CHAPTER XIII
LE PERE JEAN, MISSIONARY TO THE INDIANS
Though the priest spake with confidence, I judged he had no smalldifficulty in persuading the savages to part with us, for therewas much discussion and apparently grumbling on the part of thechief; but at length the obstacle, whatever it was, was overcome,and the priest announced we were free to depart.
"My canoe is small for four people, and would be too heavy when webegin the ascent of the Matapediac," he said, "but I will borrowanother from the savages, with two men to paddle. Explain to yourwoman that she is to go with my servant Andre in the one, and youwill follow in the other with me. She need have no fear; Andre isto be trusted in all things."
These matters being settled, we were made spectators to surely thestrangest sight my eyes had ever looked upon. Andre brought fortha small folding-table, and the priest, still in his rusty soutane,recited the holy office of the mass to the kneeling savages underthe shade of the great pines, and only the ripple of the waterbroke the pauses in the service. To my astonishment, the Indiansrecited the Venite, but this was the extent of their knowledge,apart from the Pater-Noster, the Confiteor, and some of the responses.
"The priest recited the holy office of the mass."]
When the service was ended we breakfasted heartily, and, as soonas the priest's preparations were made, we embarked with, oh, suchdifferent hearts from yesterday!
Now that our anxiety was at rest, I had time to observe the priestmore closely. Though his figure was slight, it moved to the dip ofhis paddle like that of a man vigorous in all exercise; his long,thin hands were full of strength; and his face, though worn, andburned to almost as dark a colour as that of an Indian, was thatof a man who must have been handsome in his youth. At his age Icould not even guess, beyond that he looked old with his scantybeard and long white hair, which fell almost to his shoulders. Wesat face to face as he paddled in the stern of the canoe, and Imarvelled at the wild grandeur of the river and forest, which Ihad barely marked before.
"It is beautiful--yes, very beautiful," he said, presently, noticingmy admiration; "but it wears another face in winter; then it iseven terrible."
"Have you been long among these people, mon pere?"
"So long, that I know their tongue like our own; I know their faultsand virtues, which are also like our own, but more simple, moredirect; so long, that sometimes I forget I ever knew anythingdifferent. But come, my daughter, I can tell my story at any time,while you cannot have a better opportunity than the present to tellme yours, which I must know if I am to be of service to you. Theman behind you cannot understand a word of French, so you may speakfreely."
Though I foresaw some explanation on my part would be necessary,I had so far hardly looked upon the man before me as other thanour rescuer, one of our own blood and habit and tongue; but now itwas the priest, and, more than that, my equal, for he invited myconfidence not by right of his office but by right of his equality,for gentle I divined him to be; and at his demand I was soreconfused, for I knew that questionings must follow which had beenspared me on shipboard.
"My father," I said, after a moment's hesitation, "I do not knowthat you will understand my story, but I am sure that as a gentlemanyou will believe it, and as a priest you will respect my confidence."
"I know many secrets; I have listened to many stories, my daughter;yours will be none the less sacred that it comes of your own freewill, and not on account of my office."
Once I began, it was a relief. Since Lady Jane's death I had notspoken freely to a human soul, and before I had gone far, I knewI spake to one who understood.
When I told him of my guardian's death, of my utter loneliness, ofmy longing to be near him who stood nearer to me than all else inthe world, I caught the murmur, "Poor child! poor child!" as hebent over his dipping paddle, and these low words of sympathyunsealed the last door of my heart, and I told him all withoutreserve: How Lady Jane had diverted her inheritance from her naturalheir, Hugh, because he was withheld from writing to her by a senseof delicacy which would have been felt by few; how she had takensuch offence at this during her illness that, unknown to me, shehad altered her will in my favour, depriving him even of her formerprovision; how the same delicacy which had prevented him approachinghis wealthy kinswoman separated him from me, her heir; how hisfirst separation from Lady Jane had been a voluntary renunciationof his own interest, to ensure what he supposed would be my happiness;how he had, for my sake, performed a hundred sacrifices, which inhappier days had been the delight of Lady Jane, his cousin; howall these things so worked on me that, knowing my love would neitherspeak nor come to me, I had thrown aside all other considerationssave that I was bound to make restitution to one so unjustly wronged,and who had so suffered for my sake. For this I had broken throughevery barrier convention had set up, and, sure in his affection,I had come forth alone under an assumed name; "for I am no Madamede St. Just, mon pere, but Margaret Nairn, and he whom I love isHugh Maxwell, in garrison at Louisbourg.
"I know, mon pere, that many will point the finger of shame at me;will say I am without decorum and without pride. But, my father,I had been living without the love for which my soul had hungeredall these years, until the want became so strong that it swept awayall the petty rules of life and humbled my pride in the dust. Icame because I could not stay, and now my one prayer is to findhim."
