The Pines of Lory Part 29

With a sigh of weariness, she replied: "A year ago this month, on the ninth of June."

"The ninth of June," he repeated, in a lower tone, more to himself than to her. "Why--then, she was lost between this point and Quebec."

"Lost?"

And Elinor looked up at him with startled eyes.

"Yes." Then he added: "But I see that you could not have known it."

"Do you mean the _Maid of the North_ never reached Quebec?"

"Nothing has been heard of her since the eighth of last June. On that day she was spoken by another steamer near the Magdalen Islands."

Elinor had risen from her chair, and stood leaning against the table.

"That is horrible! horrible! It does not seem possible! What do they think became of her?"

"n.o.body knows. There are several theories, but nothing is certain. You are probably the only survivor."

"But were there no traces of her,--no wreckage, nothing to give a clew?"

"Nothing."

With drooping head and a hand across her eyes, she murmured: "Poor Louise! And my uncle--and Father Burke!" And she sank back into her chair.

The Archbishop took a step nearer. "Did you know Father Burke?"

"He was a dear friend."

At this reply the eyebrows of the holy man were elevated. A light broke in upon him. With a manner more sympathetic than heretofore--and less patronizing--he said gently:

"Father Burke was a dear friend of mine, also,--an irreparable loss to the Church and to all who knew him. Is it possible you are the young lady whom he held in such high esteem and affection, and of whom he wrote to me? Were you in his spiritual charge, with thoughts of a convent?"

She nodded.

Into his face came a look of joy. Then, in a voice br.i.m.m.i.n.g over with tenderness and paternal sympathy:

"I cannot express my pleasure, my heartfelt grat.i.tude, that you have been spared us. Of your exalted character and of your holy aspirations our dear friend spoke repeatedly. And now, in your hour of affliction, it will be not only the duty, but the joy and privilege of our Holy Church to serve you as counsellor and guide."

As the girl made no reply, he went on, in a subdued and gently modulated voice:

"At this time more than ever before, you must need the consolation of Religion. Am I not right in believing that you feel a deeper yearning for the closer love and protection of our Heavenly Father, for that security and peace which the outer world can never offer? And too well we know that the outer world is uncharitable and cruel. It might look askance upon this strange adventure. But the arms of Our Mother are ever open. You are always her daughter, and with _her_ there is nothing to forgive. All is love, and faith, and peace."

To this deeply religious girl, now stricken and weary, whose heart was numbed with grief, whose hope was crushed, these words came as a voice from Heaven. She held forth a hand which the prelate held in both his own.

"G.o.d bless you, my child."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

XVII

VOICES OF THE WOOD

When the Princess realized the somewhat famished condition of her new acquaintance she ordered a tempting lunch from the yacht, and had it served in the cottage: fresh meat, with fruit, vegetables, and cream and b.u.t.ter--new dishes among the Pines of Lory! Of this repast the Archbishop partook with spirit.

"Truly an invigorating air. What an appet.i.te it gives!" And he devoured the viands with a priestly relish, but always with arch-episcopal dignity. The person, however, for whom the meal was served leaned back wearily in her chair, barely tasting the different dishes.

"You will starve, my child," said the Princess, gently. "Really, you must eat something to keep alive."

The effort was made, but with little success. And in Elinor's face her friend divined an over-mastering grief.

The two women, after lunch, strolled out among the pines, toward the bench by the river. It became evident to the Princess, from the manner in which her companion leaned upon her arm, that days of fasting--and of sorrow--had diminished her strength. Upon the rustic bench Elinor sank with a sigh of relief. But into her face came a smile of grat.i.tude as her eyes met those of the little lady who stood before her, and who was looking down with tender sympathy.

To Elinor's description of how she and Pats found the old gentleman reclining upon this same bench, the Princess gave the closest attention.

Every detail was made clear by the narrator, who took the same position at the end of the seat, crossing her knees and leaning a cheek upon one hand, as if asleep. Then the Princess, after asking many questions, took the vacant place beside her and they sat in silence, looking across the river, to the woods beyond. To both women came mournful thoughts, yet with pleasant memories. And soothing to the spirit of each was the murmur of the woods. To Elinor this plaint of the pines was always a consoling friend: a sad but soothing lullaby which now had become a part of her existence. It recalled a year of priceless memories. But these memories of late had become an unbearable pain,--yet a pain to which she clung.

For the Princess, also, there were memories, stirred by these voices overhead, but softened by time. Hers was not the anguish of a recent sorrow.

From these day-dreams, however, she was brusquely awakened. With no word of warning, the girl at her side had sprung to her feet and faced about.

Into her face had come a look of unspeakable joy. Her lips were parted in excitement, and a sudden color was in her cheeks.

This transformation from deepest grief to an overpowering ecstasy alarmed her companion. And in Elinor's eyes there was a feverish eagerness, intense, almost delirious, as she exclaimed:

"You heard it?"

"What?"

"That sound! The notes of a quail!"

The Princess shook her head.

"Oh, yes, you heard it! Don't say you did not hear it!"

Then, when the Princess, still looking up in vague alarm, gently shook her head a second time, Elinor reached forth a hand imploringly, as it were, and whispered:

"You must have heard it. The whistle of a quail, back there in the woods?"

To the little woman upon the bench these words had no significance, but her sympathy was aroused. That sensitive nerves and an aching heart should succ.u.mb, at last, to despair and loneliness and fasting she could readily understand, and she answered, kindly:

"I heard no bird, dear child, but it may be there. Perhaps your hearing is better than mine."

At this reply all the joy went out of Elinor's face, leaving a look so spiritless and despairing that her friend, who could only guess at her companion's thoughts, added:

"Or it may be nothing. You merely dreamed it, perhaps."

Elinor straightened up. She drew a long breath, and murmured, in a low voice from which all hope had fled: