Chapter VIII
The Moon in the Apple-bough
During all our conversation we had stood in plain view of the windows,so that our friendly parting must have been visible to all the house. Onmy return within doors I found Yvonne walking up and down in a gracefulimpatience, her black lace shawl thrown lightly about her head.
“If you want to,” said she, “you may come out on the porch with me for alittle while, monsieur. I want you to talk to me.”
“Yvonne,” exclaimed her mother, in a rebuking voice, “will not this roomdo as well?”
“No, indeed, little mamma,” said she wilfully. “_Nothing_ will do aswell as the porch, where the moonlight is, and the smell of theapple-blossoms. You know, dear, Grand Pré is not Paris!”
“Nor yet is it Quebec,” said I pointedly.
Monsieur de Lamourie smiled. Whatever Yvonne would was in his eyes good.But her mother yielded only with a little gesture of protest.
“Yvonne is always a law unto herself,” she murmured.
“And to others, I judge,” said I, following the light figure out uponthe porch, and closing the door behind me.
I praised the saints for the freedom of Grand Pré. At QuebecMademoiselle would have been the most formal of the formalists, becausein Quebec it was easy to be misjudged.
In the corner of the porch, where a huge apple-bough thrust its blossomsin beneath the roof, was slung a stout hammock such as sailors use onshipboard. Mademoiselle de Lamourie had seen these during a voyage downthe Gulf from Quebec, and had so fancied them that her father had beenimpelled to have one netted for her by the shad-fishers. It was herfavoured lounging-place, and thither she betook herself now withoutapology. In silence I held the tricksy netting for her. In silence Iplaced the cushion beneath her head. Then she said:
“You may sit there,” and she pointed, with a little imperious motion, toa stout bench standing against the wall.
I accepted the seat, but not its location. I brought it and placed it asclose as I dared to the hammock. In doing so I clumsily set the hammockswinging.
“Please stop it,” said Mademoiselle; and as I seated myself I laid myhand on the side of the hammock to arrest its motion. My fingers foundthemselves in contact with other fingers, very slim and warm and soft.My breath came in a quick gasp, and I drew away my hand in a strange andoverwhelming perturbation. The hammock was left to stop of itself—and,indeed, its swinging was but slight. As for me, I was possessed by aninfinite amazement to find myself thus put to confusion by a touch. Ihad no word to say, but sat gazing dumbly at the white figure in themoonlight.
Her face was very pallid in that colorless light, and her eyes greaterand darker than ever, deeps of mystery,—and now, I thought, of gravemockery as well. She watched me for a little in silence, and then said:
“I let you come out here to talk to me, monsieur!”
I straightened myself upon the bench, and tried my voice. My misgivingswere justified. It trembled, beyond a doubt. The witch had me at a gravedisadvantage. But I spoke on quietly.
“From my two years in the woods of the West, mademoiselle,” said I, “Ibrought home to Grand Pré certain wonderful dreams. Of these I find somemore than realized; but one, which gave all meaning to the rest, hasbeen put to death this night.”
“Even in Grand Pré dreams are no new thing,” she said in haste. “I wantto hear of deeds, of brave and great action. Tell me what you havedone—for I know that will be brave.” And she smiled at me such kindencouragement that my heart began thumping with vehemence. However, Imade shift to tell her a little of my wanderings—of a bush fight here, anight march there, of the foiling of a foe, of the timely succour of afriend—till I saw that I was pleasing her. Her face leaned a littletoward me. Her eyes spoke, dilating and contracting. Her lips wereslightly parted as she listened. And into every adventure, everysituation, every movement, I contrived to weave a suggestion of herinfluence, of the thought of her guiding and upholding me. These things,touched lightly and at once let pass, she did not rebuke. She feignednot to understand them.
At last I paused and looked at her, waiting for a word of praise orblame.
“And your poetry, monsieur?” she said gently. “Surely that was not allthe time forgotten. This Acadian land, with its wonder and its beauty,has found no interpreter but you, and your brave work in the field wouldbe a misfortune, not a benefit, if it cost us your song.”
