Part 51 (1/2)

”And what do you think of me?” she asked, anxiously.

Agapit, although an ardent Acadien, and one bent on advancing the interests of his countrymen in every way, had yet little patience with the cla.s.s to which Mirabelle Marie belonged. Apparently kind and forbearing with them, he yet left them severely alone. His was the party of progress, and he had been half amused, half scornful of the efforts that Bidiane had put forth to educate her deficient relative.

”On general principles,” he said, coolly, ”it is better not to chase a fat aunt through dark woods; yet, in this case, I would say it has done good.”

”I did not wish to be heartless,” said Bidiane, with tears in her eyes.

”I wished to teach her a lesson.”

”Well, you have done so. Hear her swear that she will go to ma.s.s,--she will, too. The only way to work upon such a nature is through fear.”

”I am glad to have her go to ma.s.s, but I did not wish her to go in this way.”

”Be thankful that you have attained your object,” he said, dryly. ”Now I must go. I hoped to spend the evening with you, and hear you sing.”

”You will come again, soon?” said Bidiane, following him to the door.

”It is a good many miles to come, and a good many to go back, mademoiselle. I have not always the time--and, besides that, I have soon to go to Halifax on business.”

”Well, I thank you for keeping your promise to come,” said Bidiane, humbly, and with grat.i.tude. She was completely unnerved by the events of the evening, and was in no humor to find fault.

Agapit clapped his hat firmly on his head as a gust of wind whirled across the yard and tried to take it from him.

”We are always glad to see you here,” said Bidiane, wistfully, as she watched him step across to the picket fence, where his white horse shone through the darkness; ”though I suppose you have pleasant company in Weymouth. I have been introduced to some nice English girls from there.”

”Yes, there are nice ones,” he said. ”I should like to see more of them, but I am usually busy in the afternoons and evenings.”

”Do not work too hard,--that is a mistake. One must enjoy life a little.”

He gathered up the reins in his hands and paused a minute before he stepped into the buggy. ”I suppose I seem very old to you.”

She hesitated for an instant, and the wind dying down a little seemed to take the words from her lips and softly breathe them against his dark, quiet face. ”Not so very old,--not as old as you did at first. If I were as old as you, I should not do such silly things.”

He stared solemnly at her wind-blown figure swaying lightly to and fro on the gravel, and at the little hands put up to keep her dishevelled hair from her eyes and cheeks, which were both glowing from her hurried scamper home. ”Are you really worried because you played this trick on your aunt?”

”Yes, terribly, she has been like a mother to me. I would be ashamed for Mr. Nimmo to know.”

”And will you lie awake to-night and vex yourself about it?”

”Oh, yes, yes,--how can you tell? Perhaps you also have troubles.”

Agapit laughed in sudden and genuine amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Mademoiselle, my cousin, let me say something to you that you may perhaps remember when you are older. It is this: you have at present about as much comprehension and appreciation of real heart trouble, and of mental struggles that tear one first this way, then that way,--you have about as much understanding of them as has that kitten sheltering itself behind you.”

Bidiane quietly stowed away this remark among the somewhat heterogeneous furniture of her mind; then she said, ”I feel quite old when I talk to my aunt and to Claudine.”

”You are certainly ahead of them in some mental experiences, but you are not yet up to some other people.”

”I am not up to Madame de Foret,” she said, gently, ”nor to you. I feel sure now that you have some troubles.”

”And what do you imagine they are?”