CHAPTER IV.
--"Sounding names as any on the page of history--Lake Winnipeg, Hudson Bay, Ottaway, and portages innumerable; Chipeways, Gens de Terre, Les Pilleurs, the Weepers, and the like. An immense, shaggy, but sincere country, adorned with chains of lakes and rivers, covered with snows, with hemlocks and fir-trees. There is a naturalness in this traveller, and an unpretendingness, as in a Canadian winter, where life is preserved through low temperature and frontier dangers by furs, and within a stout heart. He has truth and moderation worthy of the father of history, which belong only to an intimate experience; and he does not defer much to literature."--THOREAU.
Immediately after the early dinner the little cavalcade set out for thehermitage of Pere Michaux, which was on an island of its own at somedistance from the village island; to reach it they journeyed over theice. The boys' sled went first, Andre riding, the other two drawing:they were to take turns. Then came old Antoine and his dogs,wise-looking, sedate creatures with wide-spread, awkward legs, big paws,and toes turned in. Rene and Lebeau were the leaders; they were dogs ofage and character, and as they guided the sledge they also kept an eyeto the younger dogs behind. The team was a local one; it was notemployed in carrying the mails, but was used by the villagers when theycrossed to the various islands, the fishing grounds, or the Indianvillages on the mainland. Old Antoine walked behind with Anne by hisside: she preferred to walk. Snugly ensconced in the sledge in a warmnest of furs was Tita, nothing visible of her small self save her darkeyes, which were, however, most of the time closed: here there wasnothing to watch. The bells on the dogs sounded out merrily in theclear air: the boys had also adorned themselves with bells, and prancedalong like colts. The sunshine was intensely bright, the blue heavensseemed full of its shafts, the ice below glittered in shining lines; onthe north and south the dark evergreens of the mainland rose above thewhite, but toward the east and west the fields of ice extended unbrokenover the edge of the horizon. Here they were smooth, covered with snow;there they were heaped in hummocks and ridges, huge blocks piled againsteach other, and frozen solid in that position where the wind and thecurrent had met and fought. The atmosphere was cold, but so pure andstill that breathing was easier than in many localities farther towardthe south. There was no dampness, no strong raw wind; only the evencold. A feather thrown from a house-top would have dropped softly to theground in a straight line, as drop one by one the broad leaves of thesycamore on still Indian summer days. The snow itself was dry; it hadfallen at intervals during the winter, and made thicker and thicker thesoft mantle that covered the water and land. When the flakes came down,the villagers always knew that it was warmer, for when the clouds weresteel-bound, the snow could not fall.
"I think we shall have snow again to-morrow," said old Antoine in hisvoyageur dialect. "Step forward, then, genteelly, Rene. Hast thou noconscience, Lebeau?"
The two dogs, whose attention had been a little distracted by thebackward vision of Andre conveying something to his mouth, returned totheir duty with a jerk, and the other dogs behind all rang their littlebells suddenly as they felt the swerve of the leaders back into thetrack. For there was a track over the ice toward Pere Michaux's island,and another stretching off due eastward--the path of the carrier whobrought the mails from below; besides these there were no otherice-roads; the Indians and hunters came and went as the bird flies. PereMichaux's island was not in sight from the village; it was, as the boyssaid, round the corner. When they had turned this point, and no longersaw the mission church, the little fort, and the ice-covered piers, whenthere was nothing on the shore side save wild cliffs crowned withevergreens, then before them rose a low island with its bare summertrees, its one weather-beaten house, a straight line of smoke comingfrom its chimney. It was still a mile distant, but the boys ran alongwith new vigor. No one wished to ride; Andre, leaving his place, tookhold with the others, and the empty sled went on toward the hermitage ata fine pace.
"You could repose yourself there, mademoiselle," said Antoine, who neverthoroughly approved the walking upon her own two feet kept up--nay, evenenjoyed--by this vigorous girl at his side. Tita's ideas were more tohis mind.
"But I like it," said Anne, smiling. "It makes me feel warm and strong,all awake and joyous, as though I had just heard some delightful news."
