_By_ Charles G. D. Roberts
_King’s (Liverpool) Regiment_
From the low window, framed in hop-vines, came light enough to light to
bed so sleepy a traveller as I, so I troubled not at all to find the
candle. Sitting idly on the edge of the couch, I pondered on the effort
it would require to pull off my boots. A soldier, and hardened to all
shifts, I might, indeed, have slept as I was; but the bed was the best
in the inn, and I cared not to vex my hostess’s tidy soul by any such
roughness of the camp. Even as I thought of it, however, my tired brain
was flowing away into dreams.
But on the sudden I sat up straight, very wide awake. My hand went to
the butt of my pistol. I had caught a stealthy rustling in the hop vines
about the window. Could these Acadians be planning any mischief against
me? It was not probable, for they were an open-dealing and courageous
folk, and had shown themselves civil during the few hours since my
coming to Cheticamp village. Nevertheless, I knew that in a certain
sense I might count myself to be in an enemy’s country, and vigilance my
best comrade. I sat in the gloom motionless, watching the pale square of
the window.
Presently a head appeared close to the glass, and my fingers released
the pistol. The head was a woman’s—a young girl’s, it seemed—in the
wimpled white cap wherein these girls of Acadia are wont to enshadow
their bright faces. Then light fingers tapped on the pane, and with
great willingness I threw open the sash. But on the instant, guessing at
a mystery of some sort, I held my tongue and kept my face aloof from the
outdoor glimmer. For my part, however, I could make out—less, perhaps,
by these material eyes than by the insight of the heart—that the face
which looked up peeringly into mine was young and alluring.
“Jacques,” she murmured in a voice which my ears at once approved, “is
it really you?”
“There’s a mistake here—an interesting mistake,” said my heart to me.
But I let no such utterance rise to my lips. No, indeed. But my name is
Jack—and no one could be supposed to think of spelling at such a moment.
My conscience made no protest as I answered:
“Surely, dear one, it’s Jack. Who else could it be?”
I spoke in a discreet whisper, for all voices in a whisper sound alike;
and I blessed my stars that I had perfected my French since my arrival
in Halifax. I put out my hand, but failed to find a small one to occupy
it.
“Of course, I knew it was you, Jacques,” the bewitching voice responded,
“or you don’t suppose I should have come knocking at your window this
way, do you?”
“No, I should think not, _chérie_,” I assented heartily, solicitous to
cherish the maid’s mistake and prolong the interview to the utmost
patience of Fate. “But it was kind of you to come so soon.”
This seemed safe and non-committal, but I trembled after I said it, lest
some unknown revelation should be lurking in the words.
“I had to, Jacques, because I was afraid you might come to see me
to-night——”
“I was coming,” I interrupted, boldly mendacious, “but I was on the road
all night, and thought I had better lie down for a soldier’s forty winks
before I called.”
She laughed under her breath provocatively.
“How your French has improved in these two years,” she remarked with
approbation. “I used to think you would never learn.”
This was the first time I had seen Cheticamp village, but I felt safe in
my reply.
“I was stupid, of course, _mon ange_; but after I was gone I remembered
your sweet instructions.”
This was dangerous ground. I hastened to shift it.
“But tell me,” I went on, “what can you mean by saying I am not to come
and see you? Surely you are not going to be so cruel, when I’ve been
away so long.”
“No, Jacques,” she said, with a decisive shake of her pretty head, “you
cannot come. Father is very bitter against you, and there would be a
scene.”