Part 19 (1/2)

”We are arrived at last,” said Agapit, pausing on a rustic bridge that spanned the road; ”and down there,” he went on, in a choking voice, ”is where the bones of my countrymen lie.”

Vesper leaned over the railing. What a sluggish, silent, stealthy river!

He could perceive no flow in its reluctant waters. A few willows, natives, not French ones, swayed above it, and close to its edge grew the tall gra.s.ses, rustling and whispering together as if imparting guilty secrets concerning the waters below.

”Which way does it go?” murmured Vesper; but Agapit did not hear him, for he was eagerly muttering: ”A hateful river,--I never see a bird drink from it, there are no fishes in it, the lilies will not grow here, and the children fall in and are drowned; and, though it has often been sounded, they can find no bottom to it.”

Vesper stared below in silence, only making an involuntary movement when his companion's cap fell off and struck the face of the dull black mirror presented to them.

”Let it go,” exclaimed Agapit, with a shudder. ”Poor as I am, I would not wear it now. It is tainted,” and flinging back the dark locks from his forehead, he turned his face towards the sh.o.r.e.

”No, I will talk no more about the Acadiens,” he said, when Vesper tried to get him to enter upon his favorite theme, ”for, though you are polite, I fear I shall weary you; we will speak of other things.”

The night was a perfect one, and for an hour the two young men walked up and down the quiet road before the inn, talking at first of the fis.h.i.+ng that was over, and the hunting that would in a few weeks begin.

Vesper would have enjoyed seeking big game in the backwoods, if his health had permitted, and he listened with suppressed eagerness to Agapit's account of a moose hunt. The world of sport disposed of, their conversation drifted to literature, to science and art in general,--to women and love affairs, and Agapit rambled on excitedly and delightedly, while Vesper, contenting himself with the briefest of rejoinders, extracted an acute and amused interest from the entirely novel and out-of-the-way opinions presented to him.

”Ah! but I enjoy this,” said Agapit, at last; ”it is the fault of my countrymen that they do not read enough and study,--their sole fault. I meet with so few who will discuss, yet I must not detain you. Come in, come in, and I will give you my 'Richard.' Begin not to read him to-night, for you could not sleep. I believe,” and he raised his brown, flushed face to the stars above, ”that he has done justice to the Acadien people; but remember, we do not complain now. We are faithful to our sovereign and to our country,--as faithful as you are to your Union.

The smart of the past is over. We ask only that the world may believe that the Acadiens were loyal and consistent, and that we do not wish for reparation from England except, perhaps--” and he hesitated and looked down at the shabby sleeve of his coat, while tears filled his eyes.

”_Mon Dieu!_ I will not speak of the pitiful economies that I am obliged to practise to educate myself. And there are other young men more poor.

If the colonial government would give us some help, I would go to college; for now I hesitate lest I should save my money for my family.

If the good lands that were taken from us were now ours, we should be rich--”

Vesper liked the young Acadien best in his quiet moods. ”Don't worry,”

he said, consolingly; ”something will turn up. Get me that book, will you?”

Vesper paused for an instant when he entered his room. On a table by his bed was placed a tray, covered by a napkin. Lifting the napkin, he discovered a wing of cold chicken with jelly, thin slices of bread and b.u.t.ter, and a covered pitcher of chocolate.

He poured himself out a cup of the chocolate, and murmuring, ”Here's to the Lady of the Sleeping Water Inn,” seized one of the two volumes that Agapit had given him, and, throwing himself into an easy chair, began to read.

One by one the hours slipped away, but he did not move in his chair, except to put out a hand at regular intervals and turn a leaf. Shortly before daybreak a chill wind blew up the Bay, and came floating in the window. He threw down the book, rose slowly to his feet, and looked about him in a dreamy way. He had been transported to a previous century and to another atmosphere than this peaceful one.

He s.h.i.+vered sensitively, and, going to the window, closed it, and stood gazing at the faint flush in the sky. ”O G.o.d! it is true,” he muttered, drearily, ”we are sent into this world to enact h.e.l.l. Goethe understood that. And what a h.e.l.l of long years was enacted on these sh.o.r.es!”

”The devils,” he went on, in youthful, generous indignation; ”they had no pity, not even after years of suffering on the part of their victims.”

His eyes smarted, his head ached. He put his hand to his eyes, and, when it came away wet, he curled his lip. He had not shed tears since he was a boy.

Then he threw himself on his bed, and thoughts of his father mingled with those of the Acadiens. An invincible melancholy took possession of him, and burying his face in his arms, he lay for a long time with his whole frame quivering in emotion.

CHAPTER XIII.

AN ILLUMINATION.

”Sait-on ou l'on va?”