THE
ROMANCE
of
EVANGELINE
By
Finis
Fox
_____
DELORES
Edition
of the
EDWIN
CAREWE
Production.
UNITED
ARTISTS PICTURE
_____
Including
the Original Poem
EVANGELINE
A
TALE OF ACADIE
By
Henry
A.
L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
FOREWORD
The Editors, in planning this photo-play version of
Longfellow’s classic, decided to include in its pages, the original verse, on
which both the photo-play, directed by Edwin Carewe, and this new prose
version, written by Mr. Finis Fox, well known writer of the cinema world, were
based.
EVANGELINE, in its original form is firmly established in
the minds of a great part of the American people, being used as a text book in
many public school systems and having great distribution in the bookstores and
libraries, therefore needs no lengthy introduction.
While those acquainted with the original verse, may find
missing in this new version, the lilting rhythm and beauty of the metered
lines, they will be repaid in this new telling with infinitely more detail and
incident than can be found in the poetry, and without too much digression from
Longfellow’s story.
By using the original text as a reference for the prose
and the prose text as a reference for the verse, we believe that the lovers of
Longfellow’s Tale of Acadie will best appreciate both versions.
THE ROMANCE OF
EVANGELINE
CHAPTER
I
THE LAND OF ACADIE
The last days of August had come to
the gently sloping valleys of
Quail called from the stubble. In the apple orchards, the droning of bees
and the soft murmuring of the branches stirring gently in the cool,
invigorating wind, fresh from the long reaches of the sea, broke the stillness
of noonday. Inland, where the valleys
swelled away to hills, great, unbroken forests of pine and hemlock brooded dark
and forbidding, the chattering of squirrels and busy purring of an unseen
brook, splashing over moss-covered rocks in its headlong flight to the ocean,
awakening echoes that sounded and resounded eerily in the deep silence of the
woods.
To-day
a man, a boy only, picked his way across the fields. Wherever bush or tree offered a shady respite
from the sun, he stopped to refresh himself.
He was a tall, handsome youth, his dark eyes and softly curling hair as
black as midnight. He was Baptiste
Leblanc, the notary’s son, from Grand-Pré.
He was attired in his Sunday-best to-day, for this was no casual visit
that he was about. As he lingered in the
grateful shade of a wild-cherry tree, he carefully dusted the large silver
buckles that adorned his boots and adjusted for the twentieth time his lace
cuffs and tie.
From where he stood, he could see the white spire of the church in
Grand-Pré. He seemed to take courage
from it, and with renewed eagerness, climbed the hill toward a great, rambling
farmhouse.
A
sturdy house it was, firmly built with rafters of oak and great, hand-hewn
beams, surmounted on either end by huge chimneys of native stone that roared
out a mighty defiance in winter-time to the howling gales and relentless
blizzards of the Northland. It asked no
quarter from either wind or storm.
Pegged together and nailed down with hand-wrought nails made by Gabriel
Lajeunesse at his forge in Grand-Pré, the home of Benedict Bellefontaine had
stood for twenty years, watching the sea with one eye and guarding the valleys
of Acadie with the other.
The
muscle of men, and something of the stout heart of its master, had gone into
its making. With its huge barns and
houses for the fowl and livestock, it squatted
four-square like a feudal castle among its rich fields and heavily-laden
orchards.
It
seemed so secure, so unassailable, that unconsciously Baptiste stayed his steps
as he neared it. Of a sudden, his
mission took on new significance and became a momentous undertaking. His hand trembled as he asked himself what
reason he had for hoping to find the heart of Evangeline Bellefontaine,
Benedict’s daughter, easier of conquest than this formidable house of which she
was mistress. Back in Grand-Pré, safe in
the snug shelter of his home, he had felt confident of himself, but now a
growing uneasiness gripped him, and he drew a bucket of water from the
moss-covered well at which he had stopped and quaffed it eagerly. Far afield, he could see the men, busy at their
work, and he raised his hand to shade his eyes, trying to discover if Benedict
was with his men.
He
fancied he saw him, standing beside a broad-wheeled wain, and he heaved a sigh
of relief. Surely the fortress could be
easier attacked with the master away.
Squaring his shoulders with new determination, he quickly passed the
sheep fold and found a winding path, lined with hollyhocks and sun-flowers, that wound past quaint dove côtes, and into the
yard.
The
doves quit cooing as he passed, and Baptiste glanced up at them nervously and
fancied they looked down disapprovingly at him.
For a moment, he was at the point of fleeing unceremoniously. Courage came to him, however, and his mouth
straightened bravely.
“No,”
he murmured, “I will not go, I shall ask her if it
kills me!”
It
was so peaceful and quiet beneath the old sycamore, whose spreading branches
formed a leafy canopy over the thatched roof and dormer windows that his voice
boomed in his ears, and he looked about quickly to see if he had been
observed. Then, strangely, enough, he
smiled at his own fears. He had been
there so often, and always so kindly received that his
present anxiety suddenly became something to be ashamed of. His eyes roamed from the old door with its
heavy knocker and iron hinges, rusted now by snow and rain, to the beehives
under the sycamore, overhung with a penthouse such as one sees over roadside
shrines of the Blessed Virgin in remote parts of
Truly
it was far from being a forbidding aspect.
And yet, thought Baptiste, how infinitely less lovely than she who dwelt
here. To win her, to claim her hand, that indeed were heaven.
He crossed himself, as though enlisting the aid of the Almighty in his
behalf. Fear was behind him now. What could life ask of him that he would not
dare for her?
Uplifted and ennobled by his great love for
Evangeline, he raised the knocker and let it clang bravely. Breathlessly he waited for the door to open,
and in his eagerness wondered which sounded the louder, the clanging of the
knocker or the beating of his heart.
Minutes
passed, and he received no answer. He
opened the door at last and stepped in, sweeping the room with his dark
eyes. He was about to call out when the
sharp, staccato pit-a-pat of quaint wooden shoes reached his ear from the
direction of the kitchen, furnishing an obbligato to the gay little melody
Evangeline hummed as she worked.
“It
is she!” Baptiste murmured, and he paused to listen as her voice rose in the
lilting strains of “En roulant ma boule.” The old folk-song swept him along with its
merry rhythm, and he caught himself keeping time as she sang:
“Derrière
chez nous, y a-t-un étang,
En
roulant ma boule.
Trois
beaux canards s’en vont baigant,
En
roulant ma boule,
Rouli,
Roulant, ma boule roulante,
En
roulant ma boule roulante,
En
roulant ma boule roulante.”
The
song stopped without warning and the sound of a crashing plate reached
Baptiste’s ears, followed a second later by a sharp “Mon Dieu!” A few moments and
the song was resumed.
Baptiste breathed easier and quietly crossed the living room, slipped by
the old grandfather clock and leaned against the open doorway of the
kitchen. Unseen, he feasted his eyes
upon Evangeline as she mixed a mass of batter in a huge copper bowl using a
spoon so cumbersome that it seemed out of all proportion to her dainty hands.
The
appetizing aroma of hot bread reached Baptiste’s nostrils, and he breathed
deeply as he saw the long, brown loaves that covered one end of the table. Benedict Bellefontaine was the wealthiest of
all the Acadian farmers, but still he toiled from dawn till dark, and it never
occurred to Evangeline that she shouldn’t do the same. There were many mouths to feed at this season
of the year, so she had been busy for hours.
But the bread-making was over.
The batter she was so busily mixing now was not intended ever to tickle
the palates of her father’s laborers.
Baptiste
had often seen her in church on Sunday mornings, demure in a Norman cap and
kirtle of blue, the fairest of all the maidens in the
He
was a thrifty lad, as one had to be in Acadie, and this well-ordered kitchen,
flanked with its groaning shelves of jellies and jams and other toothsome
sweets, laid away against the long winter so soon to come, doubly assured
Baptiste that Evangeline was an incomparable jewel among girls, whose equal was
not to be found in all Acadie.
A
sigh escaped his lips as he reluctantly reminded himself that he was only one
of may admiring youths who worshipped her as the saint
of his deepest devotion.
Guiltily,
he started from his romantic reverie and, in boyish embarrassment, called out
from the door, “Evangeline!”
His
cry startled her. The big spoon dropped
from her fingers. Then her dark eyes
flashed a welcome but as she recognized Baptiste, the eagerness died out of her
eyes. It was a though she had expected
to find another than René Leblanc’s son facing her.
An
unconscious sigh escaped her lips. There
was deep disappointment in it, and then, suddenly afraid that Baptiste might
read her secret, she turned for a quick glance at her oven. She was smiling gaily when she faced him
again and gave him a curtsy.
“It
is good to see you again, Baptiste,” she said simply, trying to make her words
glow with the warmth and hospitality always shown a guest in Acadie. She remarked his dress then, and sudden
apprehension gripped her. “What has
happened, Baptiste—your father?”
Baptiste
glanced down at his ruffles and silver buckles, and shook his head in growing
embarrassment. “My father is not sick;
it was not that that brought me.”
It
was not necessary for him to say more; Evangeline’s worst fears were
confirmed. She picked up her spoon
before Baptiste could get it for her, and bending over her mixing bowl stirred
the batter furiously to hid her own confusion.
“Sit
down, Baptiste,” she murmured, without looking up, and motioned to a stool in
the corner of the kitchen near a window-box, fragrant with late summer
flowers. “I will be finished soon. See, I am baking cookies as a surprise for .
. .” she hesitated for a moment, “a surprise for my father.”
With
open adoration, Baptiste’s eyes followed Evangeline as she chatted lightly with
him, rolled out the dough, cut the cookies into odd shapes, and slipped them
into the cavernous mouth of the huge oven.
Silently
he admired her ability to appear so casual, a gift he would have given anything
to possess at this moment. A studious
young man, preparing to follow the footsteps of his father, the honored notary
of Grand-Pré, Baptiste was more thoroughly versed in the intricacy of the law
than in the art of courtship.
