The Heir to Grand-Pré

Pierre welcomed Winslow heartily and with every evidence of pleasure. The old man had not returned home till he had been driven in by the tide, and Winslow came to the island, after spending a few hours with his friends, at high tide.

It should be understood, from the base of the cliff near the road boats could be rowed to the mainland, and on one of these Winslow had returned. At low tide it was possible to cross by the ford of large stones placed for that purpose in the channel, which never lost all its water. After the turn of the coming tide it was not safe to attempt to cross against the strong current that would be running in. From half tide to full tide, and for a short time after, the current could be stemmed with a boat. For this reason the passage to and from the island was limited to these periods, and at other times the island was virtually shut off from the mainland.

After the greetings of the men were over, Winslow informed Pierre what he had seen on his first coming to the house when he met Len. He supposed that Marie would not speak of it to her father. The old man said nothing as he continued:

"I have paid him off to-day, as I shall have to leave for New York in a week or so. My uncle desires my return about that time. I am sorry I shall not be able to stay with you as long as I had purposed."

"I would like you to examine a vein of blue mineral I have found lately, in the bluff at the back of the island. I have been clearing a way to it, and the tide drove me in before I had finished it."

"We may look at it to-morrow, if you wish. How did you happen to discover it? I have never seen anything but blue agate veins about the island."

"I had been thinking about a valuable mineral which you told me about, and I remembered what my father used to tell me about a cave which was under the back of the island, and which had a blue vein. The cave, he told me, was known to the Indians in earliest time, and they yet have tradition of the existence of it somewhere. Like all the traditions of those days there is much of the supernatural woven into this story. The cave was made by the Micmacs during many years by cutting away the rock to remove fragments of the vein. The stone supplied them with their most precious and beautiful ornament. In the course of time the stones became valuable to the white people, and they were obtained from the Indians. The story goes that Glooscap, the Micmac god, created the stone for the Indian alone, and put a curse upon it for the white men, whom he did not like, as he saw that they were to become the enemies of his people. Strange to say, the stone has brought a curse to the white people. Yet the stones were bought of the Indians until they were all gone from them, and they had to break them out of the rock again and shape and polish them as the Micmac knew how. The 'Devil Stones,' or the 'Devil's Eye,' as they used to call the mineral, became scarce. A white man found out where the vein was, a secret which the Indians had guarded so carefully. They would not permit anybody not of their own race to remove the stone, because they considered it a gift of their own great spirit, Glooscap. One night the white man put a charge of powder in the rock to remove the vein, and when he returned to get the stone after the discharge the cave fell in with many thousands of tons of the cliff, and buried both the man and the blue vein. From that day all knowledge of the vein was lost. I had never seen the stones, for in my day the Indians had lost them all. My father said the noise of the falling stone could be heard for miles, and shook the island as if an earthquake had occurred at the same time. In the morning the great mass of rock was found piled up and rolled down on the beach. Until now the vein has never been seen, if what I have found is the blue vein of those early times."

"You do not know any other name for the stone, I think you said?" asked Winslow, when Pierre had ended his account of the blue vein.

"I have seen the stone called opal worn by so many of your people of late. From the description of the Devil Stone given by my father, and what I have heard of the supposed unlucky nature of the opal, I think the stones must be one and the same."

"My friend, if you have found an opal vein on your island you are a rich man, for the stone is valuable and in great demand just now. The people have outgrown the superstition as to its unlucky character, and there is a large demand for it this season."

"It will be of little use to me," said Pierre; "but I have not as much to leave Marie as I would wish. I must send her away," the old man continued, thoughtfully, "for Len is becoming too troublesome, and it is affecting my daughter more than it used to."

"Miss Gaston has taken a deep interest in her," said Winslow, leading up to the subject carefully which he had had in mind for some time.

"She has spoken to me about her. I cannot keep her here during the long, cold winters on the island, and the young woman, whom Marie has learned to love, has offered to find her a good school in New York, and to care for her there."

