But Mad Nor-nor-west
The steps came close to me, moved away, and were still. A sick man’s
curiosity soon works, and here, surely, were incalculable matters for me
to find out. I turned over suddenly.
It was a fantastic figure that faced me, sitting on a billet of wood not
far from the door. Withered herbs were in the high, peaked cap. The
black-and-yellow mantle was drawn forward to cover the folded arms. The
steely eyes were at my inmost thought.
There is no doubt I was still a sick man. I was unspeakably
disappointed. Looking back upon it now, I verily believe that I expected
to see Yvonne, as in a fairy tale.
“Why did you come in,” I asked peevishly, twisting under those eyes,
“without proclaiming—
“Woe, woe to Acadie the Fair, for the hour of her desolation cometh?”
“It has come,” said he quietly.
I sat up as if a spring had moved me. My eyes alone questioned.
“Beauséjour has fallen. France is driven back on Louisbourg. The men of
Acadie are in chains. The women await what fate they know not. Their
homes await the flame.”
Here was no madman speaking.
“And—Yvonne?” I whispered.
“They all are safe, under shelter of the governor—and of Anderson,” he
added icily.
I had no more words for a moment. Then I asked—“And the Black Abbé?”
His sane calm disappeared. His face worked; his hands came out from
under his cloak, darting like serpents; his eyes veered like pale flame.
As suddenly he was calm again.
“He is at Louisbourg,” said he, “at Isle St. Jean—here—there—anywhere;
free, busy, still heaping and heating the fires which shall burn his
soul alive.”
I like a man who is in earnest; but I could think of nothing appropriate
to say. After a pause I changed the subject.
“I am thirsty,” said I, “and hungry too, I think, though I have eaten
all the barley bread. And I’m sorry, but I’ve broken the jar.”
From a niche in the wall he at once brought me more barley cake, with
butter, and fresh milk, and some dried beef. The wholesome, homely taste
of them comes back to me now. Having eaten, I felt that nothing could be
quite so good as sleep; and with grateful mutterings, half spoken, I
slept.
When I woke it was the cold light of early morning that came in at the
cave-mouth; and I was alone. I felt so much better that I got up at
once; but ere I could reach the door a dizziness came over me, and I
staggered back to my place, feeling that my hour was not yet. As I lay
fretting my heart with a thousand hot conjectures, my host came in. He
looked at me, but said not a word; nor could I get his tongue loosened
all through our light breakfast. At last, to my obstinate repetition of
the inquiry: “When shall I be strong enough to go down into Grand Pré?”
he suddenly awoke and answered:
“A little way to-morrow, perhaps; and the next day, further; and within
the week, if you are fortunate, you should be strong enough for
anything. You will need to be, if you are going down into Grand Pré!” he
added grimly.
Upon this direct telling I think I became in all ways my sane self—weak,
indeed, but no longer whimsical. I felt that Grûl’s promise was much
better than I could have hoped. I knew there would be need of all my
strength. I was a man again, no more a sick child. And I would wait.
Grûl busied himself a few minutes about the cave, in a practical,
every-day fashion that consorted most oddly with his guise and fame. I
could not but think of a mad king playing scullion. But there was none
of the changing light of madness in his eyes.
Soon he seated himself at the cave-mouth, and said, pointing to a
roughly shaped ledge with a wolfskin upon it:
“Come hither, now, and take this good air. It will medicine your thin
veins.”
Obeying gladly, I was soon stretched on the wolfskin at the very brink,
as it seemed, of the open world. But it was cold. Perceiving this, he
arose without a word, fetched another skin, and tucked it about me. His
tenderness of touch was like a woman’s.
“How can I thank you?” I began. “It is to you, I now perceive, that I
owe my life. How much besides I know not!”
He waved my thanks aside something impatiently.
“Yes, I saved you,” said he. “It suited me to do so. I foresaw you would
some day repay me. And I like you, boy. I trust you; though in some ways
you are a vain fool.”
I laughed. I had such confidence in him I began to think he would bring
all my desires to pass.
“And I have been wont to imagine you a madman,” said I. “But I seem to
have been mistaken.”
“Were I mad utterly as I seem,” said he, in a voice which thrilled me to
the bone, “it would not be strange. I am mad but on one subject; and on
that I believe that God will adjudge me sanest.”
He was silent for a long time, that white fire playing in his eyes; and
I dared not break upon his reverie. At last I ventured, for my tongue
ached with questions unasked:
“How did you find me when I fell over the cliff?” I queried. “And where
was the Englishman?”
My mouth once opened, two questions instead of one jumped out.
“It was noon,” said Grûl, “and I found your Englishman sitting by you
waiting for the sky to fall. Had the Micmacs come instead of me, your
two scalps would have risen nimbly together. He is a good man and brave;
but he lacks wits. A woman could trust him to do anything but keep her
from yawning!”
I grinned with the merest silly delight—a mean delight. But Grûl went
on:
“He is worth a dozen cleverer men; but he fatigued me. I sent him away.
I told him just how to go to reach the Piziquid settlement, whom to ask
for, and what help to bring for his sick comrade. Then, knowing what was
about to befall, and having in mind a service which you will do me at a
later day, and divining that you would rather be sick in a madman’s cave
than in an English jail, I brought you here. I was reputed a wizard in
the old days in France, for having brought men back from the very gape
of the grave; and I knew you would be long sick.”
I looked at him, and I think my grateful love needed no words.
“And what became of the Englishman?” I asked presently.
“He appeared at last in Grand Pré,” answered Grûl, “and told the truth
of you, and dwelt awhile within the shadow of the chapel, to be near the
guests of Father Fafard; and he got a strong guard placed in the village
close at hand, that those who loved the English and feared the abbé
might sleep in peace. I hear he presses for the redemption of
Mademoiselle’s pledge; but she, to the much vexation of Monsieur and
Madame, is something dilatory in her obedience. Of course she will obey
in the end. Even Father Fafard exhorts her to that, for obedience sums
all virtues in a maid. But she has an absurd idea that the Englishman
should present alive to her the man who saved his life, before claiming
reward at hands of hers. I might have enabled him to do this; but you
were not in a mind to be consulted.”
“You are the wisest man I ever knew,” said I, conscious of an absurd
inclination to fling myself at his feet and do penance for past
supercilious underratings.
He seemed to accept the tribute as not undue, and again took up his
monologue.
“Had you died, as seemed for some weeks likely for all my skill, I
should have smoothed the way for the stupid Englishman; but finding that
you would live, I thought to bind you to me by keeping your way open. In
a few days you will be well, and must tread your own path, to triumph or
disaster as your own star shall decree. In either case, I know you will
stand by me when my need comes!”
“You know the merest truth,” said I.