Only
a short while ago he had crossed the meadows leading into Benedict
Bellefontaine’s yard, courageous of heart, with words of love fairly tumbling
from his lips. But now, in her presence,
he felt hopelessly lost. The glowing
phrases he had planned vanished into thin air, and only his eloquent eyes were
spokesmen for his ardor as they followed her about, enchanted by the willowy
suppleness of her figure, the graceful slope of her shoulders, her arms
tapering to delicate wrists, her slender throat above the rippling lace of her
collar, her eyes flashing beneath her long, drooping lashes.
His
silence became greater with the passing minutes. Evangeline tried for the tenth time to turn
the conversation into easier channels.
“Do
you think I will make a good cook?” she challenged gaily, as she bent over the
oven to peek at her cookies, turning a crisp, golden brown.
“Perhaps,
you are practicing to be a good wife?”
Baptiste tried to speak in jest, but the tremor in his voice betrayed
the secret thought that lay near his heart.
Evangeline
glanced up quickly. With a woman’s
unerring intuition, she sensed that Baptiste would say what he had come to say,
and that he would not be turned from the purpose of his visit, so she pretended
an efficient industry, finding innumerable, fanciful little things about the
kitchen that demanded her immediate attention, pleased that he should want her,
and yet distressed because she must refuse him.
Persistently
Baptiste followed her about, not certain in his own mind whether she was
encouraging him or trying to avoid him.
Busily she fluttered to a high shelf to put away some spices. As she reached up to replace the canister, Baptiste
caught her hand and tried to draw her to him.
Nervously she looked about for some plausible escape. Then she sniffed suspiciously.
“Oh,
Baptiste! The cookies!” She
dashed to the oven and, with her apron, lifted the pan just in time to save
them from burning…and to save herself from an equally difficult situation.
Instantly
Baptiste was at her side, whiffing the delicious aromas that permeated the
kitchen. “They are perfect!” he exclaimed, “even
as . .
.” Evangeline, afraid to have him
go on, caught up a big pewter pitcher and tripped over to the window boxes to
water her flowers.
The
afternoon sun, streaming through the latticed windows, glinted fitfully on her
raven hair, parted in the middle and lying close to her head, a wealth of it
falling over her shoulders in two lustrous braids. In the olive complexion of her face, the
exquisite arch of her eyebrows, the vivacious cure of her mouth, the sparkling
pools in her eyes, her French ancestry was vividly etched.
Baptiste
followed her. He found his tongue at
last.
“Evangeline,
I have always loved you . . .”
At
the sound of his abrupt declaration, Evangeline turned from her flowers and
gazed at him. There was a unuttered fervency and longing in his vibrant voice. It was not what he had said. Other youths in the village had vowed their
love in more eloquent terms;
but there was such an air of dependence and desperation in his
simple declaration that Evangeline was convinced of the futility of further
pursuing an evasive course. She liked
this handsome son of René Leblanc, and admired him. She knew that his love was sincere, and she
did not wish to hurt him.
“You’ re my life, Evangeline!
I worship you. I adore you.” His words now came thick and fast. His hands clasped hers, and he bent over her,
his eyes searching eagerly for a responsive answer.
Evangeline
could not answer at once. It grew very
quiet in the old farm-house. Second
after second slipped away, forging its own
answer. Baptiste’s face became haggard
looking. In his heart he knew he had
lost.
“But
Evangeline .
. .” he began.
“I
am sorry, Baptiste,” she stopped him before he could pour out the full yearning
of his intense love for her, “but there is room in my heart for only one love.”
She
paused for a moment. Baptiste’s lips
curled in a tragic attempt to smile.
“And
that is for another .
. .”
A
dark shadow spread over Baptiste’s face.
His eyes moistened with tears.
Vainly he tried to fight them back.
He felt her hand touch his with an indefinable gentleness, an innate
tenderness that had healed the wounds of other rejected suitors and made
friends of them for life.
The
room became close, hot, stifling. The
spinning wheel near the fireplace, the long row of copper pots, the antique
chairs and huge carved table, swam before him.
“I—I
wish you happiness, Evangeline . . .always,” he
stammered briefly with choking voice.
Then he slowly turned and stalked blindly from the room.
Wistfully,
Evangeline followed him with misty eyes as he passed down the path that lead to the stile.
In her heart surged a poignant pity that she could not return his
love. In her ears lingered his
stammered, unselfish words:
“I
wish you happiness, Evangeline . . .always!”
CHAPTER II
“IT IS GABRIEL!”
The
long afternoon had worn away. Up in her
attic bedroom, quaintly furnished and overhung with a low beamed ceiling,
Evangeline arose from her spinning wheel and darted to a dormer window
overlooking the sea. Pulling aside the
dimity curtains, she
peered out and scanned the horizon. A
shadow of disappointment crossed her face.
With a petulant pout and a shrug of her shoulders, she returned to her
work, absently humming snatches of gay little songs as her foot worked the
treadle and her hands dexterously handled the distaff. Restless, eyes aglow with expectancy, she was
soon at the window again.
At
last a sail, small and indistinct in the hazy distance, rewarded her and
brought a radiant flush to her cheeks.
Quickly she dashed to her mirror to tuck a few stray curls under her
cap.
“It’s
Gabriel!” she murmured, and then, arrested by her excitement, she sighed, “Help
me, Holy Mother of God! I never knew
love could be like this.”
She
kicked off her wooden sabots and sent them flying over the winding
staircase. The wooden shoes sailed into
the great living-room and miraculously missed the hoary head of her father as
he entered the house. Startled out of
his reverie by this unceremonious reception, Benedict drew back and glanced up
just in time to see Evangeline scurrying into her room. He smiled to himself, and to confirm his
thought, he stepped to the door and swept the sea with his eyes. He saw the small fishing smack that had so
excited his daughter. He nodded as he
glimpsed it. “Gabriel,” he mused,
apparently well pleased that it should be the son of Basil, the smith of
Grand-Pré, whose coming brought the color of roses to his daughter’s cheeks.
There
was a bond between these two fathers that harked back to the days of their
youth, when these very acres, that now were ripe with grain, had stood under water,
where the tides played at will. In that
day, Grand-Pré had been only a huddle of huts, made of straw and rushes. The pinch of poverty was on everyone.
Many
had laughed when Benedict Bellefontaine had first suggested the building of a
dike to keep out the restless tides of the Basin of Minas and reclaim that vast
swamp, green and lush to the eye, but knee-deep in water.
Basil,
the blacksmith, had not laughed. He was
a might man, even then, wide of girth and with the arm of a giant. Together they had flounder around belly-deep
in the water, planning their dike that was to made
Acadie a land of plenty.
They
had little to work with. The tools and
necessities of the mason were missing, so they had recourse to nothing better
than crude aboteaux of trees and
brush. They made great baskets of
willows, towed them where they were needed and filled them with stones until
they rested on the bottom of the sea.
Other baskets were placed on top of them. Clay was tamped down into the crevices.
Gradually
the dike took form. The scoffers were
routed. Night and day men watched that
dike of mud for the tiniest opening. The
sea gave up grudgingly, trying their patience sore. Then it was that Benedict had solved the
riddle of making bricks.
Father
Felician, the cure, had called them together on the sand and gave thanks to God
for this direct manifestation of His divine approval.
The
dike was faced with bricks. The flood
gates were made, and the sea was tamed at last.
Slowly the water drained away.
Basil tempered a ploughshare, and the first furrow was turned up. The soil was black and rich.
Benedict
nodded to himself as he recalled that day.
The promise of that furrow of fine black loam had been fulfilled. All morning long he had ridden through golden
fields where his harvesters were reaping the crops, over green meadows where
his cattle grazed by the hundred, over grassy hillsides where shepherds watched
his flocks. And every
inch of it had been won from the sea, bringing prosperity and plenty not only
to him but to the whole vale of the Gaspereau. And Basil’s heart and hand were in it, even
as were his own.
And
now what greater blessing to either than that the son of one should take to
wife the motherless daughter of the other?
Benedict
wiped a tear from his eye as he turned from the window. He had hardly regained his usual composure
when Evangeline sailed down the stairs, her feet encased in dainty black
slippers.
She
flashed him a smile, and waving a blithe farewell, tried to slip out of the
door. Benedict caught her and drew her
into his arms.
“I’m
in a great hurry, father,” Evangeline pleaded.
“Yes?” he teased. “Where is it you go in such haste? Is some one ill, my child? But no!
That would not account for the roses in your cheeks.”
Evangeline
snuggled close to him and with her face buried on his bosom, whispered, “Gabriel—he is
coming home.”
Benedict
held her off at arm’s length and smiled tenderly at her. “So, it’s Gabriel, eh? Well—run along—and bring him home with you!”
Evangeline
was gone on the instant, crossing the yard at a bound.
Hurriedly
she ran over the stile and down the path toward the sea, he heart beating in
wild excitement. Suddenly she sighted
white-haired Father Felician, the curé of the parish, coming up from the
village, a spiritual figure in his ministerial robes of black and crucifix of
shining silver. He waved to her. “I’ll surely be late,” she protested. But she dared not go on without stopping for
Father Felician’s blessing.
She
hesitated indecisively, glancing uncertainly down toward the sea, then back to
the cure as he smiled a benign greeting.
Quickly she ran forward and dropped on her knees before him.
“Bless
me, Father . . . quick!” she breathlessly exclaimed as she cast down her eyes
and bent her head in reverence.
Bewildered,
the old priest looked down at the kneeling girl. No sooner had he blessed her than she was up
and away. He watched her as she dashed
toward the shore, unable to understand the reason for her strange conduct—and
thinking something was surely amiss, started to follow her.
