"To all appearance it was chiefly by Accident, and the grace of Nature."—Carlyle.
"To all appearance it was chiefly by Accident, and the grace of Nature."—Carlyle.
It was still September; for great sorrows come, graves are made and turfed over, and yet the month is not out. Anne had written her letter immediately, accepting her grandaunt's offer, and Père Michaux gave her approval and praise; but the others did not, could not, and she suffered from their silence. It made, however, no change in her purpose; she went about her tasks steadily, toiling all day over the children's clothes, for she had used part of the money in her hands to make them comfortable, and part was to be given to Miss Lois. Her own garments troubled her little; two strong, plain black gowns she considered amply sufficient. Into the midst of all this swift sewing suddenly one day came Rast.
"Why did I do it?" he said, in answer to everybody. "Do you suppose I was going to let Annet go away for a whole long year without saying even good-by? Of course not."
"It is very kind," said Anne, her tired eyes resting on his handsome face gratefully, her sewing for the moment cast aside. Her friends had not been overkind to her lately, and she was deeply touched by this proof of attachment from her old playmate and companion. Rast expressed his affection, as usual, in his own way. He did not say that he had come back to the island because he wished to see her, but because he knew that she wished to see him. And Anne willingly agreed. Dr. Gaston, as guardian of this runaway collegian, gave him a long lecture on his escapade and its consequences, his interrupted studies, a long train of disasters to follow being pictured with stern distinctness. Rast listened to the sermon, or rather sat through it, without impatience: he had a fine sunny temper, and few things troubled him. Heseldom gave any attention to subtleties of meaning, or under-currents, but took the surface impression, and answered it promptly, often putting to rout by his directness trains of reasoning much deeper than his own. So now all he said was, "I could not help coming, sir, because Annet is going away; I wanted to see her." And the old man was silenced in spite of himself.
As he was there, and it could not be helped, Rast, by common consent of the island, was allowed to spend several days unmolested among his old haunts. Then they all began to grow restive, to ask questions, and to speak of the different boats. For the public of small villages has always a singular impatience as to anything like uncertainty in the date of departure of its guests. Many a miniature community has been stirred into heat because it could not find out the day and hour when Mrs. Blank would terminate her visit at her friend's mansion, and with her trunk and bag depart on her way to the railway station; and this not because the community has any objection to Mrs. Blank, or any wish to have her depart, but simply because if she is going, they wish to knowwhen, and have it settled. The few days over, Rast himself was not unwilling to go. He had seen Anne, and Anne was pressed with work, and so constantly threatened by grief that she had to hold it down with an iron effort at almost every moment. If she kept her eyes free from tears and her voice steady, she did all she could; she had no idea that Rast expected more. Rast meanwhile had learned clearly that he was a remarkably handsome, brilliant young fellow, and that the whole world was before him where to choose. He was fond of Anne; the best feelings of his nature and the associations of his whole boyhood's life were twined round her; and yet he was conscious that he had always been very kind to her, and this coming back to the island on purpose to see her—that was remarkably kind. He was glad to do it, of course; but she must appreciate it. He began now to feel that as he had seen her, and as he could not in any case stay until she went, he might as well go. He yielded, therefore, to the first suggestion ofthe higher powers, saying, however, frankly, and with real feeling, that it was hard to bid farewell for so long a time to his old playmate, and that he did not know how he could endure the separation. As the last words were spoken it was Rast who had tear-dimmed eyes; it was Rast's voice that faltered. Anne was calm, and her calmness annoyed him. He would have liked a more demonstrative sorrow. But as he went down the long path on his way to the pier where the steamboat was waiting, the first whistle having already sounded, he forgot everything save his affection for her and the loneliness in store for him after her departure. While she was on their island she seemed near, but New York was another world.
Down in the shadow of the great gate there was an ancient little cherry-tree, low and gnarled, which thrust one crooked arm across the path above the heads of the passers-by. As Rast approached he saw in the dusky twilight a small figure perched upon this bough, and recognized Tita.
"Is that you, child?" he said, pausing and looking up. She answered by dropping into his arms like a kitten, and clinging to him mutely, with her face hidden on his shoulder.
"What an affectionate little creature she is, after all!" he thought, stroking her dark hair. Then, after saying good-by, and giving her a kiss, he disengaged himself without much ceremony, and telling her to be a good girl and mind Miss Lois during the winter, he hurried down to the pier, the second whistle summoning all loiterers on board with shrill harshness. Tita, left alone, looked at her arms, reddened by the force with which she had resisted his efforts to unclasp them. They had been pressed so closely against the rough woollen cloth of his coat that the brown flesh showed the mark of the diagonal pattern.
"SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AIR WHILE THE STEAMER BACKED OUT FROM THE PIERS.""SHE SAT THERE HIGH IN THE AIR WHILE THE STEAMER BACKED OUT FROM THE PIERS."
"It is a hurt," she said, passionately—"it is a hurt." Her eyes flashed, and she shook her small fist at the retreating figure. Then, as the whistle sounded a third time, she climbed quickly to the top of the great gates, andsat there high in the air while the steamer backed out from the piers, turned round, and started westward through the Straits, nothing now save a moving line of lights, the short Northern twilight having faded into night.
When the long sad day of parting was at last over, and everything done that her hands could find to do in that amount of time, Anne, in her own room alone, let her feelings come forth; she was the only watcher in the old house, every other eye was closed in sleep. These moments alone at night, when she allowed herself to weep and think, were like breathing times; then her sorrows came forth. According to her nature, she did not fear or brood upon her own future so much as upon the future of the children; the love in her heart made it seem to her a bitter fate to be forced to leave them and the island. The prospect of the long journey, the city school, the harsh aunt, did not dishearten her; they were but parts of her duty, the duty of her life. It was after midnight; still she sat there. The old shutters, which had been rattling for some time, broke their fastenings, and came violently against the panes with a sound like the report of a pistol.
"The wind is rising," she thought, vaguely, as she rose to fasten them, opening one of the windows for the purpose. In rushed the blast, blowing out the candle, driving books and papers across the floor, and whirling the girl's long loosened hair over her face and round her arms like the coils of a boa-constrictor. Blinded, breathless, she hastily let down the sash again, and peered through the small wrinkled panes. A few stars were visible between the light clouds which drove rapidly from north to south in long regular lines like bars, giving a singular appearance to the sky, which the girl recognized at once, and in the recognition came back to present life. "The equinoctial," she said to herself; "and one of the worst. Where can theHuronbe? Has she had time to reach the shelter of the islands?"
