A Sister to Evangeline

by Sir Charles G. D. Roberts

  Chapter XXX

  A Woman’s Privilege

  I did not sleep that night—not one eye-wink—in the hold of the NewEngland ship. Neither could I think, nor even greatly suffer. Rather Ilay as it were numbly weltering in my despair. What if I had known allthat was going on meanwhile in that other ship, a league behind us,sailing under the lurid sky!

  The events which I am now about to set down were not, as will be seen,matter of my own experience. I tell what I have inferred and what hasbeen told me—but told me from such lips and in such fashion that I mayindeed be said to have lived it all myself. It is more real to me thanif my own eyes had followed it. It is sometimes true that we may seewith the eyes of others—of one other—more vividly than with our own.

  In the biggest house of that “Colony of Compromise” on the hill—thehouse nearest the chapel prison—a girl stood at a south window watchingthe flames in the village below. The flames, at least, she seemed to bewatching. What she saw was the last little column of prisoners marchingaway from the chapel; and her teeth were set hard upon her under lip.

  She was not thinking; she was simply clarifying a confused resolve.

  White and thin, and with deep purple hollows under her great eyes, shewas nevertheless not less beautiful than when, a few months before,joyous mirth had flashed from her every look and gesture, as coloredlights from a fire-opal. She still wore on her small feet moccasins ofIndian work; but now, in winter, they were of heavy, soft, whitecaribou-skin, laced high upon the ankles, and ornamented with quaintpattern of red and green porcupine quills. Her skirt and bodice were ofcreamy woollen cloth; and over her shoulders, crossed upon her breastand caught in her girdle, was spread a scarf of dark-yellow silk. Thelittle black lace shawl was flung back from her head, and her hands,twisted tightly in the ends of it, were for a wonder quite still—tenselystill, with an air of final decision. Close beside her, flung upon theback of a high wooden settee, lay a long, heavy, hooded cloak of greyhomespun, such as the peasant women of Acadie were wont to wear inwinter as an over-garment.

  A door behind her opened, but Yvonne did not turn her head. GeorgeAnderson came in. He came to the window, and tried to look into hereyes. His face was grave with anxiety, but touched, too, with a curiousmixture of impatience and relief. He spoke at once, in a voice bothtender and tolerant.

  “There go the last of them, poor chaps!” he said. “Captain Grande wentsome hours ago—quite early. I pray, dear, that now he is gone—to exileindeed, but in safety—you will recover your peace of mind, and throw offthis morbid mood, and be just a little bit kinder to—some people!” Andhe tried, with an awkward timidity, to take her hand.

  She turned upon him a sombre, compassionate gaze, but far-off, almost asif she saw him in a dream.

  “Don’t touch me—just now,” she said gently, removing her hand. “I mustgo out into the pastures for air, I think. All this stifles me! No,alone, _alone_!” she added more quickly, in answer to an entreaty in hiseyes. “But, oh, I am sorry, so sorry beyond words, that I cannot seemkind to—some people! Good-by.”

  She left the room, and closed the door behind her. The door shutsmartly. It sounded like a proclamation of her resolve. So—that wassettled! In an instant her whole demeanour changed. A fire came backinto her eyes, and she stepped with her old, soft-swaying lightness. Inthe room which she now entered sat her father and mother. The witheredlittle reminiscence of Versailles watched at a window-side, her blackeyes bright with interest, her thin lips slightly curved with an acerband cynical compassion. But Giles de Lamourie sat with his back to thewindow, his face heavy and grey.

  “This is too awful!” he said, as Yvonne came up to him, and, bendingover, kissed him on the forehead and the lips.

  “It is like a nightmare!” she answered. “But, would you believe it,papa, the very shock is doing me good? The suspense—_that_ kills! But Ifeel more like myself than I have for weeks. I must go out, breathe, andwalk hard in the open.”

  De Lamourie’s face lightened.

  “Thou _art_ better, little one,” said he. “But why go alone at such atime? Where’s George?”

  But Yvonne was already at her mother’s side, kissing her, and did notanswer her father’s question; which, indeed, needed no answer, as he hadhimself seen Anderson go into the inner room and not return.