Nearing
the rocky caverns of the
Clinging
to the mast was a stalwart youth of heroic mold and romantic mood, his chestnut
hair flying in the wind, his handsome face tanned by the sun and salt air, his
voice rich and sonorous as a rollicking French melody fell from his lips.
High
on a cliff he
sighted Evangeline, her skirts flirting in the capricious breeze, her kerchief
waving a frantic welcome.
Joyously
he raised his voice and sang to her above the roar of the surf and the crashing
of the waves on the crags. Then,
oblivious of danger, with the impetuosity of youth, he shouted to the man at
the tiller to steer straight for the shore, and as the surge of the sea brought
the boat close to the rocks, he leapt from the tossing craft and climbed the
cliff.
“Evangeline,
my beloved!” he shouted as he reached her side and drew her into his
outstretched arms. Her lissome body
quivered in his embrace. Then she lifted
her eyes to his and murmured, “Gabriel! You have come back!”
For
an indulgent instant her lips lingered on his.
Below them the waves crashed against the jutting rocks; about them the
sea-gulls winged in majestic flight and, far across the
From
a distance Father Felician looked on, smiled and understood. And as he walked away toward the house of
Benedict he fondly recalled the swift passage of years since he had taught
Evangeline and Gabriel their letters out of the same book, with the hymns and
the plain-song. And how, when the daily
lesson was completed, he had watched them as they hurried away to the forge of
Gabriel’s father to stand at the door and watch, with wondering eyes, the
sparks fly and see him take in his leather lap the hoof of a horse and, with a
few deft blows of his hammer,
nail the shoe into place.
Smilingly he remembered how they had climbed to the nests in the rafters
of the barns, seeking that wondrous stone which the swallow brings to her nest
from the shore to restore the sight of her fledglings. Now they were no longer children. Gabriel was a valiant youth with a face of
the morning, and she was a woman with the heart and hopes of a woman.
Now
that they were together again, Gabriel and Evangeline found small need of
words.
“Only
three days have I been gone,” he broke the romantic silence as Evangeline
nestled in the shelter of his arms, “but it seemed an eternity without
you. All day long the waves whispered
your name, and at night the stars spelled it in twinkling letters.”
He
drew her closer to him. His lips swept
her hair. She closed he eyes for a
moment, pressing her face against his.
Then she leaned back in his arms, bewitching and beguiling.
“Never
have I seen you look so beautiful,” he whispered, “never have I loved you more
deeply.”
She
had waited for this moment, but now its overpowering sweetness frightened
her. In a roguish whim, no daring to
trust herself further, she uplifted her nose with her forefinger and saucily
taunted, “But you wouldn’t love me if I looked like this, would you, Gabriel?”
Still
teasing, she pushed her nose into another grotesque effect and repeated her
saucy question.
Mischievously,
Gabriel flattened his nose into the most ludicrous position. “Why, I’d love you, Evangeline, even if you
looked like this!”
They
laughed together, happy, carefree.
From
the distant belfry of the rustic church in the village peeled the chimes of the
angelus. The church was a symbol of the
simple faith and devout lives of the Acadians.
For years they had dwelt in homes of peace and contentment, with neither
locks to their doors nor bars to their windows.
A happy, industrious people, clinging to the quaint customs and dress of
their native
As
the chimes of the angelus stole softly through the pastoral peach of the
village, columns of pale blue smoke, like clouds of incense, rose from a
hundred hearths, and the toilers ceased their labors in the fields, the
shepherds returned with their flocks, and the wains, laden with briney hay,
rambled homeward from the marshes.
Day
with its burden and heat departed, and the twilight brought back the evening
star to the sky. The air was filled with
a dreamy, magical light and the restless heart of the ocean was consoled for a
moment.
Far
out on the cliff, the silvery tones of the angelus bells were wafted to the
lovers. Solemnly they faced each other
with a spiritual glow in their radiant faces, and blessed themselves, while
from the rocky caverns below the deep-voiced neighboring ocean crooned its
benediction.
The
boat from which Gabriel had swung ashore could be seen beating along the cliffs
toward the village. It served to recall
Gabriel to the more prosaic side of his calling.
“I
must go. Francois will need me for the
unloading,” he explained. Evangeline
nodded.
“But
you will come to-night, with your father?”
“Yes!—and
we will let them have the house to themselves, for René Leblanc, the notary,
may be there, too!”
“Oh,
they’re going to discuss the marriage contract, Gabriel?”
“Of
course! As though we cared for that.
As long as I have you, and you have me, what else matters, Evangeline?”
“Nothing,”
she whispered.
He
crushed her in his arms and then was gone.
For a moment, Evangeline stood watching him as he leapt from crag to
crag, and then she turned and hurried across the meadows, knowing the men would
be waiting for supper.
CHAPTER
III
RENÉ,
THE NOTARY, SPEAKS
That
evening as the stars blossomed in the infinite meadows of heaven, Evangeline
lighted the candles on the mantle. In
pensive, abstracted mood, she might have been a painting of the Madonna,
strayed from a gilded frame, so divinely chiseled were her features in the pale
yellow light.
Her
father sat in his comfortable chair regarding her tenderly. He was a stalwart man of seventy winters,
hearty and hale, his hair graying like a sturdy oak
covered with snowflakes. Dreamily he
watched the flames make smoke wreaths in the fireplace, the shadows nodding and
mocking along the walls in fantastic gestures and dancing in reflected glow
from the pewter plates on the sideboard.
“Why
are you sad, my child?” Benedict asked,
stroking her lustrous hair as she sank on her knees at his feet. “There should be nothing in your heart but
joy, for to-night René Leblanc comes with your marriage contract.”
As
he spoke, tears welled up in Evangeline’s eyes.
“It saddens me to think of leaving you, father,” she answered
tremulously. “How will you get along
without me!”
Benedict
turned his face away with a pathetic effort to hid his
own deep emotion. “I shall never be
alone, my child, while I have memories of you and of your dear mother, asleep
in the churchyard.”
Childlike,
Evangeline crawled up into his lap and buried her head on his shoulder,
saddened by her father’s mention of her dead mother who had been only a tender
memory for many years.
“You
will not love me less, father, because I am to leave you for Gabriel?”
Benedict
looked down into her troubled face and gave her a reassuring smile, trying to
be gay despite the heaviness in his heart.
“I shall see you every day,” he exclaimed, unable to hide the quiver in
his voice, “and I shall share in your happiness with Gabriel. This old place will still be home to you,
little one.”
Evangeline
kissed him affectionately, her eyes gleaming with tears, her heart clutched
with that indefinable loneliness of a motherless girl as her wedding day
approaches. Surreptitiously Benedict
brushed away a tear and enfolded her in his arms.
Thus
they sat for some time in the flickering light of the crackling logs, musing,
silent, closer to each other than they had been for
many days. From the walls the painted
likenesses of their Norman ancestors smiled down upon them.
Youth
and old age.
Youth filled with the dreams of romance; age with tender memories. Youth looking forward to future; age backward
at the past. Youth
with radiant face toward the sunrise; age with misty eyes toward the sunset.
The
clang of the iron knocker on the door broke the tender, understanding
silence. Benedict knew from the
hob-nailed boots on the steps that it was Basil, the blacksmith, and by the
wild beating of heart, Evangeline knew Gabriel was with him.
“Welcome,
Basil, my friend!” Benedict rose from
his chair by the fire as father and son crossed the threshold. “Come, take your place by the chimney-side .
. . it always seems empty without you.”
The
jovial face of the blacksmith, honored of all men in Grand-Pré, beamed with
honest delight beneath his rugged beard at his friend’s hearty welcome, and he
roared out a greeting in return that set the shadows to dancing.
“My,
but you are at your ease here, Benedict!” he exclaimed, glancing around and
finding abundant evidence to sustain his observation, both as a man of means
and a good eater.
Evangeline
curtsied to him, and Basil opened wide his arms and gathered her in like a huge
bear. Over his shoulder she saw Gabriel,
his eyes beaming with love.
“He
can wait,” Basil laughed, hugging her tightly.
“What a precious girl you are, Evangeline. Your father will miss you. But he had had you too long already. From now on you shall belong to both of
us.” He lifted her clear off the floor
as though she were a babe and stood regarding her as she squirmed and teased to
be put down.
“Only
a few years ago I could hold you in one hand—and many is the time I’ve done
it. And now you are a woman! Ha!
Ha!” He put her down and turned
to Benedict. “You would not find her
like in all Normandie, I tell you. With
such a daughter you are indeed a lucky man.”
“And
you with such a son,” Benedict countered.
“Yes,
Gabriel is a good boy,” his father admitted.
He turned and beamed upon the two lovers, shy and bashful in the
presence of their fathers.
“And
with such a wife,” Basil glanced significantly at Gabriel, “what man could fail
to appreciate his good fortune?”
From
the mantle Evangeline brought two long clay pipes to Basil and her father. She filled them with tobacco and lighted them
with a coal from the embers.
Another
knock at the door announced René Leblanc, the respected notary, an aged man
bent like a laboring oar that toils in the surf of the ocean. Over his shoulders hung shocks of silken
yellow hair and astride his nose rode spectacles with heavy horn bows, giving
him a look of paternal wisdom. Father of
twenty children and more than one hundred grand-children, he was a figure loved
and revered by all who knew him.
He
greeted them warmly, although it had suited him better were the mission on
which he had come concerned his own son.
The night had turned cool, and he approached the fire and held out his
thin hands gratefully to the blazing logs.
“Another
pipe for the notary,” Benedict exclaimed.
It was forthcoming immediately.
Evangeline’s hand trembled as she lighted the pipe for René. He caught her fingers and squeezed them
tenderly, and dismissed her with a smile.
Gabriel
caught her eye as she came back to the table, and silently they stole from the
house, leaving their elders to discuss the news of the parish before settling
down to the details of the marriage settlement.
The
three men smoked in silence for a time.
It was René Leblanc who broke the silence.
