"Because m'sieu has not ze right to as'."
I felt rebuked. Knowing as little of me and of my feelings for the Dryad
as he did, he was right. Should I tell him more? My words would be safe
with this gentle old man.
"Suppose I love the girl, Father John? Would I not then have the right
to know everything about her parentage?"
A pale smile passed over his thin lips.
"M'sieu--jokes wiz me. You, ze gen'leman, ze areest'crat--to love ze
little wil' ma'm'selle? _Je crois que non!_"
"It may seem incredible to you, but I do love her. I feel I can trust
you with the secret, for even she does not know it yet. Believe me, I
beg you. I am very much in earnest."
The doubting look faded from the priest's face, to be succeeded by one
of amazement.
"Probably you do not understand this," I hastened to add; "and I should
not blame you. But you, in holy orders from young manhood, with your
mind and time engrossed in spiritual things, have no intimate knowledge
of the powerful call of man to woman, and woman to man. It has come to
me unexpectedly, swiftly, surely; here in the wilderness. In the city it
passed me by. But I truly love the little wild ma'm'selle. Listen to my
plan. I intend to take her far along the road to education and
refinement; I intend to develop the great good which lurks smothered in
her mind and soul; then, if she will, I shall marry her. That is my
reason for asking you to tell me of that man."
Father John was convinced that I spoke the truth. I could see it before
he replied.
"Ze--ze _aieul_, ze _aieule_; has m'sieu tol' zem?"