"But the delightful news in reality, mademoiselle--one hears not much ofit up here, as I say to Jacqueline."
"Look at the sky, the ice-fields; that is news every day, newlybeautiful, if we will only look at it."
"Does mademoiselle think, then, that the ice is beautiful?"
"Very beautiful," replied the girl.
The cold air had brought the blood to her cheeks, a gleaming light toher strong, fearless eyes that looked the sun in the face withoutquailing. Old Antoine caught the idea for the first time that she might,perhaps, be beautiful some day, and that night, before his fire, herepeated the idea to his wife.
"Bah!" said old Jacqueline; "that is one great error of yours, myfriend. Have you turned blind?"
"I did not mean beautiful in my eyes, of course; but one kind of beautypleases me, thank the saints, and that is, without doubt, your own,"replied the Frenchman, bowing toward his withered, bright-eyed oldspouse with courtly gravity. "But men of another race, now, like thosewho come here in the summer, might they not think her passable?"
But old Jacqueline, although mollified, would not admit even this. Agood young lady, and kind, it was to be hoped she would be content withthe graces of piety, since she had not those of the other sort. Religionwas all-merciful.
The low island met the lake without any broken ice at its edge; it roseslightly from the beach in a gentle slope, the snow-path leadingdirectly up to the house door. The sound of the bells brought PereMichaux himself to the entrance. "Enter, then, my children," he said;"and you, Antoine, take the dogs round to the kitchen. Pierre is there."
Pierre was a French cook. Neither conscience nor congregation requiringthat Pere Michaux should nourish his inner man with half-baked orcindered dishes, he enjoyed to the full the skill and affection of thissmall-sized old Frenchman, who, while learning in his youth the rules,exceptions, and sauces of his profession, became the victim of blackmelancholy on account of a certain Denise, fair but cold-hearted, who,being employed in a conservatory, should have been warmer. PerhapsDenise had her inner fires, but they emitted no gleam toward poorPierre; and at last, after spoiling two breakfasts and a dinner, anddrawing down upon himself the epithet of "imbecile," the sallow littleapprentice abandoned Paris, and in a fit of despair took passage forAmerica, very much as he might have taken passage for Hades _via_ thecharcoal route. Having arrived in New York, instead of seeking a placewhere his knowledge, small as it was, would have been prized by exiledFrenchmen in a sauceless land, the despairing, obstinate little cookallowed himself to drift into all sorts of incongruous situations, andat last enlisted in the United States army, where, as he could play theflute, he was speedily placed in special service as member of the band.Poor Pierre! his flute sang to him only "Denise! Denise!" But theband-master thought it could sing other tunes as well, and set him towork with the score before him. It was while miserably performing hispart in company with six placid Germans that Pere Michaux first saw poorPierre, and recognizing a compatriot, spoke to him. Struck by thepathetic misery of his face, he asked a few questions of the littleflute-player, listened to his story, and gave him the comfort and helpof sympathy and shillings, together with the sound of the old homeaccents, sweetest of all to the dulled ears. When the time of enlistmentexpired, Pierre came westward after his priest: Pere Michaux had writtento him once or twice, and the ex-cook had preserved the letters as aguide-book. He showed the heading and the postmark whenever he was at aloss, and travelled blindly on, handed from one railway conductor toanother like a piece of animated luggage, until at last he was put onboard of a steamer, and, with some difficulty, carried westward; for thesight of the water had convinced h
im that he was to be taken on someunknown and terrible voyage.
The good priest was surprised and touched to see the tears of the littleman, stained, weazened, and worn with travel and grief; he took him overto the hermitage in his sharp-pointed boat, which skimmed the crests ofthe waves, the two sails wing-and-wing, and Pierre sat in the bottom,and held on with a death-grasp. As soon as his foot touched the shore,he declared, with regained fluency, that he would never again enter aboat, large or small, as long as he lived. He never did. In vain PereMichaux represented to him that he could earn more money in a city, invain he offered to send him Eastward and place him with kind personsspeaking his own tongue, who would procure a good situation for him;Pierre was obstinate. He listened, assented to all, but when the timecame refused to go.