“Has
Basil spoken to you about Landray?”
“Not
yet,” Basil answered for himself. He
turned to Benedict. “You remember that
Landray who was in Grand-Pré in the Spring? He excited my suspicions with his questions
even then.”
“I
remember him well,” Benedict replied. “He
was here to see me. This afternoon,
Father Felician came up from the village.
He told me this tale of Landray being a secret agent from
“Nor
I,” René agreed. “But times have
changed. Year after year the sloops from
“Why
shouldn’t there be?” Basil exclaimed
hotly. “This land and its fishing
grounds are ours. The Gaspereau was a
wilderness until the Sieur DeRazilly came.”
“True
enough, my friend,” Benedict agreed, “but his dreams of a
“You
state the case fairly, Benedict,” René muttered. “We like to style ourselves Neutrals—and in
truth we have no quarrel with his Majesty, the King—but in times of strife,
neutrals have no rights. We are Papists,
with a Protestant governor—and because we have been allowed to live unmolested
for two-score years on British soil is no guarantee for the future.”
“I
know how you feel,” Basil retorted rather sharply. “Every time we have been urged to sign this
new oath of allegiance you have leaned more and more in favor of it. You know as well as I what the oath
implies. In so many words you swear to
bear arms against the enemies of the Crown—and that means
“It
is not fair to ask that of us,” Benedict agreed weightily. “There are human rights that transcend a
court of law. In the eyes of the
almighty what we have is rightfully ours, and neither taxes nor privation shall
ever rob us of it. But come, we
assembled here to-night for a pleasanter business than this. Where are your papers, René?”
From
his capacious pockets René drew out his parchment and inkhorn. Benedict lighted the brazen lamp on the
table, and in quick order the signatures of Benedict and Basil were affixed to
the document, naming the generous dower of the bride in flocks of sheep, in
cattle and in chests of silver, fine linens, and rare laces, brought over from
Normandy in olden times and handed down from generation to generation as
precious heirlooms.
Affixing
the great seal of the law to the contract, the old notary rose with dignity
from the table and lifted aloft a tankard of ale and, with Basil and Benedict,
drank to the happiness and welfare of Evangeline and Gabriel.
“May
no shadow of sorrow fall on this house or hearth,” he said solemnly as he took
his leave.
“He’s
in a gloomy mood to-night,” Basil declared as he stared at the door though which René had
departed.
Benedict
nodded shrewdly, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.
“The
reason is not hard to find,” he chuckled.
“Baptiste was here to-day pleading his own cause.”
“So—?”
Basil questioned. “I’m sorry I was so
short with René.”
For
a few moments they sat and mused in silence.
Then Benedict brought the checker board from its corner and placed it on
Basil’s knees. The two old friends drew
up their chairs and started to play, laughing in friendly contention when a man
was crowned or a break made in the king row.
At
last Basil’s head began to nod drowsily, and tired out with the toil of the
day, he dozed as Benedict smiled and picked up the tumbling checkers. Getting to his feet, Evangeline’s father
walked to the door and threw it open, looking for the truant lovers. The sinister foreboding of René Leblanc’s
words had not been erased from his heart, and as he stared at the sea his eyes
wore a troubled look.
Far
off he caught a glimpse of Gabriel and Evangeline as they wandered, hand in
had, beneath the trees.
Over
the water a loon called. Quick to ward
off its superstitious ill-omen, he crossed himself and raised his eyes to
heaven.
“Let there be only happiness
for her,” he pleaded aloud.
CHAPTER
IV
“MY
LIFE I PLEDGE TO THEE—“
It grew late, but the
wandering lovers were oblivious to the passing of time. The night was still, save for the shrill cry
of the curfews, winging over the silvery strands of the beach. A mantle of peace lay on the sleeping world;
the Bay of Fundy, that stretched westward until lost in the hazy horizon, was
calm; the little
Slowly they walked along a path that rambled through the
wildwood, among fallen trees and scented bushes, until at last they reached a
woodland stream. Through the tall
branches of the murmuring pines the moon’s rays fell upon their shadowy
forms. At their feet the splashing water
gleamed with reflected light as it rushed onward over rocks and ferns to the
sea.
“Give me your hand,” said Gabriel as he stepped across
the water, “and repeat after me the words of an old love pledge, not as solemn
perhaps, but more beautiful even than our marriage contract.”
Willingly Evangeline extended her hand and looked into
his face, her eyes suddenly grown serious under the charm of his voice and the
spell of the night.
“Over running water, my heart I give to thee. . . .”
He paused and listened.
The sound of her voice came to him scarcely above a whisper.
“Over running water, my life I pledge to thee. . . .”
Tremulously she repeated the words.
My love shall never forsake thee . . . as long as water
runs.”
As the final words fell from Evangeline’s lips, Gabriel
leaped across the stream and caught her in close embrace. He drew forward to kiss her. She leaned back in his arms, provocative,
perverse, a little afraid. Through her
brain whirled the events of the night—the signing of the marriage contract, the
solemn vows of love. She had given her heart,
she had pledged her life, to the man she loved; and yet a strange fear lurked
in her breast, sinister and startling.
A shadow of sorrow passed over her,
and before her loomed a premonition of tragedy, dark and ominous. A wild look came into her eyes. Then she heard Gabriel’s voice . . . “As long
as water runs.” It soothed her troubled
heart, dispelled doubt and misgiving and gave her a feeling of sweet
reassurance. In hushed ecstasy her lips
met his and lingered in a kiss, holy and spiritual.
Then he picked her up and carried her to a tree that lay
half hidden in the shadows. Carefully he
laid her down on the dry leaves, and she allowed him to cradle her pliant,
yielding body in his arms, to caress the silken sheen of her hair, to take her
hands and kiss the tapering fingers, to press the warm palms to his lips, while
his eyes spoke words of lover his tongue was unable to utter.
They were alone under the stars; and they were young, and
life and love were before them. The
world was shut out and forgotten. Why
should there be any cruel gray dawn? Why
could not the moonlight linger forever?
An overwhelming happiness swept over Evangeline, a joy
indefinable. She threw back her head and
from her full lips fell the haunting, plaintive strains of an old peasant song.
It was “L’hirondelle”—the song of the swallow, the messenger
of love.
As she sang, her voice filtering away through the dark
aisles of the forest, Gabriel laid his head dreamily in her lap and listened in
reverent silence.
With soft, clinging fingers she caressed his hair until,
lulled by the melody of her voice, he dropped into slumber. Slowly the words died in her throat and she
sat for some time gazing at him with infinite wonder. Then she leaned over and kissed his
unconscious lips.
How long he slept she never knew, for the moments sped
away uncounted and her heart was filled with the dreams and fears of
youth. The first faint streaks of pink
were appearing in the eastern sky when he awakened.
“You are cold, Evangeline! He exclaimed contritely. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
“I was far too happy, Gabriel, just to have you
near. As I sat here, I saw my whole life
spread out before me as in a dream. And there were things I couldn’t
understand. It frightened me.”
“Don’t let any cloud mar our happiness,” Gabriel
pleaded. “Dreams are only dreams. As for the sea—if that was it—I shall give it
up when we are married.”
“It was not the sea, Gabriel. There were rivers, lakes and strange
cities. I seemed to be looking for
you—and never finding you.”
Gabriel grasped her in his arms and coaxed a smile to her
lips.
“Don’t let these idle musings distress you, dear. Let us live and be gay while we may. Come!
Dawn is breaking. Your father
will think I have not waited for the curé’s permission to take you away.”
Through the tangled path in the woods he led her out on
the cliff overlooking the sea. Together
they walked in silence. There was no
need for speaking; it was enough to watch the spreading dawn, to see the tall
spire of the village church, outlined in the vanishing darkness, and know that
in the stilled street, lined with sturdy houses made with frames of oak and
hemlock, such as the peasants of Normandy built in the reign of the Henries,
the world still slumbered.
As they stood on the cliff, drinking in the sweet
fragrance of the dawn, Evangeline saw Gabriel’s eyes cloud, and she stared with
him across the Basin where a small pinnace beat rapidly toward the bay.
“What is it, Gabriel?” she exclaimed.
“That is not one of our boats,” he answered sternly. “I can tell by the cut of her sails. The cod are running, and these English sail
in under our very noses to fish for them.
It is not the first time they have done it!”
“Surely there is room for all—“
“Yes, and why then do they come here but to goad us on to
some indiscretion that will bring the disfavor of the Governor down upon
us? I tell you they come by design,
Evangeline! Are we craven cowards, that
we must accept every indignity without even daring to draw steel in our own
defense?”
“Please, Gabriel,” Evangeline smiled maternally. “Don’t excite yourself. I know you are brave and would brook no
slight. But this is a time for prudence
as well as valor.”
Gabriel heaved a sigh of resignation as he turned away
from the sea. “You are always right,”
said he. “But only fools can dare to
hope that such things as this will not lead to trouble. It may be years away—and it may be
to-morrow. But it must come!”
His mood chilled Evangeline, and to throw it of, she
chided him good-naturedly.
“So! You scoffed
at my dreams and warned me to leave the future to itself, and yet you now
pretend to fathom it and find only ill-omens.”
Gabriel had to laugh.
“Forgive me,” he smiled.
With reluctant footsteps they left the cliff behind and
crossed over the stile into the yard.
She stopped at the door and took his head in her hands and kissed him
lightly. When she looked up there were
tears in her eyes, and she gave way to a little happy, hysterical crying.
“Good-by, Gabriel,” she whispered.
For answer he drew her close to him, not yet ready to say
farewell. The cooing of the doves
finally brought home a realization of the hour.
“Go, Gabriel,” she smiled.
He nodded, and when she had given him his last kiss,
Evangeline stole into the quiet house.