"I have every confidence in Miss Gaston," said Winslow, "and I esteem her very much."

"It seems strange," Pierre broke in, "that we should have found two friends at the same time in our remote home here. We were unknown to each other a few weeks ago."

"My coming to your island, sir, is the most important event of my later life," said Winslow, warmly.

It was three days before Pierre and Winslow found it convenient to go to inspect the blue vein. After the turn of the tide they started together over the same course which Winslow had taken when he met with the accident. They went past the cove and found themselves in the midst of the largest rocks that strewed the shore. They had to pick their way carefully till Pierre led his friend towards a more open space surrounded by immense boulders and in front of a huge mass of fallen rock which extended some distance up the side of the bluff from which it had separated.

"Somebody has been here since the last high tide," exclaimed Pierre, examining some faint marks left in the sand, "and foot-prints seem to be going in the direction of the blue vein."

His words proved true. The tracks made a line to the place where the opening in the rocks led to the base of the cliff, as Pierre explained.

"The person went past the entrance, but I do not know whether he went in or not, as the rock shows no track there."

Winslow now looked about them as they stood before a small opening between the rocks.

"This opening I have seen for some time," said Pierre. "The sand has been washing off the rock till it led me to believe that there was an opening large enough to enter. I removed the sand, and cleared away the stone, and was able to go in some distance towards the cliff. I went far enough to be in darkness. Let us enter."

Pierre took the lead, and lighting a lantern which he had left in the passage, he proceeded for some distance.

"At this place I cleared away a great deal of stone and broke up a rock which obstructed the passage. As you can see, I had much work to open the way. We are almost to the vein."

Their passage was now slightly upward and broader, and the huge stones over their heads were in close and firm contact, and supported the immense weight of rock which rested upon them.

It was not necessary to point out the location of the blue vein. As they came near enough for the light they carried to reach the wall of the island the color of the vein stood out against the dull hue of the adjoining rock. Winslow went near the vein and held the lantern close to it. The mineral was in the solid rock, and showed evidence of having been recently worked, for the breaks were fresh. All about the rock were scars and scratches belonging to an earlier period, and made by human agency, evidently with crude tools and long labor.

The vein itself, made damp by the moisture of the air, showed everywhere beautiful colors and shades of tinting, which changed and glowed like the eye of an animal in the dark. Blue and red, with a dominant cast of green, through the whole length of the narrow seam, gave its wonderful beauty to their eyes, and told, to Winslow at least, the great wealth that lay there undeveloped.

Winslow made an exclamation of surprise and delight.

"Your fortune is made, sir. This is the most beautiful opal I have ever seen in the rough. I think it will prove as fine as anything that can be found in the world."

"What is this?" said Pierre. "A knife; but not mine."

"It must have been left by the man whose tracks we saw outside."

"Then our blue vein is no longer our secret. If this man makes a claim at once he will own the mine, and my share in it will be but one-quarter."

"We had better return at once; and if you wish to do so, send in your claim at once to the government at Halifax."

They went back to Bluff House, and at low tide Miss Gaston and Miss Forest came to the island. Addressing the old man, Miss Forest said:

"Oh, Mr. Gotro, where can we get some of the beautiful opals such as Mr. Winslow's boatman had this morning?"

"Then it is Len who has found the blue vein," cried Winslow. "When did you see him?"

"Early this morning. He found out from somebody that the stone had considerable value, and he is on his way to Halifax, after telegraphing ahead to the government. He had with him several pieces. He said that nobody else knew where the place is."

"That young man is the owner of a valuable mine, and is from this day a rich man. My friend, Mr. Gotro, is the rightful owner, as he has known of the mine for several days and first found it, yet he is too late now to get possession of it."

"My share of it will be sufficient," said Pierre, calmly. The venerable old man, in his life of seclusion and labor, had never known the lust of wealth. But for his daughter he would not have made an effort to secure his just share in the blue vein.