"Are you or are you not going to send us that cook of yours?" wroteFather George at the end of two years. "This is the fifth time I havemade ready for him."
"He will not go," replied Pere Michaux at last; "it seems that I mustresign myself."
"If your Pere Michaux is handsomer than I am," said Dr. Gaston one dayto Anne, "it is because he has had something palatable to eat all thistime. In a long course of years saleratus tells."
Pere Michaux was indeed a man of noble bearing; his face, althoughbenign, wore an expression of authority, which came from the submissiveobedience of his flock, who loved him as a father and revered him as apope. His parish, a diocese in size, extended over the long point of thesouthern mainland; over the many islands of the Straits, large andsmall, some of them unnoted on the map, yet inhabited perhaps by a fewhalf-breeds, others dotted with Indian farms; over the village itself,where stood the small weather-beaten old Church of St. Jean; and overthe dim blue line of northern coast, as far as eye could reach or priestcould go. His roadways were over the water, his carriage a boat; in thewinter, a sledge. He was priest, bishop, governor, judge, and physician;his word was absolute. His party-colored flock referred all theirdisputes to him, and abided by his decisions--questions of fishing-netsas well as questions of conscience, cases of jealousy together withcases of fever. He stood alone. He was not propped. He had the rareleader's mind. Thrown away on that wild Northern border? Not any morethan Bishop Chase in Ohio, Captain John Smith in Virginia, or otherversatile and autocratic pioneers. Many a man can lead in cities and incamps, among precedents and rules, but only a born leader can lead in awilderness where he must make his own rules and be his own precedentevery hour.
The dogs trotted cheerfully, with all their bells ringing, round to theback door. Old Pierre detested dogs, yet always fed them with a strangesort of conscientiousness, partly from compassion, partly from fear. Hecould never accustom himself to the trains. To draw, he said, was anundoglike thing. To see the creatures rush by the island on a moonlightnight over the white ice, like dogs of a dream, was enough to make thehair elevate itself.
"Whose hair?" Rast had demanded. "Yours, or the dogs'?" For youngPronando was a frequent visitor at the hermitage, not as pupil or memberof the flock, but as a candid young friend, admiring impartially boththe priest and his cook.
"Hast thou brought me again all those wide-mouthed dogs, brigands ofunheard-of and never-to-be-satisfied emptiness, robbers of all things?"demanded Pierre, appearing at the kitchen door, ladle in hand. Antoine'sleathery cheeks wrinkled themselves into a grin as he unharnessed histeam, all the dogs pawing and howling, and striving to be first at theentrance of this domain of plenty.
"Hold thyself quiet, Rene. Wilt thou take the very sledge in, Lebeau?"he said, apostrophizing the leaders. But no sooner was the last straploosened than all the dogs by common consent rushed at and over thelittle cook and into the kitchen in a manner which would have insuredthem severe chastisement in any other kitchen in the diocese. Pierredarted about among their gaunt yellow bodies, railing at them forknocking down his pans, and calling upon all the saints to witness theirrapacity; but in the mean time he was gathering together quicklyfragments of whose choice and savory qualities Rene and Lebeau haddistinct remembrance, and the other dogs anticipation. They leaped anddanced round him on their awkward legs and shambling feet, bit andbarked at each other, and rolled on the floor in a heap. Anywhere elsethe long whip would have curled round their lank ribs, but in oldPierre's kitchen they knew they were safe. With a fiercely delivered andeloquent selection from the strong expressions current in the Paris ofhis youth, the little cook made his way through the snarling throng ofyellow backs and legs, and emptied his pan of fragments on the snowoutside. Forth rushed the dogs, and cast themselves in a solid mass uponthe little heap.
"Hounds of Satan?" said Pierre.
"They are, indeed," replied Antoine. "But leave them now, my friend, andclose the door, since warmth is a blessed gift."
