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