TheHuronwas the steamer which had carried Rast away at twilight. She was a good boat and stanch. ButAnne knew that craft as stanch had been wrecked and driven ashore during these fierce autumn gales which sweep over the chain of lakes suddenly, and strew their coasts with fragments of vessels, and steamers also, from the head of Superior to the foot of Ontario. If there was more sea-room, vessels might escape; if there were better harbors, steamers might seek port; in a gale, an ocean captain has twenty chances for his vessel where the lake captain has one. Anne stood with her face pressed against the window for a long time; the force of the wind increased. She took her candle and went across to a side room whose windows commanded the western pass: she hoped that she might see the lights of the steamer coming back, seeking the shelter of the island before the worst came. But all was dark. She returned to her room, and tried to sleep, but could not. Dawn found her at the window, wakeful and anxious. There was to be no sun that day, only a yellow white light. She knelt down and prayed; then she rose, and braided anew her thick brown hair. When she entered the sitting-room the vivid rose freshness which always came to her in the early morning was only slightly paled by her vigil, and her face seemed as usual to the boys, who were waiting for her. Before breakfast was ready, Miss Lois arrived, tightly swathed in a shawl and veils, and carrying a large basket.
"There is fresh gingerbread in there," she said; "I thought the boys might like some; and—it will be an excellent day to finish those jackets, Anne. No danger of interruption."
She did not mention the gale or Rast; neither did Anne. They sat down to breakfast with the boys, and talked about thread and buttons. But, while they were eating, Louis exclaimed, "Why, there's Dr. Gaston!" and looking up, they saw the chaplain struggling to keep his hat in place as he came up the path sideways, fighting the wind.
"He should just have wrapped himself up, and scudded before it as I did," said Miss Lois.
Anne ran to open the door, and the old clergyman came panting in.
"It is such a miserable day that I thought you would like to have that dictionary, dear; so I brought it down to you," he said, laying the heavy volume on the table.
"Thanks. Have you had breakfast?" said Anne.
"Well, no. I thought I would come without waiting for it this morning, in order that you might have the book, you know. What!youhere, Miss Lois?"
"Yes, sir. I came to help Anne. We are going to have a good long day at these jackets," replied Miss Lois, briskly.
They all sat down at the table again, and Gabriel was going to the kitchen for hot potatoes, when he spied another figure struggling through the gate and driving up the long path. "Père Michaux!" he cried, running to open the door.
In another moment the priest had entered, and was greeting them cheerfully. "As I staid in town overnight, I thought, Anne, that I would come up and look over those books. It is a good day for it; there will be no interruption. I think I shall find a number of volumes which I may wish to purchase."
"It is very kind; I shall like to think of my dear father's books in your hands. But have you breakfasted?"
No, the priest acknowledged that he had not. In truth, he was not hungry when he rose; but now that he saw the table spread, he thought he might eat something after all.
So they sat down again, and Louis went out to help Gabriel bring in more coffee, potatoes, and eggs. There was a good deal of noise with the plates, a good deal of passing to and fro the milk, cream, butter, and salt; a good deal of talking on rather a high key; a great many questions and answers whose irrelevancy nobody noticed. Dr. Gaston told a long story, and forgot the point; but Miss Lois laughed as heartily as though it had been acutely present. Père Michaux then brought up the venerable subject of the lost grave of Father Marquette; and the others entered into it with the enthusiasm of resurrectionists, and as though they had never heard of it before, Miss Lois and Dr. Gaston even seeming to be pittedagainst each other in the amount of interest they showed concerning the dead Jesuit. Anne said little; in truth, there was no space left for her, the others keeping up so brisk a fire of phrases. It was not until Tita, coming into the room, remarked, as she warmed her hands, that breakfast was unusually early, that any stop was made, and then all the talkers fell upon her directly, in lieu of Father Marquette. Miss Lois could not imagine what she meant. It was sad, indeed, to see such laziness in so young a child. Before long she would be asking for breakfast in bed! Dr. Gaston scouted the idea that it was early; he had often been down in the village an hour earlier. It was a fine bracing morning for a walk.
All this time the high ceaseless whistle of the wind, the roar of the water on the beach, the banging to and fro of the shutters here and there on the wide rambling old mansion, the creaking of the near trees that brushed its sides, and the hundred other noises of the gale, made the room seem strange and uncomfortable; every now and then the solid old frame-work vibrated as a new blast struck it, and through the floor and patched carpet puffs of cold air came up into the room and swept over their feet. All their voices were pitched high to overcome these sounds.
Tita listened to the remarks addressed to her, noted the pretense of bustle and hearty appetite, and then, turning to the window, she said, during a momentary lull in the storm, "I do not wonder that you can not eat, when poor Rast is somewhere on that black water."
Dr. Gaston pushed away his plate, Miss Lois sat staring at the wall with her lips tightly compressed, while Anne covered her face with her hands to keep back the tears. Père Michaux rose and began to walk up and down the room; for a moment, besides his step, there was no sound save the roar of the storm. Tita's words had ended all pretense, clothed their fear in language, and set it up in their midst. From that moment, through the long day, there was no more disguise; every cloud, every great wave, was watched, every fresh fierce blast swept through four anxious hearts. They were very silent now, and as thestorm grew wilder, even the boys became awed, and curled themselves together on the broad window-seat, speaking in whispers. At noon a vessel drove by under bare poles; she seemed to be unmanageable, and they could see the signals of the sailors as they passed the island. But there was no life-boat, and nothing else could live in that sea. At two o'clock a large bark came into view, and ran ashore on the reef opposite; there she lay, pounding to pieces for two hours. They saw the crew try to launch the boats; one was broken into fragments in a moment, then another. The third and last floated, filled with humanity, and in two minutes she also was swamped, and dark objects that they knew were men were sucked under. Then the hull of a schooner, with one mast standing, drove aimlessly by, so near the shore that with the glass they could see the features of the sailors lashed to the pole.
"Oh! if we could but save them!" said Anne. "How near they are!" But even as she spoke the mast fell, and they saw the poor fellows drown before their eyes.
At four theHuroncame into sight from the western pass, laboring heavily, fighting her way along inch by inch, but advancing. "Thanks be to the Lord for this!" said the chaplain, fervently. Père Michaux took off his velvet cap, and reverently made the sign of the cross.
"'Twouldn't be any harm to sing a hymn, I guess," said Miss Lois, wiping her eyes. Then Anne sang the "De Profundis." Amid the storm all the voices rose together, the children and Miss Lois and the two priests joining in the old psalm of King David, which belongs to all alike, Romanist and Protestant, Jew and Christian, bond and free.
"I do feel better," said Miss Lois. "But the steamer is still far off."
"The danger will be when she attempts to turn," said Père Michaux.
