The Span o' Life Part 15

"My father," I said, after a moment's hesitation, "I do not know that you will understand my story, but I am sure that as a gentleman you 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 free will, and not on account of my office."

Once I began, it was a relief. Since Lady Jane's death I had not spoken freely to a human soul, and before I had gone far, I knew I spake to one who understood.

When I told him of my guardian's death, of my utter loneliness, of my longing to be near him who stood nearer to me than all else in the world, I caught the murmur, "Poor child! poor child!" as he bent over his dipping paddle, and these low words of sympathy unsealed the last door of my heart, and I told him all without reserve: How Lady Jane had diverted her inheritance from her natural heir, Hugh, because he was withheld from writing to her by a sense of delicacy which would have been felt by few; how she had taken such offence at this during her illness that, unknown to me, she had altered her will in my favour, depriving him even of her former provision; how the same delicacy which had prevented him approaching his wealthy kinswoman separated him from me, her heir; how his first separation from Lady Jane had been a voluntary renunciation of his own interest, to ensure what he supposed would be my happiness; how he had, for my sake, performed a hundred sacrifices, which in happier days had been the delight of Lady Jane, his cousin; how all these things so worked on me that, knowing my love would neither speak nor come to me, I had thrown aside all other considerations save that I was bound to make rest.i.tution to one so unjustly wronged, and who had so suffered for my sake. For this I had broken through every barrier convention had set up, and, sure in his affection, I had come forth alone under an a.s.sumed name; "for I am no Madame de St. Just, mon pere, but Margaret Nairn, and he whom I love is Hugh 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 hungered all these years, until the want became so strong that it swept away all the petty rules of life and humbled my pride in the dust. I came because I could not stay, and now my one prayer is to find him."

When I finished, he was silent for a long time. "My child," he said, at last, "that you have greatly dared, I need not tell you.

But you know nothing of the pain, the misconstruction, the evil report to which you have exposed yourself.

"These 'petty rules,' as you style the barriers which society has established, are the safeguards of men and women in all their relations, and these you have chosen to disregard. For this sin against the social law you will suffer as surely as you would for any infraction of that law which, because it is higher, we call divine. You have only begun to realise it, because you have now met with one of those disarrangements we name 'accident.' Your plan, had it not been for this, would have carried you safely to Louisbourg, where you were to have met and married M. de Maxwell; but now your whole design is overthrown; Louisbourg is an impossibility; you are going in an opposite direction. Again, up to the present you have only met with your inferiors, to whom you owed no explanation of your position, but now the first man you meet happens to belong to your own cla.s.s, and your isolation is no longer possible. Being a woman of high courage and principle, you have revealed to him your position in all its helplessness. But are you prepared to do the like when you meet the next person to whom an explanation is due? Can you again say, 'I am Margaret Nairn come out to meet my lover'?"

"Oh, my father, my father!" I cried, with a bewildering shame at my heart, and tears which I could not repress filling my eyes. "How could I foresee this? Everything seemed so plain. I was no longer a young girl, but a woman grown, with all a woman's strength of love, when the death of Lady Jane left me without a soul to whom I 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 for it; I was deprived of its support when I most needed it, through the mistaken sense of honour which drove into exile the gentlest and most devoted of men. He was not one to push his own interest at any time, and now that I am burdened with this undesired fortune, his pride would fasten the door between us. It seemed to me--I thought--that I could come to him and say, 'See, I bring back what was yours by right.' Then, I had no doubts, no hesitations; but now, they crowd in upon me when I am alone, and at times I cannot keep my heart from sinking. I am not afraid, but I am in a dark place, and I know not where to turn for light."

"Go to Her who has known sorrow above all women, my daughter. Each of us will think this over in such light as we may find, and will decide as we may be guided. Meantime do not waste your strength or courage in unavailing regrets or reproaches. Remember this poor woman with you has her own trial and anxiety. Give her your sympathy and your help. Much may come to us through our own effort, if it be 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, and afterwards we sate before the blazing fire, while the priest told us of his life among the roving Indians, of their strange customs and 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 in strong waters. "For the Indian it is no question of French or English; whichever conquers, he must go--nay, is pa.s.sing even now--with only such feeble hands as mine to point the way of his going." And there were tears in his voice as he spake.

Before we parted for the night I asked by what name we might address him.

"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 Gaspe to Michilimacinac. There is but little danger of confusion in the names of missionaries," he added, sadly; "the labourers are few."

When we left him I was glad to find that even Lucy's strict views were not proof against his simple goodness. I had feared the very fact of his priestly office would have prejudiced her, for I knew her sect made little of much the older religions held sacred; but in speaking of him afterwards she simply said:

"The Lord is wiser than we. He knows what vessels to choose for His service."

