CHAPTER XII.
THE MISSIONARY.
We will now briefly explain by what strange concourse of events FatherSeraphin, whom we have for so long a period lost out of sight, andValentine's mother, had arrived so providentially to help Red Cedar.
When the missionary left the Trail-hunter, he proceeded, as he expresseda wish, among the Comanches, with the intention of preaching the gospelto them, a holy duty which he had begun to put in execution long before.Father Seraphin, through his character and piety of manner, had madefriends of all these children of nature, and converted numerousproselytes in various tribes, especially in Unicorn's.
The journey was long and fatiguing to the Comanche village, and themeans of transport were, in a desert country, only traversed by nomadichordes, which wander without any settled purpose in these vastsolitudes. The missionary, however, did not recoil; too weak to ride onaccount of the scarce cicatrised wound he had received a short timepreviously, he had, like the first Fathers of the Church, bravelyundertaken this journey on foot, which it is almost impossible toaccomplish on horseback.
But human strength has its limits, which it cannot go beyond. FatherSeraphin, in spite of his courage, was obliged tacitly to allow that hehad undertaken a task which he was too weak to carry out. One night hefell, exhausted by fever and fatigue, on the floor of some Indians, whonursed and brought him round. These Indians, who were half civilised,and had been Christians for a long time, would not allow the priest, inhis present state of health, to continue his journey; on the contrary,taking advantage of the fever which kept him down and rendered itimpossible for him to see what was done with him, they conveyed himback, by slow stages, to Texas.
When Father Seraphin, thanks to his youth and powerful constitution, hadat length conquered the malady which kept him confined to his bed formore than a month between life and death, his surprise was great to findhimself at Galveston, in the house of the episcopal head of the Mission.The worthy prelate, employing the spiritual powers given him by hischaracter and his title, had insisted on the missionary going on boardof a vessel just starting for Havre, and which was only waiting for afavourable wind.
Father Seraphin obeyed with sorrow the commands of his superior; theBishop was obliged to prove to him that his health was almost ruined,and that his native air could alone restore it, ere he would resignhumbly to obedience, and, as he said bitterly, fly and abandon his post.The missionary started then, but with the firm resolution of returningso soon as it was possible.
The voyage from Galveston to Havre was a pleasant one; two months afterleaving Texas, Father Seraphin set foot on his native soil, with anemotion which only those who have wandered for a long time in foreignparts can comprehend. Since accident brought him back to France, themissionary profited by it to visit his family, whom he never expected tosee again, and by whom he was received with transports of joy, thegreater because his return was so unexpected.
The life of a missionary is very hard; those who have seen them at workin the great American desert can alone appreciate all the holyabnegation and true courage there is in the hearts of these simple andtruly good men, who sacrifice their life, without the hope of possiblereward; in preaching to the Indians. They nearly all fall in someobscure corner of the prairie, victims to their devotion, or if theyresist for five or six years, they return to their country prematurelyaged, almost blind, overwhelmed with infirmities, and forced to live amiserable life among men who misunderstand and too often calumniatethem.
Father Seraphin's time was counted, every hour he passed away from hisbeloved Indians he reproached himself with as a robbery he committed onthem. He tore himself from his parent's arms, and hastened to Havre, toprofit by the first chance that presented itself for returning to Texas.
One evening, while Father Seraphin was seated on the beach,contemplating the sea that separated him from the object of his life,and thinking of the proselytes he had left in America, and whom,deprived of his presence, he trembled to find again, plunged in theirold errors--he heard sobs near him. He raised his head, and saw at somepaces from him a woman kneeling on the sand and weeping; from time totime broken words escaped from her lips. Father Seraphin was affected bythis sorrow; he approached, and heard the words: "My son, my poor son!Oh, Heaven restore me my son!"
This woman's face was bathed in tears, her eyes were raised to Heaven,and an expression of profound despair was imprinted on her countenance.Father Seraphin understood with the instinct of his heart that there wasa great misfortune here that required unsolving, and addressed thestranger.
"Poor woman, what do you want here? Why do you weep?
"Alas! Father," she answered, "I have lost all hope of being happy inthis world."
"Who knows, madam? Tell me your misfortunes. God is great; perhaps Hewill give me the power to console you."
"You are right, father; God never deserts the afflicted, and it is aboveall when hope fails them that He comes to their assistance."
"Speak then with confidence."
The strange woman began in a voice broken by the internal emotion whichshe suffered.
"For more than ten years," she said, "I have been separated from my son.Alas! Since he went to America, in spite of all the steps I have taken,I have never received news of him, or learned what has become of him,whether he be dead or alive."
"Since the period of which you speak, then, no sign, no informationhowever slight, has reassured you as to the fate of him you mourn?"
"No, my father, since my son, the brave lad, determined to accompany hisfoster-brother to Chili."
"Well," the priest interrupted, "you might enquire in Chili."
"I did so, father."
"And learned nothing?"
"Pardon me, my son's foster-brother is married, and possesses a largefortune in Chili. I applied to him. My son left him about a year afterhis departure from France, without telling him the motive that urged himto act thus, and he never heard of him again, in spite of all hisefforts to find him; all that he discovered was that he had buriedhimself in the virgin forests of the Great Chaco, accompanied by twoIndian chiefs."
"It is, indeed, strange," the priest muttered thoughtfully.