They all stood at the windows watching the boat as she rolled and pitched in the heavy sea, seeming half the time to make no headway at all, but on the contrary to be beaten back, yet doggedly persisting. At five o'clockshe had reached the point where she must turn and run the gauntlet in order to enter port, with the gale striking full upon her side. Every front window in the village now held gazing faces, and along the piers men were clustered under the lee of the warehouses with ropes and hooks, waiting to see what they could do. The steamer seemed to hesitate a moment, and was driven back. Then she turned sharply and started in toward the piers with all steam on. The watchers at the Agency held their breath. For a moment or two she advanced rapidly, then the wind struck her, and she careened until her smoke-stacks seemed almost to touch the water. The boys cried out; Miss Lois clasped her hands. But the boat had righted herself again by changing her course, and was now drifting back to her old station. Again and again she made the attempt, now coming slowly, now with all the sudden speed she could muster; but she never advanced far before the lurch came, throwing her on her side, with one paddle-wheel in the air, and straining every timber in her frame. After half an hour of this work she drew off, and began to ply slowly up and down under the partial shelter of the little island opposite, as if resting. But there was not a place where she could cast anchor, nor any safety in flight; the gale would outlast the night, and the village harbor was her best hope. The wind was increasing, the afternoon sinking into night; every one on the island and on board also knew that when darkness fell, the danger, already great, would be trebled. Menacing and near on every side were long low shore-lines, which looked harmless enough, yet held in their sands the bones of many a drowned man, the ribs of many a vessel.
"Why doesn't she make another trial?" said Dr. Gaston, feverishly wiping his eyeglasses. "There is no use in running up and down under that island any longer."
"The captain is probably making everything ready for a final attempt," answered Père Michaux.
And so it seemed, for, after a few more minutes had passed, the steamer left her shelter, and proceeded cautiously down to the end of the little island, keeping asclosely in shore as she could, climbing each wave with her bows, and then pitching down into the depth on the other side, until it seemed as if her hind-quarters must be broken off, being too long to fit into the watery hollows under her. Having reached the end of the islet, she paused, and slowly turned.
"Now for it," said Père Michaux.
It was sunset-time in pleasant parts of the land; here the raw, cold, yellow light, which had not varied since early morning, giving a peculiar distinctness to all objects near or far, grew more clear for a few moments—the effect, perhaps, of the after-glow behind the clouds which had covered the sky all day unmoved, fitting as closely as the cover upon a dish. As the steamer started out into the channel, those on shore could see that the passengers were gathered on the deck as if prepared for the worst. They were all there, even the children. But now no one thought any more, only watched; no one spoke, only breathed. The steamer was full in the gale, and on her side. Yet she kept along, righting herself a little now and then, and then careening anew. It seemed as though she would not be able to make headway with her one wheel, but she did. Then the islanders began to fear that she would be driven by too far out; but the captain had allowed for that. In a few seconds more it became evident that she would just brush the end of the longest pier, with nothing to spare. Then the men on shore ran down, the wind almost taking them off their feet, with ropes, chains, grappling-irons, and whatever they could lay their hands on. The steamer, now unmanageable, was drifting rapidly toward them on her side, the passengers clinging to her hurricane-deck and to the railings. A great wave washed over her when not twenty feet from the pier, bearing off several persons, who struggled in the water a moment, and then disappeared. Anne covered her eyes with her hands, and prayed that Rast might not be among these. When she looked again, the boat was fastened by two, by ten, by twenty, ropes and chains to the end of the pier, bows on, and pulling at her halters like an unmanageablesteed, while women were throwing their children into the arms of those below, and men were jumping madly over, at the risk of breaking their ankle-bones. Anything to be on the blessed shore! In three minutes a hundred persons were on the pier, and Rast among them. Anne, Dr. Gaston, Père Michaux, Miss Lois, and the children all recognized his figure instantly, and the two old men started down through the storm to meet him, in their excitement running along like school-boys, hand in hand.
Rast was safe. They brought him home to the Agency in triumph, and placed him in a chair before the fire. They all wanted to touch him, in order to feel that he was really there, to be glad over him, to make much of him; they all talked together. Anne came to his side with tender affection. He was pale and moved. Instinctively and naturally as a child turns to its mother he turned to her, and, before them all, laid his head down upon her shoulder, and clung to her without speaking. The elders drew away a little; the boys stopped their clamor. Only Tita kept her place by the youth's side, and frowned darkly on the others.
Then they broke into a group again. Rast recovered himself, Dr. Gaston began to make puns, and Père Michaux and Miss Lois revived the subject of Father Marquette as a safe ladder by which they could all come down to common life again. A visit to the kitchen was made, and a grand repast, dinner and supper combined, was proposed and carried into effect by Miss Lois, Père Michaux, and the Irish soldier's wife, the three boys acting as volunteers. Even Dr. Gaston found his way to the distant sanctuary through the series of empty rooms that preceded it, and proffering his services, was set to toasting bread—a duty he accomplished by attentively burning one side of every slice, and forgetting the other, so that there was a wide latitude of choice, and all tastes were suited. With his wig pushed back, and his cheery face scarlet from the heat, he presented a fine contrast to Père Michaux, who, quietly and deliberately as usual, was seasoning a stew with scientific care, while Miss Lois,beating eggs, harried the Irish soldier's wife until she ran to and fro, at her wits' end.
Tita kept guard in the sitting-room, where Anne had been decisively ordered to remain and entertain Rast; the child sat in her corner, watching them, her eyes narrowed under their partly closed lids. Rast had now recovered his usual spirits, and talked gayly; Anne did not say much, but leaned back in her chair listening, thankfully quiet and happy. The evening was radiant with contentment; it was midnight when they separated. The gale was then as wild as ever; but who cared now whether the old house shook?
Rast was safe.
At the end of the following day at last the wind ceased: twenty-two wrecks were counted in the Straits alone, with many lives lost. The dead sailors were washed ashore on the island beaches and down the coast, and buried in the sands where they were found. The friends of those who had been washed overboard from the steamer came up and searched for their bodies up and down the shores for miles; some found their lost, others, after days of watching in vain, went away sorrowing, thinking, with a new idea of its significance, of that time "when the sea shall give up her dead."
After the storm came halcyon days. The trees now showed those brilliant hues of the American autumn which as yet no native poet has so strongly described, no native artist so vividly painted, that the older nations across the ocean have fit idea of their splendor. Here, in the North, the scarlet, orange, and crimson trees were mingled with pines, which made the green of the background; indeed, the islets all round were like gorgeous bouquets set in the deep blue of the water, and floating quietly there.
Rast was to return to college in a few days. He was in such gay spirits that Miss Lois was vexed, although she could hardly have told why. Père Michaux, however, aided and encouraged all the pranks of the young student. He was with him almost constantly, not returning to the hermitage at all during the time of hisstay; Miss Lois was surprised to see how fond he was of the youth.
"No one can see Rast a moment alone now," she said, complainingly; "Père Michaux is always with him."
"Why do you want to see him alone?" said Tita, from her corner, looking up for a moment from her book.
"Don't you know that it is rude to ask questions?" said Miss Lois, sharply. But although she gave no reasons, it was plain that for some reason she was disappointed and angry.