  “But where will you go, child?” queried her mother. “There are no longerany left of your sick and your poor and your husbandless to visit.”

  “But I will be my own sick, little mamma,” she cried nervously, “and myown poor—and my own husbandless. I will visit myself. Don’t be troubledfor me, dearies!” she added, in a tender voice. “I am so much betteralready.”

  The next moment she was gone. The door shut loudly after her.

  “Wilful!” said her mother.

  “Yes, more like she used to be. Much better!” exclaimed Giles deLamourie, rising and looking out at the fires in a moment of briefabsent-mindedness. “Yes, much better, George,” he added, as Andersonappeared from the inner room.

  But the Englishman’s face was full of discomfort. “I wish she would notgo running out alone this way,” said he.

  “Curious that she should prefer to be alone, George,” said Madame deLamourie, with deliberate malice. She was beginning to dislike this manwho so palpably could not give her daughter happiness.

  * * * * *

  Yvonne, meanwhile, was speeding across the open fields, in the teeth ofthe wind. The ground was hard as iron, but there was little snow—only adry, powdery covering deep enough to keep the stubble from hurting herfeet. She ran straight for the tiny cabin of Mother Pêche, trusting tofind her not yet gone. None of the houses at the eastern end of thevillage were as yet on fire. That of Mother Pêche stood a little apart,in a bushy pasture-lot. Yvonne found the low door swinging wide, thehouse deserted; but there were red embers still on the hearth, wherebyshe knew the old woman had not been long away.

  The empty house seemed to whisper of fear and grief from every corner.She turned away and ran toward the landing, her heart chilled with asudden apprehension that she might be too late. Before she was clear ofthe bushes, however, she stopped with a cry. A man who seemed to haverisen out of the ground stood right in her path. He was of a sturdyfigure, somewhat short, and clad in dull-coloured homespun of peasantfashion. At sight of her beauty and her alarm his woollen cap wassnatched from his head and his cunning face took on the utmostdeference.

  “Have no fear of me, mademoiselle,—Mademoiselle de Lamourie, if I mayhazard a guess from your beauty,” said he smoothly. “It is I who am inperil, lest you should reveal me to my enemies.”

  “Who are you, monsieur?” she asked, recovering her self-possession andfretting to be gone.

  “A spy,” he whispered, “in the pay of the King of France, who must know,to avenge them later, the wrongs of his people here in Acadie. I havethrown myself on your mercy, that I might ask you if the families whohave found favour with the English will remain here after this work isdone, or be taken elsewhere. I pray you inform me.”

  “Believe me, I do not know their plans, monsieur,” answered Yvonne. “AndI beg you to let me pass, for my haste is desperate.”

  “Let me escort you to the edge of the bush, then, mademoiselle,” said hecourteously, stepping from the path. “And not to delay you, I willquestion you as we go, if you will permit. Is the Englishman, MonsieurGeorge Anderson, still here?”

  “He is, monsieur. But now leave me, I entreat you.”

  She was wild with fear lest the stranger’s presence should frustrate herdesign.

  The man smiled.

  “I dare go no farther with you than the field edge, mademoiselle,” saidhe regretfully. “To be caught would mean”—and he put his hand to histhroat with ghastly suggestion.

  Relieved from this anxiety, Yvonne paused when she reached the open.

  “I must ask you a questio
n in turn, monsieur,” said she. “Have youchanced to learn on which of the two ships Captain de Mer and CaptainGrande were placed?”

  “I have been so fortunate,” replied the stranger, and the triumph in histhought found no expression in his deferential tone or deep-set eyes.Here was the point he had been studying to approach. Here was a chanceto worst a foe and win favour from the still powerful, thoughfar-distant, Black Abbé.

  He paused, and Yvonne had scarce breath to cry “Which?”

  “They are in the ship this way,” he said calmly. “The one still atanchor.”

  “Thank you, monsieur!” she cried, with a passion in the simple words;and was straightway off across the red-lit snow, her cloak streaming outbehind her.

  “The beauty!” said the man to himself, lurking in the bushes to followher with his eyes. “Pity to lie to her. But she’s leaving—and that stabsAnderson; and she’s going on the wrong ship—and that stabs Grande. Bothat a stroke. Not bad for a day like this.”