We were so tired, and there was such a sense of security in our new keeping, that we were asleep before we knew; but during the night I fell into a strange dream, which so distressed me that I awoke, with tears streaming down my face. What it was, I could not clearly gather, but with the awakening came my sorrow afresh, and I lay staring up into the blackness with wide-open eyes.

Presently I heard Lucy's soft whisper, "Dear heart, what is the matter?"

"Lucy, why are you awake?"

"Christopher," she answered. "I know my boy is in sore trouble on my account, and, alas, he has not my faith to support him."

"Lucy," I whispered, after a pause, "I have been selfish. In my own trouble I have not remembered yours."

"Why should you, mistress?" she said, simply. "You have been good to me, beyond what one in my condition has any right to expect. My trouble can have no claim, when you are burdened, perhaps even beyond your strength."

It was strange she should remember the difference between us at such a time. To me, we were simply two women suffering a common sorrow in our severance from those most dear to us, and I longed to take her in my arms and tell her all my pain. Had she been a mere servant, I might have done so, if only for the comfort of crying together; but she was too near my own cla.s.s, and yet not quite of it, to permit me to take this solace. So we talked quietly for a s.p.a.ce, and then fell once more to sleep.

CHAPTER XIV

I AM DIRECTED INTO A NEW PATH

The following morning, when we resumed our quiet way in the canoe, le pere Jean asked, "Well, my daughter, did any light come to you through the darkness?"

"No, my father, but I have found a little quiet."

"That is much. Now I shall ask you to listen to me patiently, for I may say much with which you will not agree, but you will trust me that I only say that which I know to be best. We have every reason to believe a serious descent will be made on Louisbourg in the spring, so that, apart from any other reason, your presence in a town which will in all probability suffer a bombardment, would be unwise and undesirable in the last degree. You have no idea of what war actually means; it is a horror that would haunt you to your dying day."

"But, my father, in that case I should at least be by his side.

That in itself would mean everything to us both."

"That is a point I had not intended to touch on, my daughter. I know the world. I know that men, banished to such exile as that in which M. de Maxwell has lived, change much with the years. Think how you have changed yourself, in happier surroundings than he has known. Think what new connections he may have formed. Did you never think that he--"

"Oh, my father, what would you tell me? Do you know M. de Maxwell?"

"I have never been in Louisbourg," he answered, somewhat coldly, as if my earnestness had hurt him.

"But you do not mean that he may be married?"

"He may be. It would surely not be unnatural."

"It might not in another man, but in him it would be impossible.

He is not as other men."

"May I inquire, my daughter, if he ever asked you in marriage?"

"No, my father; I told you how he was situate. Besides, my guardian then wished me to marry another."

"And you would not?"

"I did not," I answered, with some little hauteur, for I held this was beside the matter, and a subject on which even he had no right to question me.

"Well, that can make but little difference now," he said, after a short pause. "What does make the difference is that Louisbourg is an impossibility for you at the present. Your best course is to go on to Quebec. I shall give you letters to M. de Montcalm, who is so old and intimate a friend that I may ask him any favour. He will see that you have pa.s.sage in the first fitting vessel for France.

In order that you may not be subject to embarra.s.sing surmises, I hold your best plan is to continue to style yourself Mme. de St.

Just; in fact, that has now become a necessity. Once in France, you can, with the influence at your command--for I will see that M. de Montcalm furthers your desire--procure the recall of M. de Maxwell in the spring, and so realise the dream which has now led you so far astray.

"Do not think I am blaming you overmuch," he added, quickly; "you have been led astray because you could not see as the world sees.

Your heart and motive were pure, were generous, but none the less are you subject to those rules which govern so rigorously the cla.s.s to which you belong, whose very existence depends on their observance.

In a romance, the world would no doubt have wept over your perplexities; but in real life, it would crush you, because you have sinned against the only code it acknowledges. Your purity and faithfulness would count for nothing. Believe me, my child, I know it and its ways."

So it was decided; and at once I began to plan with new hope for the desire of my heart; and such was the change it wrought in me that the whole world took on a new interest to my eyes.

For the first time I realised the grandeur of the river into which we had now fully entered; the sullen sweep of black water in the depths, the dance of silver over the shallows, the race of waves down the rapids between its ever-changing banks, now like imprisoning walls with great sombre pines, now open and radiant with the gold and scarlet of the maples, marshalled in order by the white lances of the slender birches.

At times Lucy and I were allowed to walk along the reaches of level sand to relieve the strain on the paddlers, where the river ran swift and strong, and when we at length gained the great stretch of the lake called Matapediac, like the river, my heart was full of the beauty and charm about me.