The last day came, the last afternoon; the smoke of the coming steamer could be seen beyond the blue line of the point. No danger now of storm; the weather would be fair for many days. Père Michaux had proposed that Anne, Rast, and himself should go up to the heights behind the house and watch the sunset hues for the last time that year; they were to come back to the Agency in time to meet Dr. Gaston and Miss Lois, and take tea there all together, before the steamer's departure. Tita announced that she wished to go to the heights also.
"Come along then, Puss," said Rast, giving her his hand.
They set out through the garden, and up the narrow winding path; but the ascent was steep, and the priest climbed slowly, pausing now and then to take breath. Rast staid with him, while Anne strolled forward; Tita waited with Rast. They had been sitting on a crag for several minutes, when suddenly Rast exclaimed: "Hallo! there's Spotty's dog! he has been lost for three days, the scamp. I'll go up and catch him, and be back in a moment." While still speaking he was already scaling the rocks above them, not following the path by which Anne had ascended, but swinging himself up, hand over hand, with the dexterity and strength of a mountaineer; in a minute or two he was out of sight. Spotty's dog was a favorite in the garrison, Spotty, a dilapidated old Irish soldier, being his owner in name. Spotty said that the dog had "followed" him, when he was passing through Detroit; if he did, he had never repeated the act, but had persistently gone in the opposite direction ever since. Butthe men always went out and hunted for him all over the island, sooner or later finding him and bringing him back; for they liked to see him dance on his mournful hind legs, go through the drill, and pretend to be dead—feats which once formed parts of his répertoire as member of the travelling canine troupe which he had deserted at Detroit. It was considered quite an achievement to bring back this accomplished animal, and Rast was not above the glory. But it was not to be so easy as he had imagined: several minutes passed and he did not return, Spotty's dog having shown his thin nose and one eye but an instant at the top of the height, and then withdrawn them, leaving no trace behind.
"We will go up the path, and join Anne," said Père Michaux; "we will not wait longer for Rast. He can find us there as well as here."
They started; but after a few steps the priest's foot slipped on a rolling stone; he lost his balance, and half fell, half sank to the ground, fortunately directly along the narrow path, and not beyond its edge. When he attempted to rise, he found that his ankle was strained: he was a large man, and he had fallen heavily. Tita bound up the place as well as she could with his handkerchief and her own formed into a bandage; but at best he could only hobble. He might manage to go down the path to the house, but evidently he could not clamber further. Again they waited for Rast, but he did not come. They called, but no one answered. They were perched half way up the white cliff, where no one could hear them. Tita's whole face had grown darkly red, as though the blood would burst through; she looked copper-colored, and her expression was full of repressed impatience. Père Michaux, himself more perturbed and angry than so slight a hurt would seem to justify, happening to look at her, was seized with an idea. "Run up, child," he said, "and join Anne; do not leave her again. Tell her what has happened, and—mind what I say exactly, Tita—do not leave her."
Tita was off up the path and out of sight in an instant. The old priest, left to himself, hobbled slowly down thehill and across the garden to the Agency, not without some difficulty and pain.
Anne had gone up to the heights, and seated herself in good faith to wait for the others; Rast had gone after the dog in good faith, and not to seek Anne. Yet they met, and the others did not find them.
The dog ran away, and Rast after him, down the north path for a mile, and then straight into the fir wood, where nothing can be caught, man or dog. So Rast came back, not by the path, but through the forest, and found Anne sitting in a little nook among the arbor vitæ, where there was an opening, like a green window, overlooking the harbor. He sat down by her side, and fanned himself with his hat for a few moments, and then he went down to find Père Michaux and bring him up thither. But by that time the priest had reached the house, and he returned, saying that he saw by the foot-marks that the old man had for some reason gone down the hill again, leaving them to watch their last sunset alone. He threw himself down by Anne's side, and together they looked through their green casement.
"The steamer has turned the point," said Anne.
They both watched it in silence. They heard the evening gun from the fort.
"I shall never forgive myself, Rast, for having let you go before so carelessly. When the gale began that night, every blast seemed to go through my heart."
"I thought you did not appear to care much," said Rast, in an aggrieved tone.
"Did you notice it, then? It was only because I have to repress myself every moment, dear, lest I should give way entirely. You know I too must go far away—far away from all I love. I feel it very deeply."
"YOU KNOW I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY.""YOU KNOW I TOO MUST GO FAR AWAY."
She turned toward him as she spoke, with her eyes full of tears. Her hat was off, and her face, softened by emotion, looked for the first time to his eyes womanly. For generally that frank brow, direct gaze, and impersonal expression gave her the air of a child. Rast had never thought that Anne was beautiful; he had never thought of himself as her lover. He was very fond ofher, of course; and she was very fond of him; and he meant to be good to her always. But that was all. Now, however, suddenly a new feeling came over him; he realized that her eyes were very lovely, and that her lips trembled with emotion. True, even then she did not turn from him, rather toward him; but he was too young himself to understand these indications, and, carried away by her sweetness, his own affection, and the impulse of the moment, he put his arm round her, and drew her toward him, sure that he loved her, and especially sure that she loved him. Poor Anne, who would soon have to part with him—dear Anne, his old playmate and friend!
Half an hour later he came into the Agency sitting-room, where the others were waiting, with a quick step and sparkling eyes, and, with the tone and manner of a young conqueror, announced, "Dr. Gaston, and all of you, I am going to marry Annet. We are engaged."
"We are engaged."
Dr. Gaston, who was standing, sat down as though struck down. Miss Lois jumped up, and began to laugh and cry in a breath. Père Michaux, who was sitting with his injured foot resting on a stool, ground his hands down suddenly on the arms of his chair with a sharp displeasure visible for an instant on his face. But only for an instant; it was gone before any one saw it.
"Oh, my darling boy!" said Miss Lois, with her arms round Rast's neck. "I always knew you would. You are made for each other, and always were.Nowwe shallhave you both with us always, thank the Lord!" Then she sobbed again, and took a fresh and tighter hold of him. "I'll take the boys, dear; you need not be troubled with them. And I'll come over here and live, so that you and Annet can have the church-house; it's in much better repair; only there should be a new chimney. The dearest wish of my heart is now fulfilled, and I am quite ready to die."
Rast was kind always; it was simply impossible for him to say or do anything which could hurt the feelings of any one present. Such a course is sometimes contradictory, since those who are absent likewise have their feelings; but it is always at the moment agreeable. He kissed Miss Lois affectionately, thanked her, and led her to her chair; nor did he stop there, but stood beside her with her hand in his until she began to recover her composure, wipe her eyes, and smile. Then he went across to Dr. Gaston, his faithful and early friend.
"I hope I have your approval, sir?" he said, looking very tall and handsome as he stood by the old man's chair.
"Yes, yes," said the chaplain, extending his hand. "I was—I was startled at first, of course; you have both seemed like children to me. But if it must be, it must be. Only—make her happy, Rast; make her happy."