Gabriel waited until he saw a light appear in her attic
bedroom, and the flutter of a white handkerchief in final farewell at the
window. Silently he turned and walked
back to Grand-Pré, like one in a dream.
CHAPTER
V
“IN
THE NAME OF THE KING!”
The indolent charm of a cloudless summer morning
enveloped Grand-Pré as the warm rays of the sun swept over the bound-less
meadows, alive with grazing cattle, and glinted through the heavily-laden
branches of the apple-trees in the orchards that dotted the floor of the
valley. In the harbor, the sun gilded
the sails of the fishing smacks that lay in the peaceful coves and turned them
to gold.
Above the village,
In the village itself the noisy weather-cock, that had
long since hailed the new day, was still, but columns of smoke rose from a
hundred chimney tops. Shutters were
flung wide to welcome the fresh morning air, and from the clean-smelling depths
of the houses came the humming of the looms and the sound of women’s voices,
rising pleasantly above the busy whirring of the shuttles.
Basil was at his forge, and the deep clanging of his
hammer as it bit into the white-hot iron was echoed by the noisy creaking of
the cart wheels as the loaded wains rumbled up and down the winding street.
In such idyllic peach had Grand-Pré droned through a
thousand mornings, its farmers prospering by their industry and ingenuity,
content to live aloof from the world, untouched by the flame of conquest.
Misery and poverty were unknown. If one suffered misfortune, it was the
concern of all. There was a neighborly
kindliness in their lives. Were it the raising of a barn, or the building of a house, a
dozen hands were always ready to assist.
An in those sad hours, when the eyes of a loved one were closing for the
last time, it needed only the presence of Father Felician to assure the living
that the departed had found a safe and easy path to the favor of the Almighty.
He was a spare little man, his hair whiter than snow and
his weather-beaten face the color of copper.
Neither the storms of winter, the deep snows nor the
angry waves of the ocean could hold him back when he came with the host
to give the last sacrament to the dying.
With sublime assurance he covered the long miles through deep forests,
over roads that were less than trails, making light of hunger and danger from
wild beasts and marauding Indians.
For three-score years he had welcomed these Acadians at
baptism, seen them blossom into manhood and womanhood only to marry them, and
at last, to bid them farewell and usher them into that precious kingdom of God
which was the common heritage of all.
Every day he had abundant proof of the fruit that
flowered and matured in the vineyard in which he had toiled so long. The kindliness and simple honesty that he
found everywhere; their dependence in the Church and their deep devotion to
their God was a far greater reward, he often said, than he had ever hoped to
claim.
Where he walked, the children could be found, trooping at
his heels. Young lovers came to him with
their secrets, and found in his quick sympathy, a man as well as a priest.
This morning as he came from the church, Cleophas Villon,
a boy of fifteen, ran to his side and excitedly pointed in the direction of the
cove in which the fishing smacks were riding at anchor.
“That pinnace is an English boat,” said Cleophas.
Father Felician was immediately interested. Even as he watched, he saw the red coats of
four British soldiers.
“What misfortune comes now?” he questioned aloud. Without further ado, he strode off in the
direction of the beach, but even before he reached it, the soldiers ran the
yawl up on the sand, and falling into double file, marched boldly up the
street, a young officer at their head.
The news of the soldiers’ coming had been quickly
communicated about Grand-Pré, and such men as were not in the fields drew close
to hear the meaning of this expedition.
They had not long to wait. As the little troop came abreast of Father
Felician, the aged priest raised his hand to interrogate the officer in
charge.
“May I ask the purpose of this visit?” he inquired.
“Make way in the name of his Majesty the King!” answered
the soldier.
Straight for the well in the public square the column
headed. There they halted, beside the
huge bell hanging over the well.
“Send for Leblanc, the notary,” the officer commanded.
“I am here,” René answered for himself, elbowing his way
though rough the crowd. “What is wanted
of me?”
“You are Leblanc, the notary, and prefect of the
“I am,” replied
René.
“Very well! I hand you this proclamation fro His
Excellency, the Governor-General. Have
it posted at once!”
With trembling hands René took the proclamation and
unrolled it. The growing crowd pressed
too close and the soldiers forced them back at the point of the bayonet. They were at the point of offering a like
indignity to Father Felician when the officer stopped them.
“What does it say?” the priest asked.
“The notary will put it up on the board and all may
read,” the red-coat ordered.
A gasp of surprise and bitterness rose from the crowd as
René fastened the notice to the bulletin board.
“Hear ye, men of Grand-Pré,” the
Englishman began, reading the notice aloud.
“You are hereby commanded to take oath of allegiance to his Majesty, the
King of England, pledging yourselves and your fortunes to the Crown in the
present war with
The crowd groaned as they heard him out. He reached for the bell, unmindful of their
disapproval, and rang it loudly. His
mission fulfilled, the officer gave a command and the guard marched away to
embark for
“No good can come of it,” said he. “Let us not provoke violence.”
For many years the huge gong hanging over the well in the
public square, placed there to spread alarms among the villagers, had lain
idle. But now as its huge rusty tongue,
like that of a gossiping old woman eager to spread tidings of evil, wagged back
and forth, it broke the peaceful tranquility of the morning. And as the raucous
sound echoed far out through the valley, chilling and forbidding, a sudden wind
sprang up from the southeast—a wind which pushed before it masses of
slate-colored clouds that appeared as if by magic from the clear horizon and
cast an ashen pall over the country-side.
Cold fear smote the hearts of the people. Even the little children, playing in the
streets, ran whimpering to their mothers, intuitively sensing danger lurking in
the pealing of the rusty old bell.
Quickly the housewives snatched their little ones from
the cradles and ran into the square.
Farmers in the fields threw down their scythes or stopped their plows,
and fearful for the safety of their women-folk, rushed toward the village,
running across fresh-planted fields and vaulting over fences in their excited
haste. Far out across the quiet waters
of the coves, the menacing clang was heard by the fishermen. They abandoned the nets and boats they were
repairing and rushed to the village.
Out in the meadow in back of her father’s house,
Evangeline sat with Gabriel in the shady shelter of a towering haystack, while
he drank a mug of ale from a tankard she had brought out to moisten the dusty
throats of the harvesters. Her slender
figure in its dainty frock of pink was a familiar and welcome sight in the
fields. She always brought a breath of
freshness with her, but to-day she sparkled a little more radiantly than usual,
for she had lingered before her mirror, knowing Gabriel would be in the fields to-day. And
yet, with womanly contrariness, she had airily pretended to be surprised when
he rushed out to greet her as she came plunging through the tall grasses of the
sun-splashed meadow.
Startled, they both listened as the bell broke in upon
their reverie. But it only tolled on and
gave no answer to their wonderment.
“It may be a fire,” Gabriel exclaimed, searching the sky
for sign of smoke.
“No, Gabriel! That bell can mean only bad news!”
Evangeline sprang to her feet and glanced up into the sky. “See how the wind blows! Look at those gray clouds!”
“Clouds are often gray,” he answered, and although
Gabriel’s heart was clutched by an indefinable fear, he laughed to hide his own
alarm and gently chided her for her superstitious dread of the unknown.
“I never knew it to fail,” Evangeline insisted as they
ran toward a hay-cart making for the village and jumped on the back of it. “Remember the time when on Jean and Henri
were killed by the bull when they were on their way to help the Latours the day
their third baby was born? The same evil
wind blew!”
Above the panting of his bellows, the ominous clanging of
the bell had quickly reached Basil as he bent over his flaming forge. Pushing his way through the excited throng
gathered in the square around the bell, he read the proclamation and noted with
cold fear the impressive seal of the law and the signature of the Governor-General
of Nova Scotia.
An angry flush mounted his brow as he read the
announcement. His eyes blazed and his
rugged face grew distorted with rage.
Blindly he looked about for Benedict and failed to find him.
“Where is Benedict Bellefontaine?” he demanded.
“We have sent for him,” some one volunteered.
“This proclamation is a treacherous violation of our
rights!” Basil thundered on. “We will
never submit to it!”
The crowd agreed noisily with him.
By this time most of the inhabitants of Grand-Pré had
convened in the square, out of breath from running, crowding and pushing to get
a glimpse of the proclamation. Finally
Benedict came. The crowd opened up to
let him through. His mouth tightened and
the cords in his neck stood out like the gnarled roots of an oak as he read on.
“We will not sign this oath,” he cried, his voice making itself heard above the tumult. “We came from
“We stand together!” Basil shouted.
“We have built our homes here, we have reclaimed the
lands from the tides with dikes built by our own hands,” Benedict went on in a
voice trembling with emotion. “Is it
right that we give up all this for
René Leblanc shook his head as he faced Benedict.
“As I said only last night, to you and Basil, there is a
purpose behind this threat. They are
ready for our refusal. When we hear the
alternative they will offer us—we may be glad to sign.”
“Never!” stormed Basil.
“When I use a musket, it will be to defend my rights—not to abuse them!”
With that faculty lovers have of being able to forget
everything save themselves, the reason for their hurried visit to the village
took on less importance in the minds of Evangeline and Gabriel almost as soon
as the mad tolling of the bell had ceased.
Perched on the back of the wain, half-buried under the fragrant
fresh-mown hay, they were blissfully oblivious of the excitement in the village
street until the blustering voice of Gabriel’s father broke in upon their
consciousness.
“For one hundred years we have been tossed back and forth
from one country to another without our consent,” he was saying. “But always we have reserved the right not to
fight against our own flesh and blood.
What right has the Governor-General of Nova Scotia to exact such a price
from us?”
“Gabriel—it is
bad news!” Evangeline cried out.
With instant concern, the lovers scrambled down from the
hay-cart and by sheer force elbowed their way through the seething, excited
crowd. Swiftly their eyes swept the
proclamation. A moment later a hand
reached out and snatched the offending document from its nails and tore it into
bits and threw them into the breeze with a gesture of contempt. Instinctively Evangeline clung to Gabriel,
while all around them the people raised their voices in shouts of defiance to
the Crown.
