The incident at the forge, as it seemed to me, was one to scatter effectually any rumours of my connection with Vaurin, and I congratulated myself most heartily upon it. It could not fail, I thought, to look well in Yvonne’s eyes. It confirmed me in my resolve to go to Canard that afternoon, and perhaps to Pereau, getting my uncle’s business off my hands, and not returning to De Lamourie Place till I might be sure that the circumstances had been heard and well digested there. Having this course settled in my mind, I passed the church, entered the gate between its flowering lilac-bushes, and hastened up the narrow path to Father Fafard’s door. Ere I could reach it the good priest stood upon his threshold to greet me, both hands out, his kind grey eyes half closed by the crowding smiles that creased his round and ruddy face.
“My boy!” he said. “I have looked for you 78all the morning. Why didn’t you come to me last night?”
His voice, big, yet low and soft, had ever quaintly reminded me of a ripe apple in its mellow firmness.
Both hands in his, I answered, bantering him:
“But, father, the church gave me work to do last night. Could I neglect that? I had to see that the Reverend Father La Garne did not turn aside from his sacred ministrations to burn down the houses of my friends.”
The kind face grew grave and stern.
“I know! I know!” he said. “This land of Acadie is in an evil case. But come, let us eat, and talk afterwards. I have waited for you far past my hour.”
He turned into his little dining-room, a very plainly furnished closet off the kitchen.
I was hungry, so for a space there was no talk, while the fried chicken and barley cakes which the brown old housekeeper set before us made rapid disappearance. Then came sweet curds with thick cream, and sugar of the maple grated over them,—a dish of which delectable memories had clung to me from boyhood. This savory and wholesome meal done, Father Fafard brought out some dark-red West Indian rum which smelled most pleasantly. As he poured it for me he tapped the bottle and said:
“This comes to us by way of Boston. These 79English have an excellent judgment in liquor, Paul. It is one of our small compensations.”
I laughed, thinking of the scant concern it was to Father Fafard, ever, for all his fineness of palate, one of the most abstemious of men. As we sat at ease and sipped the brew he said:
“I hear you faced down the Black Abbé last night, and fairly drove him off the field.”
“I had that satisfaction,” said I, striving to look modest over it.
“He gave way to you, the Black Abbé himself, who browbeats the commandant at Beauséjour, and fears no man living,—unless it be that mad heretic Gr?l, perchance! And he yielded to your authority, my boy? How do you account for the miracle?”
Now it had not hitherto seemed to me so much of a miracle, and I was a shade nettled that it should seem one to others. I was used to controlling violent men, and why not meddling priests?
“I suppose he saw I meant it. Perhaps he respected the king’s commission. I know not,” said I with indifference.
Father Fafard smiled dryly.
“I grant,” said he, “that you are a hard man to cross, Paul, for all your graciousness. But La Garne would risk that, or anything; and he cares for the king’s commission only when it suits him to care for it. Oh, no! If he gave way to you he 80believed you were doing his work, and he would not interfere. What is your errand to Acadie, Paul?” he added, suddenly leaning forward and searching my face.
I felt myself flush with indignation, and half rose from my seat. Then I remembered that he knew nothing of my reasons for coming, and that his question was but natural. This cooled me. But I looked him reproachfully in the eyes.
“Do you think me a conspirator and a companion of cut-throats?” I asked. “I have no public business to bring me here to Grand Pré, father. I got short leave from my general, my first in two years, and I have come to Acadie for my own pleasure and for no reason else. My word!”
He leaned back with an air of relief.
“It is, of course, enough, Paul,” said he heartily. “But in these bad days one knows not what to expect, nor whence the bolt may fall. There is distrust on all sides. As for my unhappy people, they are like to be ground to dust between the upper stone of England and the lower stone of France.” He sighed heavily, looking out upon his dooryard lilacs as if he thought to bid them soon farewell. Then the kindly glance came back into his eyes, and he turned them again upon me.
“But why,” he inquired, “did you go first to Monsieur de Lamourie’s, instead of coming, as of old, at once to me?”
81I hesitated; then decided to speak frankly, so far as might seem fitting.
“Gr?l warned me,” said I, “that Mademoiselle de Lamourie was in danger. I dared not delay.”
“Why she in especial?” he persisted, gravely teasing, as was his right and custom. “Were not monsieur and madame in like peril of the good abbé’s hand?”
“It was her peril that most concerned me,” I said bluntly.
He studied my face, and then, I suppose, read my heart, which I made no effort to veil. The smile went from his lips.
“I fear you love the girl, Paul,” said he very gently. “I am sorry for you, more sorry than I can say. But you are too late. Were you told about the Englishman?”
“I met him,” said I, with a voice less steady than I desired it to be, for my heart was straightway in insurrection at the topic. “Madame told me, incidentally. But it is not too late, father! I may call it so when she is dead, or I.”
“It is your hurt that speaks in haste,” said he rebukingly. “But you know you are wrong, and such words idle. Indeed, my dear, dear boy, I would you had her, not he. But her troth is solemnly plighted, and he is a good man and fair to look at; though I like him not over well. As he was a Protestant, I long stood out against him;............