"My son's foster-brother frequently writes to me; thanks to him, I amrich for a woman of my condition, who is accustomed to live on a little.In each of his letters he begs me to come and end my days with him; butit is my son, my poor child, I wish to see again; in his arms I shouldlike to close my eyes. Alas! That consolation will not be granted me.Oh! Father, you cannot imagine what grief it is for a mother to livealone, far from the only being who gave joy to her latter days. Though Ihave not seen him for ten years, I picture him to myself as on the dayhe left me, young and strong, and little suspecting that he was leavingme forever."
While uttering these words, the poor woman could not repress her tearsand sobs.
"Courage! life is but one long trial; is you have suffered so greatly,perchance God, whose mercy is infinite, reserves a supreme joy for yourlast days of life."
"Alas, father, as you know, nothing can console a mother for the absenceof her son, for he is her flesh, her heart. Every ship that arrives, Irun, I inquire, and ever, ever the same silence! And yet, shall Iconfess it to you? I have something in me which tells me he is not dead,and I shall see him again; it is a secret presentiment for which Icannot account: I fancy that if my son were dead, something would havesnapped in my heart, and I should have ceased to exist long ago. Thathope sustains me, in spite of myself; it gives me the strength to live."
"You are a mother in accordance with the gospel; I admire you."
"You are mistaken, father; I am only a poor creature, very simple andvery unhappy; I have only one feeling in my heart, but it fills meentirely: love of my son. Oh, could I see him, were it only for amoment, I fancy I should die happy. At long intervals, a banker writesme to come to him, and he pays me money, sometimes small sums, at otherslarge. When I ask him whence the money comes, he says that he does notknow
himself, and that a strange correspondent has requested him to payit to me. Well, father, every time I receive money in this way, I fancythat it comes from my son, that he is thinking of me, and I am happy."
"Do not doubt that it is your son who sends you this money."
"Is it not?" she said, with a start of joy. "Well, I feel so persuadedof that, that I keep it; all the sums are at my house, intact, in theorder as I received them. Often, when grief crushes me more than usual,when the weight that oppresses my heart seems to me too crushing, I lookat them, I let them slip through my fingers, as I talk to them, and Ifancy my son answers me; he bids me hope I shall see him again, and Ifeel hope return. Oh! You must think me very foolish to tell you allthis, father: but of what can a mother speak, save of her son? Of whatcan she think but her son?"
Father Seraphin gazed on her with a tenderness mingled with respect.Such grandeur and simplicity in a woman of so ordinary a rank overcamehim, and he felt tears running down his cheeks which he did not attemptto check.
"Oh, holy and noble creature!" he said to her; "Hope, hope; God watchesover you."
"You believe so too, father? Oh, thanks for that. You have told menothing, and yet I feel comforted through having seen you and let myheart overflow in your presence. It is because you are good, you haveunderstood my sorrow, for you, too, have doubtless suffered."
"Alas; madam, each of us has a cross to bear in this world; happy is hewhom his burden does not crush."
"Pardon my having troubled you with my sorrows," she said, as sheprepared to leave; "I thank you for your kind words."
"I have nothing to pardon you; but permit me to ask you one morequestion."
"Do so, father."
"I am a missionary. For several years I have been in America, whoseimmense solitudes I have traversed in every direction. I have seen manythings, met many persons during my travels. Who knows? Perhaps, withoutknowing it, I may have met your son, and may give the information youhave been awaiting so long in vain."
The poor mother gave him a glance of indefinable meaning, and placed herhand on her heart to still its hurried beating.
"Madam, God directs all our actions. He decreed our meeting on thisbeach; the hope you have lost I may perhaps be destined to restore you.What is your son's name?"
At this moment Father Seraphin had a truly inspired air; his voice wascommanding, and his eyes shone with a bright and fascinating fire.
"Valentine Guillois!" the poor woman said, as she fell in almost afainting state on a log of wood left on the beach.
"Oh!" the priest exclaimed; "On your knees and thank Heaven! Consoleyourself, poor mother! Your son lives!"
She drew herself up as if moved by a spring, and fell on her kneessobbing, and held out her hands to the man who restored her son to her.
But it was too much for her: so strong against grief, could not resistjoy: she fainted. Father Seraphin ran up to her and recalled her tolife. We will not describe the ensuing scene, but a week later themissionary and the hunter's mother started for America. During thevoyage Father Seraphin fully described to his companion what hadhappened to her son during his long absence, the reasons of his silence,and the sacred remembrance in which he had ever held her. The poormother listened, radiant with happiness, to those stories, which shebegged to hear over and over again, for she was never tired of hearingher son spoken of.
On reaching Galveston, the missionary, justly fearing for her thefatigues of a journey through the desert, wished to induce her to remainin that city till her son came to her, but at that proposition themother shook her head.
"No," she said, resolutely, "I have not come here to stop in a town: Iwish to spend the few days left me to live by his side; I have sufferedenough to be avaricious of my happiness, and desire not to lose an atom.Let us go, father. Lead me to my child."
Before a will so firmly expressed, the priest found himself powerless;he did not recognise the right of insisting longer; he merely tried tospare his companion the fatigue of his journey as far as possible.
They, therefore, started for Galveston, proceeding by short stages tothe Far West. On reaching the border of civilised countries, FatherSeraphin took an escort of devoted Indians to protect his companion.They had been in the desert for six days, when suddenly heaven broughtthem face to face with Red Cedar, dying without help in the heart of theprimeval forest.