Chapter XX
But Mad Nor-nor-west
The steps came close to me, moved away, and were still. A sick man’scuriosity soon works, and here, surely, were incalculable matters for meto find out. I turned over suddenly.
It was a fantastic figure that faced me, sitting on a billet of wood notfar from the door. Withered herbs were in the high, peaked cap. Theblack-and-yellow mantle was drawn forward to cover the folded arms. Thesteely eyes were at my inmost thought.
There is no doubt I was still a sick man. I was unspeakablydisappointed. Looking back upon it now, I verily believe that I expectedto see Yvonne, as in a fairy tale.
“Why did you come in,” I asked peevishly, twisting under those eyes,“without proclaiming—
“Woe, woe to Acadie the Fair, for the hour of her desolation cometh?”
“It has come,” said he quietly.
I sat up as if a spring had moved me. My eyes alone questioned.
“Beauséjour has fallen. France is driven back on Louisbourg. The men ofAcadie are in chains. The women await what fate they know not. Theirhomes await the flame.”
Here was no madman speaking.
“And—Yvonne?” I whispered.
“They all are safe, under shelter of the governor—and of Anderson,” headded icily.
I had no more words for a moment. Then I asked—“And the Black Abbé?”
His sane calm disappeared. His face worked; his hands came out fromunder his cloak, darting like serpents; his eyes veered like pale flame.As suddenly he was calm again.
“He is at Louisbourg,” said he, “at Isle St. Jean—here—there—anywhere;free, busy, still heaping and heating the fires which shall burn hissoul alive.”
I like a man who is in earnest; but I could think of nothing appropriateto say. After a pause I changed the subject.
“I am thirsty,” said I, “and hungry too, I think, though I have eatenall the barley bread. And I’m sorry, but I’ve broken the jar.”
From a niche in the wall he at once brought me more barley cake, withbutter, and fresh milk, and some dried beef. The wholesome, homely tasteof them comes back to me now. Having eaten, I felt that nothing could bequite so good as sleep; and with grateful mutterings, half spoken, Islept.
When I woke it was the cold light of early morning that came in at thecave-mouth; and I was alone. I felt so much better that I got up atonce; but ere I could reach the door a dizziness came over me, and Istaggered back to my place, feeling that my hour was not yet. As I layfretting my heart with a thousand hot conjectures, my host came in. Helooked at me, but said not a word; nor could I get his tongue loosenedall through our light breakfast. At last, to my obstinate repetition ofthe inquiry: “When shall I be strong enough to go down into Grand Pré?”he suddenly awoke and answered:
“A little way to-morrow, perhaps; and the next day, further; and withinthe week, if you are fortunate, you should be strong enough foranything. You will need to be, if you are going down into Grand Pré!” headded grimly.
Upon this direct telling I think I became in all ways my sane self—weak,indeed, but no longer whimsical. I felt that Grûl’s promise was muchbetter than I could have hoped. I knew there would be need of all mystrength. I was a man again, no more a sick child. And I would wait.
Grûl busied himself a few minutes about the cave, in a practical,every-day fashion that consorted most oddly with his guise and fame. Icould not but think of a mad king playing scullion. But there was noneof the changing light of madness in his eyes.
Soon he seated himself at the cave-mouth, and said, pointing to aroughly shaped ledge with a wolfskin upon it:
“Come hither, now, and take this good air. It will medicine your thinveins.”
Obeying gladly, I was soon stretched on the wolfskin at the very brink,as it seemed, of the open world. But it was cold. Perceiving this, hearose without a word, fetched another skin, and tucked it about me. Histenderness of touch was like a woman’s.
“How can I thank you?” I began. “It is to you, I now perceive, that Iowe my life. How much besides I know not!”
He waved my thanks aside something impatiently.
“Yes, I saved you,” said he. “It suited me to do so. I foresaw you wouldsome day repay me. And I like you, boy. I trust you; though in some waysyou are a vain fool.”
I laughed. I had such confidence in him I began to think he would bringall my desires to pass.
“And I have been wont to imagine you a madman,” said I. “But I seem tohave been mistaken.”
“Were I mad utterly as I seem,” said he, in a voice which thrilled me tothe bone, “it would not be strange. I am mad but on one subject; and onthat I believe that God will adjudge me sanest.”
He was silent for a long time, that white fire playing in his eyes; andI dared not break upon his reverie. At last I ventured, for my tongueached with questions unasked:
“How did you find me when I fell over the cliff?” I queried. “And wherewas the Englishman?”
My mouth once opened, two questions instead of one jumped out.
“It was noon,” said Grûl, “and I found your Englishman sitting by youwaiting for the sky to fall. Had the Micmacs come instead of me, yourtwo scalps would have risen nimbly together. He is a good man and brave;but he lacks wits. A woman could trust him to do anything but keep herfrom yawning!”
I grinned with the merest silly delight—a mean delight. But Grûl wenton:
“He is worth a dozen cleverer men; but he fatigued me. I sent him away.I told him just how to go to reach the Piziquid settlement, whom to askfor, and what help to bring for his sick comrade. Then, knowing what wasabout to befall, and having in mind a service which you will do me at alater day, and divining that you would rather be sick in a madman’s cavethan in an English jail, I brought you here. I was reputed a wizard inthe old days in France, for having brought men back from the very gapeof the grave; and I knew you would be long sick.”
I looked at him, and I think my grateful love needed no words.
“And what became of the Englishman?” I asked presently.
“He appeared at last in Grand Pré,” answered Grûl, “and told the truthof you, and dwelt awhile within the shadow of the chapel, to be near theguests of Father Fafard; and he got a strong guard placed in the villageclose at hand, that those who loved the English and feared the abbémight sleep in peace. I hear he presses for the redemption ofMademoiselle’s pledge; but she, to the much vexation of Monsieur andMadame, is something dilatory in her obedience. Of course she will obeyin the end. Even Father Fafard exhorts her to that, for obedience sumsall virtues in a maid. But she has an absurd idea that the Englishmanshould present alive to her the man who saved his life, before claimingreward at hands of hers. I might have enabled him to do this; but youwere not in a mind to be consulted.”
“You are the wisest man I ever knew,” said I, conscious of an absurdinclination to fling myself at his feet and do penance for pastsupercilious underratings.
He seemed to accept the tribute as not undue, and again took up hismonologue.
“Had you died, as seemed for some weeks likely for all my skill, Ishould have smoothed the way for the stupid Englishman; but finding thatyou would live, I thought to bind you to me by keeping your way open. Ina few days you will be well, and must tread your own path, to triumph ordisaster as your own star shall decree. In either case, I know you willstand by me when my need comes!”
“You know the merest truth,” said I.
A Sister to Evangeline Page 21