But Pierre still stood on the threshold, every now and then darting outto administer a rap to the gluttons, or to pull forward the younger andweaker ones. He presided with exactest justice over the whole repast,and ended by bringing into the kitchen a forlorn and drearily uglyyoung animal that had not obtained his share on account of thepreternaturally quick side snatchings of Lebeau. To this dog he nowpresented an especial banquet in an earthen dish behind the door.
"If there is anything I abhor, it is the animal called dog," he said,seating himself at last, and wiping his forehead.
"That is plainly evident," replied old Antoine, gravely.
In the mean time, Anne, Tita, and the boys had thrown off their furcloaks, and entered the sitting-room. Pere Michaux took his seat in hislarge arm-chair near the hearth, Tita curled herself on a cushion at hisfeet, and the boys sat together on a wooden bench, fidgeting uneasily,and trying to recall a faint outline of their last lesson, while Annetalked to the priest, warming first one of her shapely feet, then theother, as she leaned against the mantel, inquiring after the health ofthe birds, the squirrels, the fox, and the tame eagle, Pere Michaux'scompanions in his hermitage. The appearance of the room was peculiar,yet picturesque and full of comfort. It was a long, low apartment, thewalls made warm in the winter with skins instead of tapestry, and thefloor carpeted with blankets; other skins lay before the table and fireas mats. The furniture was rude, but cushioned and decorated, as werelikewise the curtains, in a fashion unique, by the hands of half-breedwomen, who had vied with each other in the work; their primitiveembroidery, whose long stitches sprang to the centre of the curtain orcushion, like the rays of a rising sun, and then back again, was asunlike modern needle-work as the vase-pictured Egyptians, with eyes inthe sides of their heads, are like a modern photograph; their patterns,too, had come down from the remote ages of the world called the New,which is, however, as old as the continent across the seas. Guns andfishing-tackle hung over the mantel, a lamp swung from the centre of theceiling, little singing-birds flew into and out of their open cages nearthe windows, and the tame eagle sat solemnly on his perch at the far endof the long room. The squirrels and the fox were visible in theirquarters, peeping out at the new-comers; but their front doors werebarred, for they had broken parole, and were at present in disgrace. Theceiling was planked with wood, which had turned to a dark cinnamon hue;the broad windows let in the sunshine on three sides during the day, andat night were covered with heavy curtains, all save one, which had but asingle thickness of red cloth over the glass, with a candle behind whichburned all night, so that the red gleam shone far across the ice, like awinter light-house for the frozen Straits. More than one despairing man,lost in the cold and darkness, had caught its ray, and sought refuge,with a thankful heart. The broad deep fire-place of this room was itsglory: the hearts of giant logs glowed there: it was a fire to dream ofon winter nights, a fire to paint on canvas for Christmas pictures tohang on the walls of barren furnace-heated houses, a fire to rememberbefore that noisome thing, a close stove. Round this fire-place were setlike tiles rude bits of pottery found in the vicinity, remains of anearlier race, which the half-breeds brought to Pere Michaux whenevertheir ploughs upturned them--arrow-heads, shells from the wilderbeac
hes, little green pebbles from Isle Royale, agates, and fragments offossils, the whole forming a rough mosaic, strong in its story of theregion. From two high shelves the fathers of the Church and the classicsof the world looked down upon this scene. But Pere Michaux was nobookworm; his books were men. The needs and faults of his flock absorbedall his days, and, when the moon was bright, his evenings also. "Theregoes Pere Michaux," said the half-breeds, as the broad sail of his boatwent gleaming by in the summer night, or the sound of his sledge bellscame through their closed doors; "he has been to see the dying wife ofJean," or "to carry medicine to Francois." On the wild nights and thedark nights, when no one could stir abroad, the old priest lighted hislamp, and fed his mind with its old-time nourishment. But he had nothingmodern; no newspapers. The nation was to him naught. He was one of asmall but distinctly marked class in America that have a distaste forand disbelief in the present, its ideals, thoughts, and actions, andturn for relief to the past; they represent a reaction. This class ismade up of foreigners like the priest, of native-born citizens withartistic tastes who have lived much abroad, modern Tories who regret theRevolution, High-Church Episcopalians who would like archbishops and anEstablishment, restless politicians who seek an empire--in all, a verysmall number compared with the mass of the nation at large, and notimportant enough to be counted at all numerically, yet not without itsinfluence. And not without its use too, its members serving theircountry, unconsciously perhaps, but powerfully, by acting as a balanceto the self-asserting blatant conceit of the young nation--a drag on thewheels of its too-rapidly speeding car. They are a sort of Mordecai atthe gate, and are no more disturbed than he was by being in a minority.In any great crisis this element is fused with the rest at once, anddisappears; but in times of peace and prosperity up it comes again, andlifts its scornful voice.
