Unwilling to be Wise
At first I was for mocking and laughing down so blind a propulsion, but
then the thought that it was in some sort an outward expression of my
great desire for Yvonne compelled me to take it with sobriety. Possibly,
indeed, it meant that she was thinking of me, needing me even, at the
moment; and at this I sprang forward in fierce haste lest I should be
too late for the ferry. I was not going to follow blindly an impulse
which I could not quite comprehend. I would not be a plaything of whims
and vapours. But I would so far yield as to get safely upon the Grand
Pré side of the river, pay a visit or two there which I had intended
deferring to next day, and return to De Lamourie’s about bed-time, too
late to invite another rebuff from Yvonne. This compromise gave me peace
of mind, but did not delay my pace. I was back at the ferry in a few
minutes, in time to see old yellow Ba’tiste fastening up the scow as a
sign that ferrying was over till next tide.
I rushed down to him with a vehemence which left no need of words.
Dashing through the waterside strip of red and glistening mud I sprang
upon the scow, and cried:
“If ever you loved me, Ba’tiste,—if ever you loved my father before
me,—one more trip! I must be in Grand Pré to-night if I have to swim!”
His lean, yellow, weather-tanned face wrinkled shrewdly, and he cast off
again without a moment’s hesitation, saying heartily as he did so:
“If it only depended on what _I_ could do for you, Master Paul, your
will and your way would right soon meet.”
“I always knew I could count on you, Ba’tiste,” said I warmly, watching
with satisfaction the tawny breadth of water widen out between the shore
and the rear of the scow, as the ferryman strained rhythmically upon the
great oar. I sniffed deep breaths of the cool, contenting air which blew
with a salty bitterness from the uncovering flats; and I dimly imagined
then what now I know, that when the breath of the tide flats has got
into one’s veins at birth he must make frequent return to them in
after-life, or his strength will languish.
“So you got wind, Master Paul, of Le Fûret’s return, and thought well to
keep on his track, eh?” panted Ba’tiste.
“What do you mean?” I asked, awakened from my reverie.
“Didn’t you know he came right back, as soon as he give you the slip?”
asked Ba’tiste. “I ferried him over again not an hour gone.”
“Why,” I cried in surprise, “I thought he was on his way to the Black
Abbé!”
Ba’tiste smiled wisely.
“He lied!” said he. “You don’t know that lot yet, Master Paul. I saw you
listened careless-like, but I thought you knew that was all lies about
the Black Abbé and Vaurin being at Pereau. If they’d been at Pereau ‘The
Ferret’ would ha’ said they were at Piziquid.”
“I’m an ass!” I exclaimed bitterly.
Ba’tiste laughed.
“That’s not the name you get hereabouts, Master Paul. But I reckon
you’ve been used to dealing with honest men.”
“I believe I do trust too easily, my friend,” said I. “But one thing I
know, and that is this: I will make never a mistake in trusting you, and
some other faithful friends whom I might name.”
This seemed to Ba’tiste too obvious to need reply, so he merely wished
me good fortune as I sprang ashore and made haste up the trail.
I made haste—but alas, not back toward Grand Pré! In the bitter
after-days I had leisure to curse the obstinate folly which led me to
carry out my plan of delay instead of hurrying straight to Yvonne’s
side. But I had made up my mind that the best time to return to De
Lamourie’s was about the end of evening—and my dull wits failed to see
in Le Fûret’s action any sufficient cause to change my plans. It never
occurred to me, conceited fool that I was, that the causes which had
swayed the Black Abbé to my will the night before might in the meantime
have ceased to work. Even had this idea succeeded in penetrating my
thick apprehension, I suppose it would have made no difference. I should
have felt sure that the abbé’s scoundrel crew would choose none but the
dim hours after midnight for anything their malice might intend. The
fact is, I had been yielding to inauthoritative impulses and vague
premonitions till the reaction had set in, determining me to be at all
costs coolly reasonable. Now Fortune with her fine irony loves to
emphasize the fact that the slave of reason often proves the most
pitiable of fools. Such was I when I turned to my right from the ferry,
and strode through the scented, leafy dusk to the open flax-fields of
the Le Marchand settlement, though the disregarded monitor within me was
urging that I should turn to the left, through the old beech woods, to
Grand Pré—and Yvonne.
The Le Marchand settlement in those days consisted of six little farms,
each with its strip of upland flax-field and apple-orchard, and a bit of
rich, secluded dyke held in common. All the Le Marchands—father and five
sons—still owned their hereditary allegiance to the Sieur de Briart, and
paid him their little rents as occasion offered. My welcome was not such
as is commonly accorded to the tax-gatherer. These retainers of my
uncle’s made me feel that I was myself their seigneur; and their rents,
paid voluntarily and upon their own reckonings, were in effect a
love-gift. I supped—chiefly upon buckwheat cakes—at the cottage of Le
Marchand _père_, and then, dark having fallen softly upon the quiet
fields, I set out at a gentle pace for Grand Pré village.
Soon after I got into the still dark of the woods the moon rose clear of
the Gaspereau hills, and thrust long white fingers toward me through the
leafage. The silence and the pale, elusive lights presently got a grip
upon my mood, and my anxieties doubled, and trebled, and crowded upon
each other, till I found myself walking at a breathless pace, just the
hither side of a run. I stopped short, with a laugh of vexation, and
forced myself to go moderately.
I was perhaps half way to Grand Pré, and in the deepest gloom of the
woods,—a little dip where scarce a moonbeam came,—when, with a
suddenness that gave even my seasoned nerves a start, a tall figure
stood noiselessly before me.
I clapped my hand upon my sword and asked angrily:
“Who are you?”
But even as I spoke I knew the apparition for Grûl. I laughed, and
exclaimed:
“Pardon me, Mysterious One. And pray tell me why you are come, for I am
in some haste!”
“Haste?” he reëchoed, with biting scorn. “Where was your haste two hours
ago? Fool, poor fool, staying to fill your belly and wag your chin with
the clod-hoppers! You are even now too late.”
“Too late for what?” I asked blankly, shaken with a nameless fear.
“Come and see!” was the curt answer; and he led the way forward to a
little knoll, whence, the trees having fallen apart, could be had a view
of Grand Pré.
There was a red light wavering at the back of the village, and against
it the gables stood out blackly.
“I think you promised to guard that house!” said Grûl.
But I had no answer. With a cry of rage and horror I was away, running
at the top of my speed. The Abbé’s stroke had fallen; and I—with a
sickness that clutched my heart—saw that my absence might well be set
down to treachery.