When I finished, he was silent for a long time. "My child," hesaid, at last, "that you have greatly dared, I need not tell you.But you know nothing of the pain, the misconstruction, the evilreport to which you have exposed yourself.
"These 'petty rules,' as you style the barriers which society hasestablished, are the safeguards of men and women in all theirrelations, and these you have chosen to disregard. For this sinagainst the social law you will suffer as surely as you would forany infraction of that law which, because it is higher, we calldivine. You have only begun to realise it, because you have nowmet with one of those disarrangements we name 'accident.' Yourplan, had it not been for this, would have carried you safely toLouisbourg, where you were to have met and married M. de Maxwell;but now your whole design is overthrown; Louisbourg is animpossibility; you are going in an opposite direction. Again, upto the present you have only met with your inferiors, to whom youowed no explanation of your position, but now the first man youmeet happens to belong to your own class, and your isolation is nolonger possible. Being a woman of high courage and principle, youhave revealed to him your position in all its helplessness. Butare you prepared to do the like when you meet the next person towhom an explanation is due? Can you again say, 'I am Margaret Nairncome out to meet my lover'?"
"Oh, my father, my father!" I cried, with a bewildering shame atmy heart, and tears which I could not repress filling my eyes. "Howcould I foresee this? Everything seemed so plain. I was no longera young girl, but a woman grown, with all a woman's strength oflove, when the death of Lady Jane left me without a soul to whomI could turn, save him to whom I had given my first and only love.I had been denied all its expression at the time I most longed forit; I was deprived of its support when I most needed it, throughthe mistaken sense of honour which drove into exile the gentlestand most devoted of men. He was not one to push his own interestat any time, and now that I am burdened with this undesired fortune,his pride would fasten the door between us. It seemed to me--Ithought--that I could come to him and say, 'See, I bring back whatwas yours by right.' Then, I had no doubts, no hesitations; butnow, they crowd in upon me when I am alone, and at times I cannotkeep my heart from sinking. I am not afraid, but I am in a darkplace, and I know not where to turn for light."
"Go to Her who has known sorrow above all women, my daughter. Eachof us will think this over in such light as we may find, and willdecide as we may be guided. Meantime do not waste your strengthor courage in unavailing regrets or reproaches. Remember this poorwoman with you has her own trial and anxiety. Give her your sympathyand your help. Much may come to us through our own effort, if
itbe for another."
When we made our camp that night, Lucy and I, much to our delight,were allowed to take a share in the preparation of the meal, andafterwards we sate before the blazing fire, while the priest toldus of his life among the roving Indians, of their strange customsand stranger beliefs, of their patient endurance in times of want,of their despair when disease made its appearance in their lodges,and of the ruin wrought among them by the white man's traffic instrong waters. "For the Indian it is no question of French orEnglish; whichever conquers, he must go--nay, is passing evennow--with only such feeble hands as mine to point the way of hisgoing." And there were tears in his voice as he spake.
Before we parted for the night I asked by what name we might addresshim.
"Le pere Jean," he answered.
"That is not difficult to remember," I said, smiling.
"Which is important, my daughter, for it has to serve me from Gaspeto Michilimacinac. There is but little danger of confusion in thenames of missionaries," he added, sadly; "the labourers are few."
When we left him I was glad to find that even Lucy's strict viewswere not proof against his simple goodness. I had feared the veryfact of his priestly office would have prejudiced her, for I knewher sect made little of much the older religions held sacred; butin speaking of him afterwards she simply said:
"The Lord is wiser than we. He knows what vessels to choose forHis service."
We were so tired, and there was such a sense of security in ournew keeping, that we were asleep before we knew; but during thenight I fell into a strange dream, which so distressed me that Iawoke, with tears streaming down my face. What it was, I could notclearly gather, but with the awakening came my sorrow afresh, andI lay staring up into the blackness with wide-open eyes.
Presently I heard Lucy's soft whisper, "Dear heart, what is thematter?"
"Lucy, why are you awake?"
"Christopher," she answered. "I know my boy is in sore trouble onmy account, and, alas, he has not my faith to support him."
"Lucy," I whispered, after a pause, "I have been selfish. In myown trouble I have not remembered yours."
"Why should you, mistress?" she said, simply. "You have been goodto me, beyond what one in my condition has any right to expect. Mytrouble can have no claim, when you are burdened, perhaps evenbeyond your strength."
It was strange she should remember the difference between us atsuch a time. To me, we were simply two women suffering a commonsorrow in our severance from those most dear to us, and I longedto take her in my arms and tell her all my pain. Had she been amere servant, I might have done so, if only for the comfort ofcrying together; but she was too near my own class, and yet notquite of it, to permit me to take this solace. So we talked quietlyfor a space, and then fell once more to sleep.