“The loss of my verses were no great loss,” said I.
“Indeed, monsieur,” she said earnestly, “I do not think you can be asmodest as you pretend. But I am sincere. Since we have known your songof them, I think that mamma and I have watched only through your eyesthe great sweep of the Minas tides. And only the other day I heard papa,who cares for no poetry but his old ‘_Chansons de Gestes_,’ quoting youto Father Fafard with evident enthusiasm.” She paused—but I saidnothing. I had talked long; and I wished her to continue. What she wassaying, the manner of her saying it, were such as I could long listento.
“As for me,” she went on, “I never walk down the orchard in summer timewithout saying over to myself your song of the apple-leaves.”
“You do, really, remember my verses?” said I, flushing with surprise andjoy. I was not used to commendation for such things, my verses beingwont to win no more approval than they merited, which I felt to be verylittle.
She laughed softly, and began to quote:
“O apple leaves, so cool and green Against the summer sky, You stir, although the wind is still And not a bird goes by! You start, And softly move apart In hushed expectancy. Who is the gracious visitor Whose form I cannot see?
“O apple leaves, the mystic light All down your dim arcade! Why do your shadows tremble so, Half glad and half afraid? The air Is an unspoken prayer; Your eyes look all one way. Who is the secret visitor Your tremors would betray?”
It was a slight thing, which I had never thought particularly well of;but on her lips it achieved a music unimagined before.
“Your voice,” said I, “makes it beautiful, as it makes all wordsbeautiful. Yes, I have written some small bits of verse during my exile,but they have been different from those of mine which you honour withyour praise. They have had another, a more wonderful, theme—a theme alltoo high for them, which nevertheless spurred them to their best. Theyhave at least one merit—they speak the truth from my heart.” As I spokeI felt myself leaning forward, though not of set purpose, and my voicesank almost to a whisper.
“One of them,” I continued, begins in this way:
“A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow, Silent, unseen, But not, ah! not unknown”—
“Wait!” she interrupted, in a voice that sounded a little faint. “Wait!I want to hear them all, monsieur; but not to-night. You shall say themto me to-morrow. I must not stay to listen to them to-night. I am alittle—cold, I think! Help me out, please!” And she rashly gave me herhand.
Now, it was my honest intention at that instant to do just her biddingand no more; but when I touched her fingers reason and judgment flowedfrom me. I bowed my head over them to the edge of the hammock, and withboth my hands crushed them to my lips. She sank back upon her cushion,with a little catching of her breath.
After a few moments I raised my head—but with no speech and with no setpurpose—and looked at her face. It was very grave, and curiouslytroubled, but I detected no reproach in the great eyes that met mine. Afierce impulse seized me to gather her in my arms—but I durst not, andmy eyes dropped as I thought of it. By chance they rested upon herfeet—upon the tiny, quill-worked, beaded white moccasins,
demurelycrossed, the one over the other. Her skirt was so closely gathered abouther ankles that just an inch or two of one arched instep was visibleover the edge of the low-cut moccasin. Before I myself could realizewhat I was about to do, or half the boldness of the act, in a passionthat was all worship I threw myself down beside her feet and kissedthem.
It was for an instant only that my daring so prevailed. Then shesuddenly slipped away. In a breathless confusion I sprang to my feet,and found her standing erect at the other side of the hammock. Her eyesblazed upon me; but one small hand was at her throat, as if she found ithard to speak.
“How could you dare?” she panted. “What right did I give you? What rightdid I ever give you?”
I leaned against the pillar that supported one end of the hammock.
“Forgive me! I could not help it. I have loved you, worshipped you, solong!” I said in a very low voice.
“How dare you speak so?” she cried. “You forget that”—
“No, I remember!” I interrupted doggedly. “I forget nothing. You do notlove him. You are mine.”
“Oh!” she gasped, lifting both hands sharply to her face and droppingthem at once. “I shall never trust you again.”
And in a moment she had flashed past me, with a sob, and disappearedinto the house.