Pere Michaux occupied himself first with the boys. The religiouseducation of Louis, Gabriel, and Andre was not complex--a few plainrules that three colts could have learned almost as well, provided theyhad had speech. But the priest had the rare gift of holding theattention of children while he talked with them, and thus the three boyslearned from him gradually and almost unconsciously the tenets of thefaith in which their young mother had lived and died. The rare gift ofholding the attention of boys--O poor Sunday-school teachers all overthe land, ye know how rare that gift is!--ye who must keep restlesslittle heads and hands quiet while some well-meaning but slow,long-winded, four-syllabled man "addresses the children." It issometimes the superintendent, but more frequently a visitor, who beamsthrough his spectacles benevolently upon the little flock before him,but has no more power over them than a penguin would have over a colonyof sparrows.
But if the religion of the boys was simple, that of Tita was of a verydifferent nature; it was as complex, tortuous, unresting, as personaland minute in detail, as some of those religious journals we have allread, diaries of every thought, pen-photographs of every mood, wonderfulto read, but not always comfortable when translated into actual life,where something less purely self-engrossed, if even less saintly, is aptto make the household wheels run more smoothly. Tita's religious ideasperplexed Anne, angered Miss Lois, and sometimes wearied even the priesthimself. The little creature aspired to be absolutely perfect, and shewas perfect in rule and form. Whatever was said to her in the way ofcorrection she turned and adjusted to suit herself; her mental ingenuitywas extraordinary. Anne listened to the child with wonder; but PereMichaux understood and treated with kindly carelessness the strongselfism, which he often encountered among older and deeply devout women,but not often in a girl so young. Once the elder sister asked with someanxiety if he thought Tita was tending toward conventual life.
"Oh no," replied the old man, smiling; "anything but that."
"But is she not remarkably devout?"
"As Parisiennes in Lent."
"But it is Lent with her all the year round."
"That is because she has not seen Paris yet."
"But we can not take her to Paris," said Anne, in perplexity.
"What should I do if I had to reply to you always, mademoiselle?" saidthe priest, smiling, and patting her head.
"You mean that I am dull?" said Anne, a slight flush rising in hercheeks. "I have often noticed that people thought me so."
"I mean nothing of the kind. But by the side of your honesty we allappear like tapers when the sun breaks in," said Pere Michaux,gallantly. Still, Anne could not help thinking that he did think herdull.
To-day she sat by the window, looking out over the ice. The boys,dismissed from their bench, had, with the sagacity of the dogs, goneimmediately to the kitchen. The soft voice of Tita was repeatingsomething which sounded like a litany to the Virgin, full of mysticphrases, a selection made by the child herself, the priest requiring nosuch recitation, but listening, as usual, patiently, with his eyes halfclosed, as the old-time school-teacher listened to Wirt's description ofBlennerhasset's Island. Pere Michaux had no mystical tendencies. Hislife was too busy; in the winter it was too cold, and in the summer thesunshine was too brilliant, on his Northern island, for mysticalthoughts. At present, through Tita's recitation, his mind was occupiedwith a poor fisherman's family over on the mainland, to whom on themorrow he was going to send assistance. The three boys came round on theoutside, and peered through the windows to see whether the lesson wasfinished. Anne ordered them back by gesture, for they were bareheaded,and their little faces red with the cold. But they pressed their nosesagainst the panes, glared at Tita, and shook their fists. "It's allready," they said, in sepulchral tones, putting their mouths to thecrack under the sash, "and it's a pudding. Tell her to hurry up, Annet."