Across the heads of the crowd, Evangeline’s eyes
encountered Baptiste’s. She smiled
bravely at him, reading at a glance his deep concern for her in this hour of
anxiety. She turned to Gabriel.
“I am afraid, Gabriel!” she murmured. “It may mean war . . . our separation . . .
your death!” She trembled in his arms.
From the center of the crowd, where he had been watching
the angry outburst of his people with compassionate eyes, Father Felician
stepped forward. “Perhaps we misinterpret
the request of the Governor-General.” He
raised his hand in a benign gesture for silence.
“Hear the curé!”
Benedict ordered. Silence fell on
the crowd.
“Let us go to
“We will go immediately!”
Evangeline heard René Leblanc declare.
“Maybe that is wise,” Basil replied, “but I have no heart for such business . .
. and I surmise we will accomplish nothing.
However, we shall go.”
Long after the crowd had begun to disperse, Evangeline
clung to Gabriel, her head buried on his shoulder as if to shut out the
terrible vision of war and separation that flashed before her eyes and sent a
shudder of fear through her slender frame.
Gabriel tried to console her.
“Don’t let this distress you, Evangeline,” he
pleaded. “This is only a gesture to
frighten us—“
“Oh, don’t say that, Gabriel! You’re only trying to allay my fears. You know that the trouble you foresaw is
here. Only it has come sooner than you
expected.”
Gabriel could not deny the truth of her words. Silently he took her arm and led her away.
At the edge of the crowd, Baptiste stopped them.
“I want to congratulate you, Gabriel,” said he. He offered Gabriel his hand, and the latter
shook it warmly. Evangeline smiled
through her tears at the two lads.
Baptiste turned to her.
“Don’t be alarmed,” he advised. “No matter what comes, nothing shall happen
to you.”
“You are right, Baptiste!” Gabriel answered with all the vigor of his
youth.
“Nothing shall happen to you!”
CHAPTER
VI
HIS
EXCELLENCY, THE GOVERNOR-GENERAL
The
The garrison by this time having been recruited to full
strength, speculation was rife among the members of the staff of Colonel
Lawrence, Governor-General of the Colony, as to what impended.
Dispatching of the proclamation to the Acadians had given
them a hint of what to expect, and yet it was not Colonel Lawrence’s way to
give notice and act later, especially in such a simple matter as forcing the
French Neutrals to take unconditional oath to His Majesty.
On this particular morning, as secretaries and counselors
to the Crown awaited the Governor-General, the officers of his staff stood
about the door in a little group, interrogating the lieutenant who had
delivered Colonel Lawrence’s proclamation to the Acadians.
“Of course they didn’t like it! I would have had my hands full but for their Curé, Father Felician. He speaks English.”
“The Acadians are not supposed to be armed, but I dare
say they are,” a brother officer exclaimed.
“They’ll not submit to the new oath without a struggle. It is a bad business.”
“That’s what comes of being neutral. No one is for you and every one is against
you.” The lieutenant won a laugh from
them. “But you should see their girls,”
he went on. “Buxom wenches, I tell
you! Eyes like midnight and lips redder
than cherries.”
They were urging greater details from him when the
captain of the guard entered hurriedly and addressed the Governor-General’s
secretary in tones loud enough to be heard by all present.
“There is a commission arrived from the Acadians. They are without and beg audience with His
Excellency.”
“Acadians?” the secretary exclaimed haughtily. “Since when do we suffer them to come here?”
“Then I shall tell them to leave?” the captain of the
guard inquired.
Colonel
“Have them wait,” he said
instead, and waved the man out of the room.
The staff officers present drew themselves to attention,
but as they awaited the arrival of the Governor-General, questions flew thick
and fast as to the nature of the petition the French Neutrals had evidently
come to present.
Hells clicked together then as the massive doors of the
council chamber were thrown open. A
hushed and expectant silence fell upon the room, all eyes automatically focused
on the doorway.
With forbidding mien, Colonel Lawrence, strode into the
room, resplendent in his uniform of crimson and gold lace, his sword clanking
with a menacing rattle as he walked with swift, military tread. He was an impressive figure of towering
stature . . . ruthless, decisive, ambitious for power
and fortune.
By strange coincidence, as he arrogantly swept through
the door, a white dove, basking in the sun, left its perch on top of one of the
brass cannons that guarded the portal, and took hasty, frightened flight. It had a prophetic significance.
The Governor-General looked neither to left or right as
he marched into the room, nor did he deign to exchange greetings with his
distinguished civilian conferees who stood at rigid
military attention, their countenances solemn with mingled awe and respect.
Members of his staff exchanged a furtive and knowing
glance at his unusual brusqueness this morning.
Colonel Lawrence’s face was set, grim and cold, as he
sank into a high-backed chair, placed at the head of the council chamber
directly under a portrait of His Majesty, King George II, which, with one or
two paintings of military and naval battles, broke the somber grimness of the
slate-colored walls.
Without comment he read the dispatches and orders handed
him by his secretary.
With an imperious gesture, he signaled the members of the
council to take their seats and, eager to find favor in his cold gray eyes,
they hastened to their respective places at the long shining table.
With a look of annoyance he saw that his secretary did
not withdraw.
“Well, what is it?” he demanded coldly.
“I forgot to add that there is a commission of three
French Neutrals, from Grand-Pré here who beg an audience with Your Excellency.”
Colonel Lawrence cleared his throat angrily.
“The damned impertinence of it!” he whipped out. “Let them wait!”
The impending war between
Basil railed at being kept waiting hour after hour.
“If he will not see us,” he exclaimed, “why does he not
send us away? Are we children to sit
here like this?”
Father Felician smiled patiently at him.
“It is a penance we do, I suppose. Still, we must not complain; too much depends
upon the success of our mission to-day.”
“You are right, Father,” René agreed. “We have everything to gain and nothing to
lose by waiting on the whims of this man.
Being an arrogant man, he looks for arrogance in others, and finding
it—vents his spleen on them with pleasure.”
At last, in the council-room, the business of the day was
finished. The Governor-General’s aides
and advisors arose to leave.
“Wait!” he ordered peremptorily. And then to the guard: “Bring in the petitioners!”
Again the huge double doors were flung open and the three
delegates from Grand-Pré entered; Father
Felician, simple yet impressive in his black robes; Basil, the blustering
blacksmith, dressed in his rough clothes of gray homespun, nervously fingering
his broad-trimmed hat; and René Leblanc, the dignified notary.
Their entrance was in vivid contrast to the colorful pomp
and ceremony which attended the arrival of the Governor-General. But there was a certain dignity, a simplicity
and firmness of purpose that marked their demeanors, which struck even the iron
lord to whom they came to appeal.
Noting their humble hesitancy as they crossed the
threshold into the ominous silence of the council-room, Colonel Lawrence
brusquely motioned them to approach, with a quick, impatient gesture
characteristic of his domineering manner.
“What brings you here, men of Grand-Pré? Is it that you come to tell me you will sign
the new oath of allegiance?”
“We have come to petition Your Excellency in behalf of
the Acadians,” Father Felician answered.
“We are a peaceable people, bound to
The fervent simplicity of the old priest’s statement was
felt by the members of the council and the staff, despite an instinctive racial
antagonism. On the Governor-General
remained unmoved, his eyes bridling as the heard the curé out.
“So! What you really have come to tell me is that you
will not sign this oath of
allegiance!”
Father Felician shook his head patiently. “You misunderstand me, Your Excellency,” he
argued. “We do not say we will not: we plead that we can not take up arms against our own
people. This conflict between the land
of our adoption and our mother country will be fought here in
The eloquent eyes of Father Felician swept over the
counselors and military aides and came to rest on Colonel Lawrence. The Governor-General might have been carved
of stone, for any sign he gave that the curé’s words had touched him.
“It is in my heart to serve the Crown!” he said at
last. “I am a soldier, and as a matter
of military prudence, you must sign the oath.”
The Governor-General’s arrogant hostility fanned the
flame in Basil’s breast into fire, and he burst out angrily: “You have taken our guns and warlike weapons
from us. Nothing is left the Acadian but
his sledge and the scythe. What military
necessity demands an oath from people already helpless?”
René and Father Felician were quick to see the
disapproving glance that passed around the room.
“Perhaps we are safer unarmed in the midst of our flocks
and cornfields,” Father Felician hurried to say, stepping forward and trying to
smooth over Basil’s tactless outburst.
He knew that a gentle, humble attitude was the only one with which the
Acadians might hope to penetrate the cold armor of this man.
“We have no complaint against the Government,” René
added. “We have been fairly treated by
you, Your Excellency, and by your predecessors.
We have tried to repay that kindness by a loyal devotion to His Majesty,
King George, the second.”
His Excellency’s expression remained a stony mask.
“For one hundred years our people have been handed back
and forth from one country to another without our consent,” Father Felician
parried, tactfully overlooking the expression of enmity on the
Governor-General’s face. “Many of us
have signed oaths of allegiance in the past, but we have reserved the right not
to fight against our own countrymen.”
“And we will not fight them now!”
It was Basil who cried out, his voice thundering in the
charged stillness of the great room.
Defiantly he faced Colonel Lawrence, unable to restrain his emotions.
The council-room was in disorder instantly. The Governor-General sprang to his feet, a
flush of anger mounting to his forehead.
He started to speak, but the hot words were checked before they reached
his lips, and into his eyes came a crafty cunning and the resolve to teach
these Acadians a lesson, once and for all.
“I should have you arrested for this impertinence,” he
said easily, his voice as casual as though he were discussing the most trivial
matter of business. “But I will be
lenient—as I have always been.” He
stopped and addressed himself particularly to Father Felician. “Go back to your people, and tell them I have
taken their petition under advisement.”
He signaled that the interview was over, and slowly the
curé and René Leblanc led Basil away.