"I shall try, sir."
"Come, doctor, acknowledge that you have always expected it," said Miss Lois, breaking into permanent sunshine, and beginning to wipe her spectacles in a business-like way, which showed that the moisture was ended for the present.
"No—yes; I hardly know what I have expected," answered the chaplain, still a little suffocated, and speaking thickly. "I do not think I have expected anything."
"Is there any one else you would prefer to have Rast marry? Answer me that."
"No, no; certainly not."
"Is there any one you would prefer to have Anne marry?"
"Why need she marry at all?" said the chaplain,boldly, breaking through the chain of questions closing round him. "I am sure you yourself are a bright example, Miss Hinsdale, of the merits of single life."
But, to his surprise, Miss Lois turned upon him.
"What! have Anne live through my loneliness, my always-being-misunderstood-ness, my general sense of a useless ocean within me, its breaking waves dashed high on a stern and rock-bound coast?" she said, quoting vehemently from the only poem she knew. "Never!"
While Dr. Gaston was still gazing at her, Rast turned to Père Michaux. "I am sure of your approval," he said, smiling confidently. "I have had no doubt of that."
"Haven't you?" said the priest, dryly.
"No, sir: you have always been my friend."
"And I shall continue to be," said Père Michaux. But he rose as he spoke, and hobbled into the hall, closing the door behind him.
Tita was hurrying through the garden on her way from the heights; he waited for her.
"Where have you been?" he asked, sternly.
The child seemed exhausted, her breath came in panting gasps; her skirt was torn, her hair streaming, and the dark red hue of her face was changed to a yellow pallor.
"I have run and run, I have followed and followed, I have listened with my ear on the ground; I have climbed trees to look, I have torn a path through bushes, and I have not found them," she said, huskily, a slight froth on her dry lips as she spoke, her eyes bright and feverish.
"They are here," said Père Michaux; "they have been at home some time. What can you have been about, Angélique?"
"I have told you," said the child, rolling her apron tightly in her small brown hands. "I followed his track. He went down the north path. I traced him for a mile; then I lost him. In the fir wood. Then I crept, and looked, and listened."
"You followed Rast, then, when I told you to go to Anne! Enough. I thought, at least, you were quick, Tita; but it seems you are dull—dull as an owl," said the priest, turning away. He hobbled to the front door andsat down on the threshold. "After all my care," he said to himself, "to be foiled by a rolling stone!"
Through the open window he heard Miss Lois ask where Anne was. "Did she not come back with you, Rast?"
"Yes, but she was obliged to go directly to the kitchen. Something about the tea, I believe."
"Oh no; it was because she did not want to face us," said Miss Lois, archly. "I will go and bring her, the dear child!"
Père Michaux smiled contemptuously in the twilight outside; but he seemed to have recovered his equanimity also. "Something about the tea!" he said to himself. "Something about the tea!" He rose and hobbled into the sitting-room again with regained cheerfulness. Miss Lois was leading in Anne. "Here she is," said the old maid. "I found her; hiding, of course, and trembling."
Anne, smiling, turned down her cuffs, and began to light the lamp as usual. "I had to watch the broiling of the birds," she said. "You would not like to have them burned, would you?"
Père Michaux now looked thoroughly happy. "By no means," he replied, hobbling over and patting her on the head—"by no means, my dear." Then he laughed contentedly, and sat down. The others might talk now; he was satisfied.
When the lamp was lighted, everybody kissed Anne formally, and wished her happiness, Père Michaux going through the little rite with his finest Parisian courtesy. The boys added their caresses, and Gabriel said, "Of coursenowyou won't go away, Annet?"
"Yes, dear, I must go just the same," said the sister.
"Certainly," said Père Michaux. "Erastus can not marry yet; he must go through college, and afterward establish himself in life."
"They could be married next spring," suggested Miss Lois: "we could help them at the beginning."
"Young Pronando is less of a man than I suppose, if he allows any one save himself to take care of his wife," said Père Michaux, sententiously.
TITA LISTENING.TITA LISTENING.
"Of course I shall not," said Rast, throwing back his handsome head with an air of pride.
"That is right; stand by your decision," said the priest. "And now let us have tea. Enough has happened for one day, I think, and Rast must go at dawn. He can write as many letters as he pleases, but in real life he has now to show us what metal he is made of; I do not doubt but that it will prove pure ore."
Dr. Gaston sat silent; he drank his tea, and every now and then looked at Anne. She was cheerful and contented; her eyes rested upon Rast with confidence; she smiled when he spoke as if she liked to hear his voice; but of consciousness, embarrassment, hesitation, there was not a trace. The chaplain rubbed his forehead again and again, and pushed his wig so far back that it looked like a brown aureole. But if he was perplexed, Miss Lois was not; the happy old maid supplied all the consciousness, archness, and sentimental necessities of the occasion. She had kept them suppressed for years, and had a large store on hand. She radiated romance.
While they were taking tea, Tita entered, languid and indifferent as a city lady. No, she did not care for any tea, she said; and when the boys, all together, told her the great news, she merely smiled, fanned herself, and said she had long expected it.
Miss Lois looked up sharply, with the intention of contradicting this statement, but Tita gazed back at her so calmly that she gave it up.
After Père Michaux had left her in the hall, she had stolen to the back door of the sitting-room, laid her ear on the floor close to the crack under it, and overheard all. Then, trembling and silent, she crept up to her own room, bolted the door, and, throwing herself down upon the floor, rolled to and fro in a sort of frenzy. But she was a supple, light little creature, and made no sound. When her anger had spent itself, and she had risen to her feet, those below had no consciousness that the ceiling above them had been ironed all over on its upper side by the contact of a fierce little body, hot and palpitating wildly.
Père Michaux threw himself into that evening withall the powers he possessed fully alert; there were given so many hours to fill, and he filled them. The young lover Rast, the sentimental Miss Lois, the perplexed old chaplain, even the boys, all gave way to his influence, and listened or laughed at his will. Only Tita sat apart, silent and cold. Ten o'clock, eleven o'clock—it was certainly time to separate. But the boys, although sleepy and irritable, refused to go to bed, and fought with each other on the hearth-rug. Midnight; the old priest's flow of fancy and wit was still in full play, and the circle unbroken.
At last Dr. Gaston found himself yawning. "The world will not stop, even if we do go to bed, my friends," he said, rising. "We certainly ought not to talk or listen longer to-night."
Père Michaux rose also, and linked his arm in Rast's. "I will walk home with you, young sir," he said, cordially. "Miss Lois, we will take you as far as your gate."
Miss Lois was willing, but a little uncertain in her movements; inclined toward delay. Would Anne lend her a shawl? And, when the young girl had gone up stairs after it, would Rast take the candle into the hall, lest she should stumble on her way down?