But Tita's murmuring voice went steadily on, and the Protestant sisterwould not interrupt the little Catholic's recitation; she shook her headat the boys, and motioned to them to go back to the kitchen. But theydanced up and down to warm themselves, rubbed their little red ears withtheir hands, and then returned to the crack, and roared in chorus, "Tellher to hurry up; we shall not have time to eat it."
"True," said Pere Michaux, overhearing this triple remonstrance. "Thatwill do for to-day, Tita."
"But I have not finished, my father."
"Another time, child."
"I shall recite it, then, at the next lesson, and learn besides as muchmore; and the interruption was not of my making, but a crime of thosesacrilegious boys," said Tita, gathering her books together. The boys,seeing Pere Michaux rise from his chair, ran back round the house toannounce the tidings to Pierre; the priest came forward to the window.
"That is the mail-train, is it not?" said Anne, looking at a black spotcoming up the Strait from the east.
"It is due," said Pere Michaux; "but the weather has been so cold that Ihardly expected it to-day." He took down a spy-glass, and looked at themoving speck. "Yes, it is the train. I can see the dogs, and Denishimself. I will go over to the village with you, I think. I expectletters."
Pere Michaux's correspondence was large. From many a college and missionstation came letters to this hermit of the North, on subjects as variousas the writers: the flora of the region, its mineralogy, the Indians andtheir history, the lost grave of Father Marquette (in these later dayssaid to have been found), the legends of the fur-trading times, theexisting commerce of the lakes, the fisheries, and kindred subjects weremixed with discussions kept up with fellow Latin and Greek scholarsexiled at far-off Southern stations, with games of chess played byletter, with recipes for sauces, and with humorous skirmishing with NewYork priests on topics of the day, in which the Northern hermit oftenhad the best of it.
A hurrah in the kitchen, an opening of doors, a clattering in the hall,and the boys appeared, followed by old Pierre, bearing aloft a puddingenveloped in steam, exhaling fragrance, and beautiful with raisins,currants, and citron--rarities regarded by Louis, Gabriel, and Andrewith eager eyes.
"But it was for your dinner," said Anne.
"It is still for my dinner. But it would have lasted three days, and
nowit will end its existence more honorably in one," replied the priest,beginning to cut generous slices.
Tita was the last to come forward. She felt herself obliged to set downall the marks of her various recitations in a small note-book after eachlesson; she kept a careful record, and punished or rewarded herselfaccordingly, the punishments being long readings from some religiousbook in her corner, murmured generally half aloud, to the exasperationof Miss Lois when she happened to be present, Miss Lois having avehement dislike for "sing-song." Indeed, the little, soft, persistentmurmur sometimes made even Anne think that the whole family bore theirpart in Tita's religious penances. But what could be said to the child?Was she not engaged in saving her soul?
The marks being at last all set down, she took her share of pudding tothe fire, and ate it daintily and dreamily, enjoying it far more thanthe boys, who swallowed too hastily; far more than Anne, who liked thesimplest food. The priest was the only one present who appreciatedPierre's skill as Tita appreciated it. "It is delicieux," she said,softly, replacing the spoon in the saucer, and leaning back against thecushions with half-closed eyes.
"Will you have some more, then?" said Anne.
Tita shook her head, and waved away her sister impatiently.
"She is as thorough an epicure as I am," said the priest, smiling; "ittakes away from the poetry of a dish to be asked to eat more."
It was now time to start homeward, and Pere Michaux's sledge made itsappearance, coming from a little islet near by. Old Pierre would nothave dogs upon his shores; yet he went over to the other island himselfevery morning, at the expense of much time and trouble, to see that thehalf-breed in charge had not neglected them. The result was that PereMichaux's dogs were known as far as they could be seen by their fatsides, the only rotundities in dog-flesh within a circle of five hundredmiles. Pere Michaux wished to take Tita with him in his sledge, in orderthat Anne might ride also; but the young girl declined with a smile,saying that she liked the walk.