Within the council-room Colonel Lawrence’s military aides
drew up to salute. The Governor-General
answered them, and then instead of leaving, surprised them by saying:
“Gentlemen, you may retire,” and his gesture included his
councilors. “Colonel Winslow will
remain.”
CHAPTER
VII
EMBERS
OF EMPIRE
Long before the sloop in which they returned to Grand-Pré
had touched shore, the news of the arrival of Father Felician, René Leblanc and
Gabriel had spread through the village.
Father Felician smiled as he saw the eager, shining faces
and realized with what faith they relied in him to smooth the path of adversity
and turn away the wrath of kings and hirelings.
And yet, as the assembled Acadians saw the glum face of Basil and
remarked the notary’s dour expression, their hopes began to fade, and they
followed the three men to the steps of the church with hushed voices.
“We have seen, His Excellency,” Father Felician
announced. “He was considerate enough to
hear what we had to say. We stated our
position fully, and though it was not to his pleasure, he promised to take our
petition under advisement. He is a stern
man, but, reassured by my faith in our compassionate Savior, in Whose hands we long have placed ourselves, I am confident
that Colonel Lawrence will see the justice of our cause and be guided
accordingly.”
The crowd looked to the notary for approval of the curé’s
words. René mounted the steps slowly and
surveyed them at length before he spoke.
“Father Felician has stated the facts clearly,” said
he. “Lately I have been unfortunate
enough to win the reputation of being a croaker—an apostle of gloom. There have been some who have gone so far as
to say that I leaned toward the English.
I have heard the story.”
There was a murmur of disapproval from the crowd at
this. Benedict Bellefontaine put it into
words.
“Only fools could say such things,” he exclaimed. “Your loyalty to us is as great as my own!”
“Yes!” Another cried, “that is
so, Benedict.”
“However you interpret my conduct,” René went on, “I beg
you to remember that it is always wise to see both sides of a situation. I wish I might share the curé’s faith in some
Divine intercession in our behalf in this matter, for most surely we will have
need of it. I found only hostility in
René’s words sobered the crowd even more.
“It is time for frankness,” Benedict declared. “What have you to say, Basil?”
Basil shook his head moodily.
“Nothing,” he muttered.
“Anything I might say would only confirm the notary’s words. I am a simple man, not given to scheming or
taking advantage of my fellow-men. I
never learned the knack of turning wrath away with a smile. The Governor-General’s insolence infuriated
me, and I dared, foolishly I admit, to defy him to make us take this oath.”
“You did right!” a hothead in the crowd shouted. There were answering cries of approval.
Basil held up his hand for silence.
“No, my friends, it was a mistake. The curé has convinced me of that. The dove can not fight the hawk.”
“nor can it placate him with
gifts,” Benedict answered. “Our
prosperity is what irks these English.
If we signed this oath they would soon find other ways in which to
provoke us into one indiscretion or another.
We should have let the Mic-Macs wipe them out as they would have done
had we not gone into their village with pleas of peace.”
“Benedict!” Father
Felician cried out reprovingly. “Such
talk is unworthy of you.” He faced them
all militantly, his sharp eyes whipping them into humility. “Do you so soon forget those lessons of kindliness
and patience that I have labored so long to teach you? Our tongues run away with us, and we fashion
calamities out of whole cloth! Come, let
us go into the church, and there, in the house of God, compose ourselves and
beseech his never-failing mercy.”
Silently they followed the curé into the house of
worship. The quiet and sanctity of the
hallowed spot brought an abiding sense of peach and new-found faith to
them. As things had been, so were they
like to be forever, whispered the inanimate walls. Safe in the security of this familiar scene,
with its mellow memories, the future took on a rosier hue, and when Father
Felician began to pray, their responses were strong and fervent.
Evangeline had not accompanied her father to town. With the curé away, there was no school, and
the children, quick to take advantage of this unlooked-for holiday, had tramped
across the fields to Benedict’s orchards, knowing Evangeline would not send
them home until their baskets were filled with plums and pears.
For the greater part of the afternoon she had romped
through the orchards with them. When the
shadows began to grow longer and the cows and sheep started to move toward the
barns, Evangeline led the happy, laughing throng out upon the headland where
she had given her heart to Gabriel. It
was a favorite story-telling spot with the children. Each had his favorite story, and they
clamored for attention as Evangeline tried to satisfy them all.
“Time to go,” she warned at last.
“Oh, no, Evangeline,” begged little
Hermisdas Gagnier, the chemist’s son.
“Tell us about Glooskap and his pipe.”
The others took up the cry and Evangeline was forced to
consent.
“Very well—but this and no more. The angelus will ring in a minute.” They settled themselves comfortably again and
Evangeline waited for them to grow quiet.
“Well, when the Acadians first came to the Gaspereau, they didn’t know
that the Mic-Macs had a great god of their own.
It was the fall of the year, and the sky was blue with haze, just as it
is to-day. We call it Indian summer, but
in those days we had no name for it.
“Soon the Indians came to our huts to trade. They wanted blankets. Old Father Voisin, the Capuchin, who was here
long before Father Felician came, spoke to the Indians and asked them why they
needed blankets; the days were still warm.
The Mic-Mac answered that soon it would be cold, for Glooskap was
smoking his pipe up on
“So ever since then, when the blue haze hangs in the air,
we call it Indian summer, but the Mic-Macs know better. They know that Glooskap is up on
“Through it all, Glooskap snores. Bye and bye he stirs in his sleep, and the
underwater-people call out to him to wake up and unlock the ice. But Glooskap just keeps on snoring. Then one day, the wild geese fly north,
looking for him. They scold and call
out, ‘Wake up, Glooskap! Wake up!’ But Glooskap only sleeps sounder.
“Soon after the geese come, Teshup, the ground-hog, pokes
his head out of the snow and looks for Glooskap. ‘Wake up!’ he cries. ‘Spring is here! Wake up!’
“But Glooskap sleeps on.
And then one day, when the sun smiles, Chopeesh, the blue bird
comes. In a small voice, sweet as honey,
he calls to Glooskap, ‘Wake up, wake up, wake up! S-p-r-i-n-g is here, is here,
is here!’ And
Glooskap sits up and rubs his eyes. He
knows that little voice. When he moves
the snows break, the ice cracks and the underwater-people splash and
frolic. The leaves begin to peek out of
the buds; the brooks sing again; the grass turns green—and all
the world laughs, for Spring is here.”
As Evangeline had talked on she had failed to notice the
smiling face of Gabriel, peering at her through the dark green of the
hemlocks. The angelus sounded a moment
later. Reluctantly the children said
good-by and wandered away toward the village.
Evangeline stood watching them. Gabriel was at her side before she discovered
him.
“I was your most interested listener,” he laughed as he
embraced her. “I have just come from the
village. My father and the others have
returned from
“And what word do they bring, Gabriel?” she asked
anxiously.
“The Governor-General has agreed to consider the
petition. My father is discouraged,
however. He defied Colonel Lawrence to
make us take up arms against
The curé would know,” Evangeline insisted. “He is never wrong.”
“There is a great deal to what you say,” Gabriel
admitted. “But enough of these
calamities that are not calamities yet.
I came to tell you that Father Felician will read our banns to-morrow. We will sit together in church, Evangeline.”
His joy in the prospect stilled Evangeline’s doubts, and
hand in hand they wandered back toward the house. As they crossed the fields, she caught sight
of her father, trudging homeward. His
elastic step was missing, and as he walked the shoulders that usually were
squared back with a wholesome joy of life sagged forward.
Evangeline stopped and called to him. He waived to them and waited as they rant to
his side. Benedict put his arms around
them, and three abreast they went on.
“You are worried, Father?” Evangeline questioned.
Benedict shook his head, determined to keep his fears
from her. “I am disappointed,” he
admitted. “I wish I had gone to
CHAPTER
VIII
THE
CROSS OF DE RAZILLY
Several days after the departure of the petitioners from
Repeated conferences between Lieutenant-Colonel Winslow
and His Excellency, Colonel Lawrence, had informed the garrison that Winslow
would command this expedition. They
stood together as the men embarked and then immediately returned to the
Governor-General’s headquarters.
Winslow’s face wore none of that ardor a commanding
officer is supposed to show at such moments.
He paced back and forth from window to desk as
“What is it man?”
His Excellency inquired of a sudden.
“You’re as gloomy as an owl.”
“Truth is, sir, I have no heart for this business.”
Colonel Lawrence fixed his piercing eyes on him and
paused dramatically over his reply.
“But being necessary—it will be accomplished, sir! I am trusting you to
carry out my orders and keep me fully advised.
You will proceed to Porte Edward, as we agreed. There you will open these orders and execute
them to the best of your ability.”
Winslow accepted the envelope, but he refused to be thus
rudely dismissed.
“You are taking a drastic step, You Excellency—without
knowledge or authority of the Crown. On
the grounds of justice and humanity I plead for these Acadians. Certainly some other way might be found
that—“
“There is no other way,”
“But would not a policy of
consideration for these French Neutrals be more tactful, as well as humane,
sir?”
A shade of annoyance swept over the Governor-General’s
face at Winslow’s continued championing of the Acadians.
“I am a soldier, Winslow,” he thundered. “. . . not a diplomat! May I remind you that you are also a
soldier?”
Winslow nodded, convinced that he but wasted his time
with this obdurate man.
“Once among these Neutrals you will post a proclamation
requiring them to attend at a certain place at a certain hour, as you may
please. Make it peremptory in its
terms—but keep its purpose vague enough so that they may not suspect the reason
for which they are assembled. Employ
fair means with them, if you will. But
if you find that such treatment will not accomplish our purpose, you will
proceed most vigorously against them.”
As Colonel Winslow saluted and withdrew, His Excellency
stepped to the windows commanding the harbor and gazed at the ships at
anchor. The fire of conquest burned in
his eyes as he saw the sails unfurl.