  And with a look of hearty satisfaction on his face Le Fûret[1] (forVaurin’s worthy lieutenant it was) withdrew to safer covert.

  Footnote 1:

  None of Vaurin’s villains were taken by the English at the time of the great capture, for none dared come within a league of an English proclamation lest it should turn into a rope to throttle them.—P. G.

  Le Fûret smiled to himself; but Yvonne almost laughed aloud as she ran,deaf to the growing roar at the farther end of the village and heedlessof the flaring crimson that made the air like blood. The wharf, when shereached it, was in a final spasm of confusion, and shouted orders, andsobbings. Now, she grew cautious. Drawing her cloak close about herface, she pushed through the crowd toward the boat.

  Just then a firm hand was laid upon her arm, and a very low voice saidin her ear,—with less surprise, to be sure, than on a former occasion byGaspereau lower ford,—

  “_You_ here, Mademoiselle de Lamourie?”

  Her heart stood still; and she turned upon him a look of such imploring,desperate dismay that Lieutenant Waldron without another word drew herto one side. Then she found voice.

  “Oh, if you have any mercy, any pity, do not betray me,” she whispered.

  “But what does this mean? It is my duty to ask,” he persisted, stillpuzzled.

  “I am trying to save my life, my soul, everything, before it’s toolate!” she said.

  “Oh,” said he, comprehending suddenly. “Well, I think you had better nottell me anything more. I think it is _not_ my duty to say anything aboutthis meeting. You may be doing right. I wish you good fortune andgood-by, mademoiselle!”—and, to her wonder, he was off among the crowd.

  Still trembling from the encounter, she hastened to the boat.

  She found it already half laden; and in the stern, to her delight, shesaw Mother Pêche’s red mantle. She was on the point of calling to her,but checked herself just in time. The boat was twenty paces from thewharf-edge; and those twenty paces were deep ooze, intolerable beyondmeasure to white moccasins. Absorbed in her one purpose, which was toget on board the ship without delay, she had not looked to one side orthe other, but had regarded women, children, soldiers, boatmen, as somany bushes to be pushed through. Now, however, letting her hood part alittle from her face, she glanced hither and thither with her quickimperiousness, and then from her feet to that breadth of slime, as ifdemanding an instant bridge. The next thing she knew she was lifted by apair of stout arms and carried swiftly through the mud to the boatside.

  After a moment’s hot flush of indignation at the liberty, she realizedthat this was by far the best possible solution of the problem, as therewas no bridge forthcoming. She looked up gratefully, and saw that hercavalier was a big red-coat, with a boyish, jolly face. As he gently sether down in the boat she gave him a radiant look which brought the veryblood to his ears.

  “Thank you very much indeed!” she said, in an undertone. “I don’t knowhow I should have managed but for your kindness. But really it is verywrong of you to take such trouble about _me_; for I see these other poorthings have had to wade through the mud, and their skirts are terrible.”

  The big red-coat stood gazing at her in open-mouthed adoration,speechless; but a comrade, busy in the boat stowing baggage, answeredfor him.

  “That’s all right, miss,” said he. “Don’t you worry about Eph. He’s beencarryin’ children all day long, an’ some few women because they wassick. He’s arned the right to carry one woman jest fer her beauty.”

  In some confusion Yvonne turned away, very fearful of being recognized.She hurriedly squeezed herself down in the stern by Mother Pêche. Theold dame’s hand sought hers, furtively, under the cloak.

  “I went to look for you, mother,” she whispered into the red shawl.

  “I knew you’d come, poor heart, dear heart!” muttered the old woman,with a swift peering of her strange eyes into the shadow of the girl’shood.

  “I waited for you till they _dragged_ me away. But I knew you’d come.”

  “How did you know that, mother?” whispered Yvonne, delighted to findthat this momentous act of hers had seemed to some one just the expectedand inevitable thing. “Why, I didn’t know it myself till half an hourago.”

  Mother Pêche looked wise and mysterious.

  “I knew it,” she reiterated. “Why, dear heart, I knew all along youloved him.”

  And at last, strange as it may appear, this seemed to Yvonne deLamourie, penniless, going into exile with the companionship of misery,an all-sufficient and all-explicative answer.