"She will not stumble," said Père Michaux. "She never stumbled in her life, Miss Lois. Of what are you thinking?"
Miss Lois put on the shawl; and then, when they had reached the gate, "Run back, Rast," she said; "I have left my knitting."
"Here it is," said the priest, promptly producing it. "I saw it on the table, and took charge of it."
Miss Lois was very much obliged; but she was sure she heard some one calling. Perhaps it was Anne. If Rast—
"Only a night-bird," said Père Michaux, walking on. He left Miss Lois at the church-house; and then, linking his arm again in Rast's, accompanied him to his lodgings. "I am going to give you a parting present," he said—"a watch, the one I am wearing now. I have another, which will do very well for this region."
The priest's watch was a handsome one, and Rast wasstill young enough to feel an immense satisfaction in such a possession. He took it with many thanks, and frankly expressed delight. The old priest accompanied his gift with fatherly good wishes and advice. It was now so late that he would take a bed in the house, he thought. In this way, too, he would be with Rast, and see the last of him.
But love laughs at parsons.
Père Michaux saw his charge to bed, and went to bed himself in an adjoining room. He slept soundly; but at the first peep of dawn his charge was gone—gone to meet Anne on the heights, as agreed between them the night before.
O wise Père Michaux!
The sun was not yet above the horizon, but Anne was there. The youth took her hands in his, and looked at her earnestly. He was half surprised himself at what he had done, and he looked at her again to see how it had happened. All his life from earliest childhood she had been his dearest companion and friend; but now she was his betrothed wife, would she be in any way different? The sun came up, and showed that she was just the same—calm, clear-eyed, and sweet-voiced. What more could he ask?
"Doyou love me, Annet?" he said more than once, looking at her as though she ought to be some new and only half-comprehended person.
"You know I do," she answered. Then, as he asked again, "Why do you ask me?" she said. "Has not my whole life shown it?"
"Yes," he answered, growing more calm. "I believe youhaveloved me all your life, Annet."
"I have," replied the girl.
He kissed her gently. "I shall always be kind to you," he said. Then, with a half-sigh, "You will like to live here?"
"It is my home, Rast. However, other places will not seem strange after I have seen the great city. For of course I must go to New York, just the same, to learn to be a teacher, and help the children: we may be separated for years."
"Oh no; I shall be able to take care of you all before long," said Rast, grandly. "As soon as I have been through college I shall look about and decide upon something. Would you like me to be a lawyer? Or a surgeon? Then there is always the army. Or we might have a farm."
"There is only Frobisher's."
"Oh, you mean here on the island? Well, Frobisher's would do. We could repair the old house, and have a pony-cart, and drive in to town." Here the steamer sounded its first whistle. That meant that it would start in half an hour. Rast left the future and his plans in mid-air, and took Anne in his arms with real emotion. "Good-by, dear, good-by," he said. "Do not grieve, or allow yourself to be lonely. I shall see you soon in some way, even if I have to go to New York for the purpose. Remember that you are my betrothed wife now. That thought will comfort you."
"Yes," said Anne, her sincere eyes meeting his. Then she clung to him for a few moments, sobbing. "You must go away, and I must go away," she said, amid her tears: "nothing is the same any more. Father is dead, and the whole world will be between us. Nothing is the same any more. Nothing is the same."
"Distance is nothing nowadays," said the youth, soothing her; "I can reach you in almost no time, Annet."
"Yes, but nothing is the same any more; nothing ever will be the same ever again," she sobbed, oppressed for the first time in her life by the vague uncertainties of the future.
"Oh yes, it will," said her companion, decidedly. "I will come back here if you wish it so much, and you shall come back, and we will live here on this same old island all our lives. A man has but to choose his home, you know."
Anne looked somewhat comforted. Yet only part of her responded to his words; she still felt that nothing would ever be quite the same again. She could not bring back her father; she could not bring back their long happychildhood. The door was closed behind them, and they must now go out into the wide world.
The second whistle sounded—another fifteen minutes gone. They ran down the steep path together, meeting Miss Lois on her way up, a green woollen hood on her head as a protection against the morning air.
"You will want a ring, my dears," she said, breathlessly, as she kissed them—"an engagement ring; it is the custom, and fortunately I have one for you."
With a mixture of smiles and tears of delight and excitement, she took from a little box an old-fashioned ring, and handed it to Rast.
"It was your mother's, dear," she said to Anne; "your father gave it to me as a memento of her when you were a baby. It is most fit that you should wear it."
Rast examined the slender little circlet without much admiration. It was a hoop of very small rubies placed close together, with as little gold visible as was possible. "I meant to give Annet a diamond," he said, with the tone of a young duke.
"Oh no, Rast," exclaimed the girl.
"But take this for the present," urged the old maid. "You must not let her go from you without one; it would be a bad sign. Put it on yourself, Rast; I want to see you do it."
Rast slipped the circlet into its place on Anne's finger, and then, with a little flourish which became him well, he uncovered his head, bent his knee, and raised the hand to his lips.
"But you have put it on the right hand," said Miss Lois, in dismay.
"It does not make any difference," said Rast. "And besides, I like the right hand; it means more."
Rast did not admire the old-fashioned ring, but to Anne it was both beautiful and sacred. She gazed at it with a lovely light in her eyes, and an earnest thoughtfulness. Any one could see how gravely she regarded the little ceremony.
When they came back to the house, Dr. Gaston was already there, and Père Michaux was limping up the pathfrom the gate. He caught sight of Rast and Anne together. "Check!" he said to himself. "So much for being a stupid old man. Outwitted yesterday by a rolling stone, and to-day by your own inconceivable dullness. And you gave away your watch—did you?—to prevent what has happened! The girl has probably bound herself formally, and now you will have her conscience against you as well as all the rest. Bah!"
But while thinking this, he came forward and greeted them all happily and cheerfully, whereas the old chaplain, who really had no especial objection to the engagement, was cross and silent, and hardly greeted anybody. He knew that he was ill-tempered, and wondered why he should be. "Anything unexpected is apt to disturb the mind," he remarked, apologetically, to the priest, taking out his handkerchief and rubbing his forehead violently, as if to restore equanimity by counter-circulation. But however cross or quiet the others might be, Miss Lois beamed for all; she shed forth radiance like Roman candles even at that early hour, when the air was still chill and the sky gray with mist. The boys came down stairs with their clothes half on, and then Rast said good-by, and hurried down to the pier, and they all stood together on the old piazza, and watched the steamer back out into the stream, turn round, and start westward, the point of the island soon hiding it from view. Then Dr. Gaston took his unaccountable ill temper homeward, Père Michaux set sail for the hermitage, Anne sat down to sew, and only Miss Lois let every-day life take care of itself, and cried on.
"I know there will be no more storms," she said; "it isn't that. But it is everything that has happened, Anne dear: the engagement, and the romance of it all!"
