Dead Days and Withered Dreams
But to me awaking in the raw of the morning, a prisoner, the comfort
seemed less sure. All through the weary, soul-sapping weeks that
followed, it paled and shrank, till nothing was left of it but a
hopeless sort of obstinacy, so rooted in the central fibre-knots of my
being that to the very teeth of fate my pulses still kept beating out
the vow, “I _will_ win! I _will_ win!”
For cheer, all my cousin’s sober and well-considered confidence could
not keep that in my heart. Of Yvonne, I could get not one word directly.
I saw her hand in the fact that nothing more was heard of the charge of
“spy” against me. Yet this benefit had a bitterness in it, for I knew
she must have done it through Anderson. Intolerably did that knowledge
grate.
Mother Pêche came daily to the wicket, but could never boast a message
for my ear—and in this reticence of Yvonne’s I saw a hardness of resolve
which made my heart sink. Father Fafard, too, came daily with food for
me, and with many a little loving kindness; but of Yvonne he would not
speak. Marc, one day, encountered him on the subject, but prevailed not
at all, in so much that they two parted in some heat.
At last from Mother Pêche came word that my dear maid was ill, obscurely
ailing, pale-lipped, and with no more of the fathomless light in her
great eyes. The reassurance that this gave me on the score of her love
was beyond measure overbalanced by the new fear that it bred and
nourished. Would not the strain become too great for her—so great that
either her promise to wait would break down, or else her health? Here
was a dilemma, and upon one or the other of the horns of it I writhed
hourly. It cost little to feed me, those weeks in the Grand Pré chapel
prison.
Meanwhile, it is but just to our English jailers—they were men of New
England chiefly, from Boston, Plymouth, Salem, and that vicinage—to
record it of them that they were kind and little loved their employment.
They held the doom of banishment to be just, but they deplored the
inescapable harshness of it. As I came to learn, it was for New
England’s sake chiefly, and at her instance, that old England had
ordained the great expulsion. Boston would not trust the Acadians, and
vowed she could no longer endure a wasp’s nest at her door. Thus it was
that the decree had at last gone forth; and even I could not quite deny
the justice of it. I knew that patient forbearance had long been tried
in vain; and I bethought me, too, of the great Louis’ once plan, to
banish and utterly purge away all the English of New England and New
York.
Of affairs and public policy in the world outside our walls I learned
from Lieutenant Waldron, who came in often among us and made me his
debtor by many kindly courtesies. He had an interest in me from the
first—in the beginning, as I felt, an interest merely of curiosity, for
he doubtless wondered that Mademoiselle de Lamourie should stoop to be
entangled with two lovers. But soon he conceived a friendship for me,
which I heartily reciprocated. I have ever loved the English as a brave
and worthy enemy; and this young officer from Plymouth town presented to
my admiration a fair epitome of the qualities I most liked in his race.
In appearance he was not unlike Anderson, but of slimmer build, with the
air of the fighter added, and a something besides which I felt, but
could not name. This something Anderson lacked—and the lack was subtly
conspicuous in a character which even my jealous rivalry was forced to
call worthy of love.
The reservation in my own mind I found to lie in Waldron’s also, and
with even more consequence attached to it. Anderson having chanced to be
one day the subject of our conversation, I let slip hint of the way it
galled me to feel myself in his debt for exemption from the charge of
spying.
“I can easily understand,” said he, “that you feel it intolerable. I am
surprised, more and more daily, at Mademoiselle de Lamourie’s acceptance
of his suit. Oh, you French,—may I say it, monsieur?—what a merchandise
you make of your young girls!”
“You put it unpleasantly, sir,” said I; “but too truly for me to resent
it. You surprise me, however, in what you imply of Anderson. I liked him
heartily at first sight. I know him to be brave, though he does not
carry arms. He is capable and clear-sighted, kind and frank; and surely
he has beauty to delight a woman’s eyes. I am in despair when I think of
him.”
“He is all you say,” acknowledged Waldron, with a shrewd twinkle in his
sharp blue eyes; “nevertheless there is something he is not, which damns
him for me. I don’t _quite_ like him, and that’s a fact. At the same
time I know he’s a fine fellow, and I ought to like him. I don’t mind
telling you, for your discomfort, that he has done all that man could do
to get you out of this place. He has been to Halifax about it, and dared
to make himself very disagreeable to the governor when he was refused.
It is not his fault you are not out and off by this time.”
“Thank God, he failed!” said I, with fervour.
“So should I say in your case, monsieur,” he replied, with a kind of dry
goodwill.