"Do not wait for us, sir," she said; "your dogs can go much faster thanours."
But the priest preferred to make the journey in company with them; andthey all started together from the house door, where Pierre stood in hisred skull-cap, bowing farewell. The sledges glided down the little slopeto the beach, and shot out on the white ice, the two drivers keeping bythe side of their teams, the boys racing along in advance, and Annewalking with her quick elastic step by the side of Pere Michaux'sconveyance, talking to him with the animation which always came to herin the open air. The color mounted in her cheeks; with her head helderect she seemed to breathe with delight, and to rejoice in the clearsky, the cold, the crisp sound of her own footsteps, while her eyesfollowed the cliffs of the shore-line crowned with evergreens--savagecliffs which the short summer could hardly soften. The sun sank towardthe west, the air grew colder; Tita drew the furs over her head, andvanished from sight, riding along in her nest half asleep, listening tothe bells. The boys still ran and pranced, but more, perhaps, from asense of honor than from natural hilarity. They were more exact intaking their turns in the sledge now, and more slow in coming out fromthe furs upon call; still, they kept on. As the track turned little bylittle, following the line of the shore, they came nearer to themail-train advancing rapidly from the east in a straight line.
"Denis is determined to have a good supper and sleep to-night," saidPere Michaux; "no camp to make in the snow _this_ evening." Some minuteslater the mail-train passed, the gaunt old dogs which drew the sledgenever even turning their heads to gaze at the party, but keepingstraight on, having come in a direct line, without a break, from thepoint, ten miles distant. The young dogs in Antoine's team pricked uptheir ears, and betrayed a disposition to rush after the mail-train;then Rene and Lebeau, after looking round once or twice, after turningin their great paws more than usual as they walked, and holding backresolutely, at length sat deliberately down on their haunches, andstopped the sledge.
"And thou art entirely right, Rene, and thou too, Lebeau," said oldAntoine. "To waste breath following a mail-train at a gallop is worthyonly of young-dog silliness."
So saying he administered to the recreant members of the team enoughchastisement to make them forget the very existence of mail-trains,while Rene and Lebeau waited composedly to see justice done; they thenrose in a dignified manner and started on, the younger dogs followingnow with abject humility. As they came nearer the village the westernpass opened out before them, a long narrow vista of ice, with the darkshore-line on each side, and the glow of the red sunset shiningstrangely through, as though it came from a tropical country beyond. Asledge was crossing down in the west--a moving speck; the scene was aswild and arctic as if they had been travelling on Baffin's Bay. The busypriest gave little attention to the scene, and the others in all thewinters of their lives had seen nothing else: to the Bedouins the greatdesert is nothing. Anne noted every feature and hue of the picture, butunconsciously. She saw it all, but without a comment. Still, she saw it.She was to see it again many times in after-years--see it in cities, inlighted drawing-rooms, in gladness and in sorrow, and more than oncethrough a mist of tears.
Later in the evening, when the moon was shining brightly, and she was onher way home from the church-house with Rast, she saw a sledge movingtoward the northern point. "There is Pere Michaux, on his way home," shesaid. Then, after a moment, "Do you know, Rast, he thinks me dull."
"He would not if he had seen you this evening," replied her companion.
A deep flush, visible even in the moonlight, came into the girl's face."Do not ask me to recite again," she pleaded; "I can not. You _must_ letme do what I feel is right."
"What is there wrong in reciting Shakspeare?"
"I do not know. But something comes over me at times, and I am almostswept away. I can not bear to think of the feeling."
"Then don't," said Rast.
"You do not understand me."
"I don't believe you understand yourself; girls seldom do."
"Why?"
"Let me beg you not to fall into the power of that uncomfortable word,Annet. Walters says women of the world never use it. They never ask asingle question."
"But how can they learn, then?"
"By observation," replied young Pronando, oracularly.