Mother Pêche was not alarmed, but, like the shrewd strategist she was, made haste to turn the evil to good account. She summoned a soldier—by excellent chance that same boyish-faced, tall fellow who had so patly aided at the embarking; and he with the best will in the world and a fluttering in his breast carried Yvonne straight to the captain’s cabin, where he laid her upon the berth. Then, at Mother Pêche’s request, he went to beg the captain’s presence for an instant in his cabin.
The ship was now well under way, directed by a pilot who knew the shoals and bars of Minas. The business of stowing baggage was in the hands of petty officers. The captain could be spared for a little; and without doubt the soldier’s manner proclaimed more clearly than words that here was no affair of a weeping peasant. To such the captain would just now have turned a deaf ear, for he had all day been striving to harden his heart against the 239sight of sorrows which he could not mitigate. He was an iron-grey, close-bearded man, this New England captain, with a stern mouth and half-shut, twinkling eyes. Rough toward men, he was gentle toward women, children, and animals. His name was John Stayner; and in Machias, Maine, whence he hailed, he had a motherless daughter of eighteen, the core of his heart, who was commonly said to rule him as the moon rules ocean. When John Stayner went to the cabin and saw Yvonne in his berth, her white eyelids just stirring to the first return of consciousness, there was small need of Mother Pêche’s explanations. The girl’s astonishing loveliness, her gentle breeding, the plain signals of her distress, all moved him beyond his wont. He straightway saw his own dark-haired Essie in like case—and forthwith, stirred by that fine chivalry which only a strong man far past youth can know, he was on Yvonne’s side, though all the world should be against her.
As if their low voices were remote and speaking in a tongue but half understood, Yvonne heard them talking of her—the old woman explaining swiftly, concisely, directly; the New Englander speaking but now and then a word of comprehension. His warmth reached Yvonne’s heart. She opened her great eyes wide, and looked up into the man’s face with a trustful content.
His own eyes filled in response. To him it was 240much the look of his Essie. He touched her hand with his rough fingers, and said hastily, “This cabin is yours, Miss—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, I mean, so long as you are on this ship. Good-night. I have much to do. Take care of her,” he added, with a sudden tone of authority, turning to Mother Pêche. “To-morrow, when we are clear of these shoals and eddies, we’ll see what can be done.”
And before Yvonne could control her voice or wits to thank him, he was away.
She turned shining eyes upon the old woman.
“What makes him so kind?” she murmured, still half bewildered. “And what will he do?”
“He is a good man,” said Mother Pêche, with decision. “I believe he will send us in a boat to the other ship, at the very first chance.”
Yvonne’s face grew radiant. She was silent with the thought for a few minutes. Then she glanced about the cabin.
“How did I come here?” she asked, raising herself on her elbow.
“This is the captain’s own cabin, chérie,” said the old woman, with triumph in her voice. “And a big, boy-faced red-coat carried you here, at my request, and looked as if he’d like to keep on carrying you forever.”
“I cannot sleep now, mother!” exclaimed the girl, slipping out of the berth and drawing the woollen cloak about her. “Let us go on deck 241awhile. Morning will come the more quickly so.”
“Yes, to be sure. And I would look a last look on Grand Pré, if only on the flames of its dear roofs,” agreed the old woman, obediently smothering a deep yawn. In truth, now that things bade fair to work her will, she wanted nothing so much as a good sleep. But whatever Yvonne wanted was the chief thing in her eyes. The two went on deck, and huddled themselves under the lee of the cabin, for there was a bitter wind blowing, and the ship was too far from Grand Pré now to feel the heat of the conflagration. The roaring of it, too, was at this distance diminished to a huge but soft sub-bass, upon which the creaking of cordage, the whistling of the wind, the slapping of the thin-crested waves, built up a sort of bitter, singing harmony which thrilled Yvonne’s ears. The whole village was now burning, a wide and terrifying arc of flame from the Gaspereau banks to the woodland lying toward Habitants. Above it towered the chapel, a fixed serenity amid destruction. It held Yvonne’s eyes for a while; but soon they turned away, to follow the lit sails of the other ship, now fleeting toward the foot of Blomidon. At last, with a shiver, she said to her sleepy compan............