The tide was running, and in a few minutes the vessels
began to drop away. He stood at the
window until the night enveloped them.
Knowing the nature of their mission, and realizing the fate to which he
had consigned the Acadians, one might have expected to find some trace of
sympathy or regret in this eyes at this last moment. Instead, there blossomed a complete and
abiding satisfaction.
As these messengers of vengeance and a man’s ambition
sailed away on their long trip into the
Sunday dawned bright and clear. A pleasant warmth
tinged the morning air as Gabriel waited for Evangeline on the steps of the
Church. At last she came, her father
driving his favorite black Norman mare.
A new sense of dignity rested over her to-day, and Gabriel knowing the
eyes of the parish were on them, offered her his arm
with the grace of a grand seigneur and proudly led her to his
father’s pew.
Wrinkled grandmothers and young matrons, shy lovers and
even the young lads still in their teens, followed them with enraptured gaze as
they passed.
Father Felician entered and they rose with bowed
heads. Demure and as saintly-looking
under her white Norman cap as the Madonna herself, Evangeline made her
responses to the mass and stole shy glances at the lover beside her as he counted
his beads.
At last the mass was over. Father Felician came out on the steps of the
church, knowing Benedict had an announcement to make, and certain that to-day
his parishioners would tarry to discuss the Governor-General’s proclamation.
Gabriel and Evangeline were already the center of an
admiring group, showering congratulations on them, and whispering advice well
calculated to embarrass the bridegroom-to-be.
Gabriel smiled at the good-natured chaff of his fellows,
trying to turn the barbs they leveled at him back upon the shoulders of the
originators.
From a distance, Baptiste looked on, his face white with
emotion. So he had once dreamed of
standing with Evangeline on his arm.
With choking breath he turned away to wander in the fields alone.
“Monsieur le Curé!”
some one cautioned as Father Felician raised his hand for silence. At once the humming of voices and the
jostling of the crowd ceased.
“Benedict has an announcement to make,” said he.
“On Friday, weather permitting, I want you to come to my
place—all of you. It will be the
betrothal feast of Evangeline and Gabriel.
Michael, you will come with your fiddle?”
Michael Michel, the fiddler of Grand-Pré elbowed his way
to Benedict’s side. His hair was as
white as the curé’s. A pair of merry
eyes danced in his nut-brown face. For
forty years he had kept alive the music of their homeland, and there was never
a party or feast day that was not enlivened by the gay tunes of his fiddle—a
rare instrument, he always claimed, handed down to him by his grandfather who
had played at the court of one of the Louies.
“Have I ever failed to be where I was needed?” Michael demanded. “Knowing the quality of your ale—what could
keep me away, Benedict?”
There was a general laugh at this, for Michael’s capacity
for the nut-brown ale of the country-side was too well known to need comment.
“I did not ask you to come to do honor to my ale,”
Benedict answered with mock severity.
Again the crowd laughed, but Michael chose to grow
serious.
“I but jested,” said he.
Turning to Evangeline he doffed his hat and bowed to the ground. “We are all proud of you, little one. I remember well the day your father brought
you to me to learn the songs of the homeland.
What good times we had, you and I and Mr. Fiddle! But my little playmate has grown up. All of us who have
known you so long and watched over you, share your happiness, Evangeline. If there is a tear in old Michael’s eye it is
only because he is so proud of you. Any
you, Gabriel, are a lucky boy!”
“It is just as Michael says,” Esdras Prudhomme
declared. “When Benedict asked me if I
would take charge of the roasting pits I was cross with him. It’s my privilege, I told him, and I should
like to see some one else in charge.”
The crowd parted to let Gabriel and Evangeline
through. As they left, Benedict joined
Basil.
“The young folks will prefer their own company to ours on
the way home. Ride with me and let them
wander over the fields as they will.”
Basil nodded.
“The others are waiting,” said he. “Evidently they think there may be some news
from
Even as he finished, Latour, from the marshes, a big,
black-bearded man, called out: “Is there
anything to be learned about the proclamation?”
“No, we are still waiting to hear from His Excellency,”
Father Felician answered. “Every day
that passes without our hearing from him adds to my assurance that all will be
well yet.”
The crowd broke up into little groups and stood about, chatting the news of the parish or discussing the probable decision
of His Excellency, Colonel Lawrence.
Evangeline and Gabriel soon left the village behind and
wandered homeward along the cliffs. They
were passing the broken down cottage of the Widow Lamphrey when the old woman
hobbled out to the gate and waved to them.
As long as Evangeline could remember, the Window Lamphrey
had dwelt on the cliff, her garden always a tangle of weeds and the house going
from bad to worse. She had the knack of
weaving marvelous baskets, and she derived more than enough for her simple
needs from the sale of them.
But it was not her baskets for which the Widow Lamphrey
was best known. She had the gift of
healing burns by the laying on of her hands.
It was a fact that was well-known, and even the curé had been compelled
to admit it, attributing it to some strange manifestation of God’s kindness.
It gave the Widow Lamphrey a unique position among the
Acadians, and as the legend grew that she had supernatural powers, the old
woman never disavowed it. Secretly she
claimed to be able to read the future in one’s cup.
Gabriel would have gone on, but Evangeline stopped him.
“She means well, Gabriel.
Let us stop for a word with her.”
“She’ll want to read the tea leaves for you,” he
answered, unable to hid his displeasure. “Why risk being distressed on this day by
what she may have to say? Certainly you
do not believe that she can read the future.”
“Of course not! It would only amuse me, Gabriel.”
The old woman opened the gate as they approached and
beamed upon Evangeline. “I have been
watching for you,” she cackled. “I knew
the banns were to be read this morning.
I wanted to hear them, but my joints are so stiff I couldn’t get to
mass. I guess there were plenty there.”
“The Church was crowded,” Evangeline told her. “Father has invited every one to the house on
Friday for the betrothal feast. You must
come.”
“I will if I am able, but small pleasure can I take in
the dances and games with my rheumatism.
But there was a time, my child . . .”
She paused to smile at the memories her words conjured up in her
mind. “I remember the day I was
betrothed to Lamphrey. He was a fine
land, then, not unlike Gabriel. Come
into the house, my child. Let me read
the leaves for you. They will tell you a
great deal on such a day as this.”
Gabriel was not pleased and he volunteered to wait
outside.
“No, Gabriel, I want you to hear what she had to say,”
Evangeline protested prettily. “Come!”
The Widow Lamphrey led the way indoors. It was the first time Gabriel had set foot in
the place, and he noted with pleasant surprise how clean the floors were, and
how white and spotless were the linens.
The old woman showed Evangeline her baskets and
reminisced pleasantly about her childhood as the tea steeped. Gabriel sat apart, uneasy in his mind and
wishing they soon might leave.
The tea was ready at last, and as Evangeline handed the
empty cup to the old woman she made strange sounds of incantation, a trick she
had learned from the Indians, Gabriel whispered to himself.
Evangeline drew her chair up closer to the table and her
breath came a little faster as the fortune-teller twirled the cup around and
around in her hands. Then she paused and
her old eyes lit up with an uncanny fire as she stared at the tea leaves. He body grew tense and she held the cup
closer to her eyes.
“What is it?”
Evangeline asked nervously. “What
do you see?”
The widow did not answer.
Gabriel noted how the cords stood out on her long, eagle-like
talons. He knew that the excitement
which gripped the old woman was real to her, and as he watched he saw her
deliberately squeeze the cup until it popped out of
her hands and fell upon the floor in a dozen pieces.
“One of my good cups, too,” she groaned. “What clumsy fingers.”
Her attempt to make the dropping of the cup appear an
accident chilled Gabriel’s blood and to avoid Evangeline’s eyes, he bent down
to pick up the shattered bits of china.
The feeling that the old woman had seen
something in the cup that she did not want to tell her, gripped Evangeline, and
she questioned her about it.
“Was there something there that frightened you?” she
asked, her face whiter than she knew.
The Widow Lamphrey only shook her head. “No, my child,” she murmured. “All I saw was a journey—you and Gabriel.”
“Well, that is nothing to grow excited about,” Gabriel
declared, trying to calm Evangeline and get her away.
“Of course not,” the old woman agreed, wondering how much
he had seen.
They started to leave.
Widow Lamphrey called Evangeline back.
“Wait,” she said as she rummaged in a drawer. “I have something that I have saved for you
Evangeline. Let it be my wedding
present.” From the drawer she drew a
small crucifix attached to a thin silver chain.
“It was blessed by the Pope,” she explained. “It once belonged to the Sieur De
Razilly. Its charms are great. Wear it always, Evangeline; it will bring you
luck and guard you from danger.”
“The Sieur De Razilly once owned it!” Evangeline exclaimed as she gazed at the
cross with reverent awe. “I—I shall
always wear it,” she murmured.
The Widow Lamphrey watched them go. They were out of sight of her house before
Evangeline voiced the thoughts that were troubling her.
“Wasn’t it strange, Gabriel, her dropping the cup? And telling me I was going on a journey! Don’t you remember that the night the
marriage contract was signed I told you I too dreamed that I was going on a
journey—only you were not with me. I was searching for you. . .”
“You see?” he chided her.
“You said she would only amuse you, and yet you believed every word she
said, and now you are troubled with vague misgivings when we should be alive
with happiness and laughter.”
He was sorry immediately for his quick words as he saw
Evangeline’s lips quiver. He took her
into his arms and fondled her tenderly.
“I am silly, I know,” she breathed softly. “But if I should lose you, Gabriel! Where you go, I must go. Promise me you will never leave me.”
He lifted the cross of De Razilly.
“On this crucifix I swear that no act of mine shall ever
part us!”
Back in her cottage the Widow Lamphrey rocked
disconsolately.
“I couldn’t tell her,” she moaned.