Tita now entered: she had not appeared before. She required that fresh coffee should be prepared for her, and she obtained it. For the Irish soldier's wife was almost as much afraid of her as the boys were. She glanced at Miss Lois's happy tears, at Anne's ruby ring, at the general disorder.
"And all this for a mere boy!" she said, superbly.
Miss Lois stopped crying from sheer astonishment. "And pray, may I ask, what are you?" she demanded.
"A girl; and about on a line with the boy referred to," replied Miss Tita, composedly. "Anne is much too old."
The boys gave a laugh of scorn. Tita turned and looked at them, and they took to the woods for the day. Miss Lois cried no more, but began to sew; there was a vague dread in her heart as to what the winter would be with Tita in the church-house. "If I could only cut off her hair!" she thought, with a remembrance of Samson. "Never was such hair seen on any child before."
As Tita sat on her low bench, the two long thick braids of her black hair certainly did touch the floor; and most New England women, who, whether from the nipping climate or their Roundhead origin, have, as a class, rather scanty locks, would have agreed with Miss Lois that "such a mane" was unnatural on a girl of that age—indeed, intolerable.
Amid much sewing, planning, and busy labor, time flew on. Dr. Gaston did not pretend to do anything else now save come down early in the morning to the Agency, and remain nearly all day, sitting in an arm-chair, sometimes with a book before him, but hardly turning a page. His dear young pupil, his almost child, was going away. He tried not to think how lonely he should be without her. Père Michaux came frequently; he spoke to Tita with a new severity, and often with a slight shade of sarcasm in his voice. "Are you not a little too severe with her?" asked Miss Lois one day, really fearing lest Tita, in revenge, might go out on some dark night and set fire to the house.
"He is my priest, isn't he, and not yours? He shall order me to do what he pleases, and I shall do it," answered the small person whom she had intended to defend.
And now every day more and more beautiful grew the hues on the trees; it was a last intensity of color before the long, cold, dead-white winter. All the maple and oak leaves were now scarlet, orange, or crimson, each hue vivid; they died in a glory to which no tropical leaf ever attains. The air was warm, hazy, and still—the true air of Indian summer; and as if to justify the term,the Indians on the mainland and islands were busy bringing potatoes and game to the village to sell, fishing, cutting wood, and begging, full of a tardy activity before the approach of winter. Anne watched them crossing in their canoes, and landing on the beach, and when occasionally the submissive, gentle-eyed squaws, carrying their little pappooses, came to the kitchen door to beg, she herself went out to see them, and bade the servant give them something. They were Chippewas, dark-skinned and silent, wearing short calico skirts, and a blanket drawn over their heads. Patient and uncomplaining by nature, they performed almost all the labor on their small farms, cooked for their lords and masters, and took care of the children, as their share of the duties of life, the husbands being warriors, and above common toil. Anne knew some of these Chippewa women personally, and could talk to them in their own tongue; but it was not old acquaintance which made her go out and see them now. It was the feeling that they belonged to the island, to the life which she must soon leave behind. She felt herself clinging to everything—to the trees, to the white cliffs, to the very sunshine—like a person dragged along against his will, who catches at every straw.
The day came at last; the eastern-bound steamer was at the pier; Anne must go. Dr. Gaston's eyes were wet; with choked utterance he gave her his benediction. Miss Lois was depressed; but her depression had little opportunity to make itself felt, on account of the clamor and wild behavior of the boys, which demanded her constant attention. The clamor, however, was not so alarming as the velvety goodness of Tita. What could the child be planning? The poor old maid sighed, as she asked herself this question, over the life that lay before her. But twenty such lives would not wear out Lois Hinsdale. Père Michaux was in excellent spirits, and kept them all in order. He calmed the boys, encouraged Anne, cheered the old chaplain and Miss Lois, led them all down the street and on board the boat, then back on the pier again, where they could see Anne standing on the high deck above them. He shook the boys when they howled intheir grief too loudly, and as the steamer moved out into the stream he gave his arm to Miss Lois, who, for the moment forgetting everything save that the dear little baby whom she had loved so long was going away, burst into convulsive tears. Tita sat on the edge of the pier, and watched the boat silently. She did not speak or wave her handkerchief; she shed no tears. But long after the others had gone home, when the steamer was a mere speck low down on the eastern horizon, she sat there still.
Yes, Anne was gone.
And now that she was gone, it was astonishing to see what a void was left. No one had especially valued or praised her while she was there; she was a matter of course. But now that she was absent, the whole life of the village seemed changed. There was no one to lead the music on Sundays, standing by the organ and singing clearly, and Miss Lois's playing seemed now doubly dull and mechanical. There was no one going up to the fort at a certain hour every morning, passing the windows where the fort ladies sat, with books under her arm. There was no one working in the Agency garden; no one coming with a quick step into the butcher's little shop to see what he had, and consult him, not without hidden anxiety, as to the possibility of a rise in prices. There was no one sewing on the piazza, or going out to find the boys, or sailing over to the hermitage with the four black-eyed children, who plainly enough needed even more holy instruction than they obtained. They all knew everything she did, and all her ways. And as it was a small community, they missed her sadly. The old Agency, too, seemed to become suddenly dilapidated, almost ruinous; the boys were undeniably rascals, and Tita "a little minx." Miss Lois was without doubt a dogmatic old maid, and the chaplain not what he used to be, poor old man—fast breaking up. Only Père Michaux bore the test unaltered. But then he had not leaned upon this young girl as the others had leaned—the house and garden, the chaplain as well as the children: the strong young nature had in one way supported them all.
Meanwhile the girl herself was journeying down thelake. She stood at the stern, watching the island grow distant, grow purple, grow lower and lower on the surface of the water, until at last it disappeared; then she covered her face and wept. After this, like one who leaves the vanished past behind him, and resolutely faces the future, she went forward to the bow and took her seat there. Night came on; she remained on deck through the evening: it seemed less lonely there than among the passengers in the cabin. She knew the captain; and she had been especially placed in his charge, also, by Père Michaux, as far as one of the lower-lake ports, where she was to be met by a priest and taken to the eastern-bound train. The captain, a weather-beaten man, past middle age, came after a while and sat down near her.
"What is that red light over the shore-line?" said Anne to her taciturn companion, who sat and smoked near by, protecting her paternally by his presence, but having apparently few words, and those husky, at his command.
"Fire in the woods."
"Is it not rather late in the season for a forest fire?"
"Well, there it is," answered the captain, declining discussion of the point in face of obvious fact.
Anne had already questioned him on the subject of light-houses. Would he like to live in a light-house?
No, he would not.
But they might be pleasant places in summer, with the blue water all round them: she had often thought she would like to live in one.
Well,hewouldn't.
But why?
Resky places sometimes when the wind blew: give him a good stiddy boat, now.
