by
the English, Le Loutre died in prison, after having
been nearly assassinated by one of the soldiers of the
guard, who swore that the holy father had once in
Acadie tried to take his scalp!</p>
<p class='pindent'>And Gabriel and Margot? Their lives were happy,
although the pain of separation was sometimes theirs,
and they were often exposed to perils and dangers. As
an officer under Washington through stirring times,
both in the Indian wars and the war of the Revolution,
Gabriel’s could not be other than the life of sacrifice
and self-devotion demanded by the life of a true
patriot. Margot seconded him bravely, cheering him
on at the trumpet-call of duty and never restraining
him by selfish fears and interests. She kept around
her a few of her country people; and there in Virginia
she reared a family of brave boys to follow in their
father’s steps.</p>
<hr class='tbk107'/>
<p class='line' style='margin-top:2em;font-size:1.1em;font-weight:bold;'>Transcriber’s Notes:</p>
<p class='noindent'>List of Illustrations for <span class='it'>Gabriel the Acadian</span> was moved from the front
of the book to the start of the novel.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='noindent'>A few obvious punctuation and typesetting errors have been corrected without
note.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='noindent'>A cover has been created for this ebook and is placed in the public domain.</p>
<p class='line'> </p>
<p class='noindent'>[End of <span class='it'>The Angel of His Presence</span> by G.L. Hill and <span class='it'>Gabriel the Acadian</span> by E.M.N. Bowyer]</p>
<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 69060 ***</div>
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