The Pines of Lory/Chapter 16
XVI
NEWS FROM THE WORLD
Jacqes soon appeared. As his knowledge of English was scant, the Princess gave him the story she herself had heard. Great was his horror on learning that when last he came–in September–and left the usual provisions, the Duc de Fontrévault had been in his grave since the previous June.
He asked many questions. Elinor told him everything that could be of interest, and the Princess listened eagerly to these replies. The old servant seemed pleased when Elinor turned to him with a smile and said, in his own language: “So you are the French Fairy. That is what we always called you after finding your letter. Our lives were saved by that unexpected supply of food.”
Then they talked of other matters,–of what things should be carried back to France. And as the strength and energy of the American girl seemed to have gone–owing, perhaps, to a too meagre diet–the Princess insisted upon having her own maid sent up to pack the trunks. Jacques departed on this errand, and to get one or two men. He soon returned with them, and accompanied by the Archbishop. With a half-suspicious interest His Grace studied this young woman, still seated in her usual place by the table, her eyes, with a listless gaze, following the daughter of the house as she opened drawers and cabinets.
His Grace was standing by the big tapestry, between the two busts, his hands behind him.
“Pardon me, my child,” he said with a deep-toned benevolence, calculated to impress the guiltless and to awe the guilty, “but what I find it difficult to understand is why your friends did not look for you. They certainly must have guessed the situation.”
Elinor shook her head gently, as if she also recognized the mystery.
“To what do you attribute this singular indifference to your fate on the part of your family and friends?”
“I cannot guess. I have no idea.”
“It was purely accidental your–your arrival here?”
“Naturally.”
In this reply there was something that smote the Archbishop’s dignity. It seemed verging upon impertinence. Again he scrutinized the faded garments, the sunburned face, the hands somewhat roughened by toil, now folded on the table before her. His perceptions in feminine matters were less acute than those of the Princess. He remembered a young man had been a companion to this girl in this cottage, and during a whole year. It was only natural that the Princess, in treating this person with so much consideration, should be misled by a very tender, romantic heart, and by a Parisian standard of morality too elastic and too easy-going for more orthodox Christians. Into his manner came a suggestion of these thoughts,–his tone was less gracious, a trifle more patronizing. But as the victim supposed this to be his usual bearing, she felt no resentment.
“It was certainly a most unprecedented–one might almost say, incredible–blunder. And in daylight, too.”
She nodded.
“Do I understand that you came here in a steamboat?”
“Yes.”
“And the steamboat, after leaving you and the young man, kept on her course toward Quebec?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember the name of the boat?”
“The Maid of the North.”
“The Maid of the North!”
Elinor took no notice of this exclamation of surprise. In a purely amiable manner she was becoming tired.
“The Maid of the North, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“But, my child, when was that? When were you left here?”
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?”
“Nobody 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 brimming over with tenderness and paternal sympathy:
“I cannot express my pleasure, my heartfelt gratitude, 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.
“God bless you, my child.”