After a time they came nearer to the burning forest. Anne could see the great columns of flame shoot up into the sky; the woods were on fire for miles. She knew that the birds were flying, dizzy and blinded, before the terrible conqueror, that the wild-cats were crying like children, that the small wolves were howling, and that the more timid wood creatures were cowering behind fallentrunks, their eyes dilated and ears laid flat in terror. She knew all this because she had often heard it described, fires miles long in the pine forests being frequent occurrences in the late summer and early autumn; but she had never before seen with her own eyes the lurid splendor, as there was no unbroken stretch of pineries on the Straits. She sat silently watching the great clouds of red light roll up into the dark sky, and the shower of sparks higher still. The advance-guard was of lapping tongues that caught at and curled through the green wood far in front; then came a wall of clear orange-colored roaring fire, then the steady incandescence that was consuming the hearts of the great trees, and behind, the long range of dying fires like coals, only each coal was a tree. It grew late; she went to her state-room in order that the captain might be relieved from his duty of guard. But for several hours longer she sat by her small window, watching the flames, which turned to a long red line as the steamer's course carried her farther from the shore. She was thinking of those she had left behind, and of the island; of Rast, and her own betrothal. The betrothal seemed to her quite natural; they had always been together in the past, and now they would always be together in the future; she was content that it was so. She knew so little of the outside world that few forebodings as to her own immediate present troubled her. She was on her way to a school where she would study hard, so as soon to be able to teach, and help the children; the boys were to be educated one by one, and after the first year, perhaps, she could send for Tita, since Miss Lois never understood the child aright, failing to comprehend her peculiar nature, and making her, poor little thing, uncomfortable. It would be a double relief—to Miss Lois as well as Tita. It was a pity that her grand-aunt was so hard and ill-tempered; but probably she was old and infirm. Perhaps if she could see Tita, she might take a fancy to the child; Tita was so small and so soft-voiced, whereas she, Anne, was so overgrown and awkward. She gave a thought of regret to her own deficiencies, but hardly a sigh. They were matters of fact which she had long agoaccepted. The coast fire had now faded into a line of red dots and a dull light above them; she knelt down and prayed, not without the sadness which a lonely young traveller might naturally feel on the broad dark lake.
At the lower-lake port she was met by an old French priest, one of Père Michaux's friends, who took her to the railway station in a carriage, bought her ticket, checked her trunk, gave her a few careful words of instruction as to the journey, and then, business matters over, sat down by her side and talked to her with enchanting politeness and ease until the moment of departure. Père Michaux had arranged this: although not of their faith, Anne was to travel all the way to New York in the care of the Roman Catholic Church, represented by its priests, handed from one to the next, and met at the entrance of the great city by another, who would cross the river for the purpose, in order that her young island eyes might not be confused by the crowd and turmoil. At first Dr. Gaston had talked of escorting Anne in person; but it was so long since he had travelled anywhere, and he was so absent-minded, that it was evident even to himself that Anne would in reality escort him. Miss Lois had the children, and of course could not leave them.
"I would go myself if there was any necessity for it," said Père Michaux, "but there is not. Let me arrange it, and I promise you that Anne shall reach her school in safety; I will have competent persons to meet her all along the route—unless, indeed, you have friends of your own upon whom you prefer to rely?"
This was one of the little winds which Père Michaux occasionally sent over the self-esteem of his two Protestant companions: he could not help it. Dr. Gaston frowned: he had not an acquaintance between New York and the island, and Père Michaux knew it. But Miss Lois, undaunted, rushed into the fray.
"Oh, certainly, it would be quite easy for us to have her met by friends on the way," she began, making for the moment common and Protestant cause with Dr.Gaston; "it would require only a few letters. In New England I should have my own family connections to call upon—persons of the highest respectability, descendants, most of them, of the celebrated patriot Israel Putnam."
"Certainly," replied Père Michaux. "I understand. Then I will leave Anne to you."
"But unfortunately, as Anne is going to New York, not Boston, my connections do not live along the route, exactly," continued Miss Lois, the adverb standing for a small matter of a thousand miles or so; "nor," she added, again admitting Dr. Gaston to a partnership, "can we make them."
"There remain, then, the pastors of your church," said the priest.
"Certainly—the pastors. It will be the simplest thing in the world for Dr. Gaston to write to them; they will be delighted to take charge of any friend of ours."
The chaplain pushed his wig back a little, and murmured, "Church Almanac."
Miss Lois glanced at him angrily. "I am sure I do not know what Dr. Gaston means by mentioning 'Church Almanac' in that way," she said, sharply. "We know most of the prominent pastors, of course. Dr. Shepherd, for instance, and Dr. Dell."
Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Dell, who occasionally came up to the island during the summer for a few days of rest, lived in the lower-lake town where Anne's long railway journey began. They were not pastors, but rectors, and the misuse of the terms grated on the chaplain's Anglican ear. But he was a patient man, and accustomed now to the heterogeneous phrasing of the Western border.
"And besides," added Miss Lois, triumphantly, "there is the bishop!"
Now the bishop lived five miles farther. It was not evident, therefore, to the ordinary mind what aid these reverend gentlemen could give to Anne, all living, as they did, at the western beginning of her railway journey; but Miss Lois, who, like others of her sex, possessedthe power (unattainable by man) of rising above mere logical sequence, felt that she had conquered.
"I have no bishops to offer," said Père Michaux, with mock humility; "only ordinary priests. I will therefore leave Anne to your care, Miss Lois—yours and Dr. Gaston's."
So the discussion ended, and Miss Lois came off with Protestant colors flying. None the less Père Michaux wrote his letters; and Dr. Gaston did not write his. For the two men understood each other. There was no need for the old chaplain to say, plainly, "I have lived out of the world so long that I have not a single clerical friend this side of New York upon whom I can call"; the priest comprehended it without words. And there was no need for Père Michaux to parade the close ties and net-work of communication which prevailed in the ancient Church to which he belonged; the chaplain knew them without the telling. Each understood the other; and being men, they could do without the small teasing comments, like the buzzing of flies, with which women enliven their days. Thus it happened that Anne Douglas travelled from the northern island across to the great city on the ocean border in the charge of the Roman Catholic Church.
She arrived in New York worn out and bewildered, and having lost her sense of comparison by the strangeness and fatigue of the long journey, she did not appreciate the city's size, the crowded streets, and roar of traffic, but regarded everything vaguely, like a tired child who has neither surprise nor attention to give.
At length the carriage stopped; she went up a broad flight of stone steps; she was entering an open door. Some one was speaking to her; she was in a room where there were chairs, and she sank down. The priest who had brought her from the other side of the river was exchanging a few words with a lady; he was going; he was gone. The lady was coming toward her.
"You are very tired, my child;" she said. "Let me take you a moment to Tante, and then you can go to your room."
"To Tante?" said Anne.
"Yes, to Tante, or Madame Moreau, the principal of the school. She expects you."