To this obliging officer—in more kindly after-years, I am proud to say,
destined to become my close friend—I owed some flattering messages from
Madame de Lamourie. I knew she liked me—had ever liked me, save during
those days of my ignominious eclipse when I seemed to all Grand Pré an
accomplice of the Black Abbé and Vaurin. I had a suspicion that she
would not be deeply displeased should I, by any hook or crook,
accomplish the discomfiture of Anderson. But I well knew her
friendliness to me would not go so far as open championship. She would
obey her husband, for peace’ sake; and take her satisfaction in a little
more delicate malice. I pictured her as making the handsome English
Quaker subtly miserable by times.
From Giles de Lamourie, however, I received no greeting. I took it that
he regarded me as a menace not only to his own authority, but to his
daughter’s peace. A prudent marriage,—a regular, well-ordered, decently
arranged for marriage,—in such he fancied happiness for Yvonne. But I
concerned me not at all for opposition of his. I thought that Yvonne, if
ever she should choose, could bring him to her feet.
At last there came a break in the monotony of the days—a break which,
for all its bitterness, was welcomed. Word came that another ship was
tardily ready for its freight of exiles. The weary faces of the guard
brightened, for here was evidence that something was being done. Within
the chapel rose a hum of expectation, and all speculated on their
chances. For if exile was to be, “Let it come quickly” was the cry of
all.
But no—not of all. I feared it, with a physical fear till then unknown
to me. To me it meant a new and appalling barrier. Here but two wooden
walls and a stone’s throw of wintry space fenced me from her bodily
presence. But after exile, how many seas, and vicissitudes, and
uncomprehending alien faces!
But I was not to go this time; nor yet my cousin Marc, who, having at
last received from Quebec authentic word of the health and safety of his
Puritan, was looking out upon events with his old enviable calm.
On the day when a stir in the cottages betokened that embarkation was to
begin, the south windows of the chapel were in demand. They afforded a
clear view of the village and a partial view of the landing-place.
Benches were piled before them, and we took turns by the half hour in
looking out, those at the post of observation passing messages back to
the eager rows behind. It was plain at once that the cottages at the
west end of the village were to be cleared in a block. On a sudden there
was a sharp outcry from the three Le Boutilliers, as they saw their
homely house-gear being carried from their doorways and heaped upon a
lumbering hay-wagon. They were of a nervous stock, and forthwith began a
great lamentation, thinking that their wives and families were to be
sent away without them. When the little procession started down the
street toward the landing—the old grandmother and the two littlest
children perched on the wagon-load, the wives and other children walking
beside in attitudes that proclaimed their tears—the good fellows became
so excited as to trouble our company.
“Chut, men!” cried Marc, in a tone of sharp command. “Are you become
women all at once? There will be no separation of families this time,
when there is but one ship and no room for mistakes. The guards yonder
will be calling for you presently, never fear.”
This quieted them; for my cousin had a convincing way with him, and they
accounted his wisdom something beyond natural.
Then there came by two more wagons, and another sorrowful procession,
appearing from the direction of the Habitants; and the word “Le
Marchands” went muttering through the prison. Le Marchand settlement was
moving to the ship—and even now a cloud of black smoke, with red tongues
visible on the morning air, showed us what would befall the houses of
Grand Pré when the folk of Grand Pré should be gone.
The Le Marchand men made no sign, save to glower under their brows and
grip the window sashes with tense fingers. They were of different stuff
from the Le Boutilliers, these black Le Marchands. They set their teeth
hard, and waited.
So it went on through the morning, one man after another seeing his
family led away to the ship—his family and some scant portion of his
goods; and thus we came to know what men among us were like to be called
forth on this voyage.
Presently the big door was thrown open, and all faces flashed about to
the new interest. Outside stood a double red line of English soldiers.
An officer—the round-faced Colonel Winslow himself—stepped in, a scroll
of paper curling in his hand. In a precise and something pompous voice
he read aloud the names of those to go. The Le Marchands were first on
the roll; then the Le Boutilliers, Ba’tiste Chouan, Jean and Tamin
Masson, and a long list that promised to thin our crowded benches by
one-third. But I was left among the unsummoned; and my cousin Marc, and
long Philibert Trou, and the wily fox La Mouche; and I saw Marc’s lips
compress with a significant satisfaction when he saw these two
remaining. Vaguely I thought—“He has a plan!” But thereafter, in my
gloom, I thought no more of it.
So these chosen ones marched off between their guards; and that
afternoon the ship went out on the ebb tide with a wind that carried
her, white-sailed, around the dark point of Blomidon. Grand Pré chapel
prison settled apathetically back to a deeper calm.