CHAPTER XIII.

LEN.

Len Lawson had suddenly become a rich man. By that strange chance which seems to favor some men, and by his own prompt action in seizing the opportunity, the boatman, whose whole wealth consisted previously of a twenty-foot keel sail-boat, had now become the owner of an opal mine. With the ready money with which Winslow had paid him off he was able to secure the right to work the mine and make the foundation of his fortune. The stone proved to be exceptionally good, and though in a small vein it was easily worked and needed no expensive machinery to remove it. Two New York houses bought all the stone he could get, and Len was soon in possession of a large bank account. All this occurred in a very few days, for on the first shipment of stone he had more money than he had ever dreamed of in his most sanguine moments of hope and anticipation.

With the acquisition of wealth the sullen manner of the boatman changed to the arrogant and insolent attitude of the man of riches and power. Yet the riches did not bring him happiness or comfort, and the power he did not know how to use.

In his hopeless passion for Marie he became at times so violent as to lose the friendship of Pierre, and to sever his connection altogether with Bluff Castle and its inmates.

After the novelty of the feeling that he was a rich man had worn off, his mind turned back to the two subjects which took all his attention, and which were never forgotten, the awful expectation of the water curse, and his love for the Acadian's daughter.

The entrance of Marie into the life of Len Lawson had increased the effect the fear of the curse had upon him. While he had lived for himself alone, before he fully realized what his affection for the beautiful girl meant to him, he was not so haunted by the thing as when he came to years of thought and manhood. He looked upon it now as an obstacle to the greatest desire of his life, and he believed that but for it he would be in a much stronger position in regard to Marie. It dwelt with him every day of his life. Since the changes of the last few weeks he brooded upon it to the exclusion of everything else; while with the intensity of his feelings his jealous hatred and vindictive anger were increased as well. His very independence induced the later development of his mixed emotions. He had known of the strange curse set upon his name, and from boyhood had become familiar with it. He had seen the effect of it upon his father. He had been led to believe it might also be his fate to come under its bane when he had reached maturity. Familiarity had lessened the horror of it while it affected him only. But now that it was affecting others, and in a way that most seriously concerned the future of his life, he looked upon it in a different way. He saw in it more than a curse on his life. He knew it to be the death of his greatest hope, and equal to death itself.

This later feeling came when he had been admitted to a more intimate relationship with the Gotros, and had come to look upon Marie as the passion of his life. He had known her from childhood, and after his manhood had come to him he had begun to appreciate the difficulty of the position he held as a would-be lover. Yet the more this difficulty became apparent, the more ardor it gave his passion. What the last developments had done for him as well as for Marie we have already seen. By his own efforts to better his cause he cut himself off altogether from privileges which he had previously enjoyed.

In Marie herself important and sudden changes had taken place. She had become another being. The indifference of the light-hearted girl gave place to the more highly sensitive nature of the woman. The arrival of Winslow at Pierre Island, and the effect of his personality upon the life of the young woman, had at a stroke severed all possible intimacy between Len and her, and for all time. They were no longer children and could not do with the things of childhood. In Marie had developed the secret but strong love of her heart; and with it a sensitiveness which made her avoid such things as had been lightly regarded by the girl. In the man had sprung into life propensities for evil, and harshness of manner and speech, which, with a lack of refinement and education, put the young man in a very unfavorable light. He erred in placing so much value upon force and the advantage of a certain power which wealth gave him. At last love in the one had brought with it elevation of thought and sensitiveness of heart; in the other passion had sunk to the depths of half-despair and half hatred, and required but little to turn the whole current of his energy to love or hatred.

The tendency of his life and the peculiar circumstances of his youth had been much against Len. He was working against great odds. Need we wonder at the defeat that must surely come to him? Though only in his twentieth year, the unfortunate conditions of his life had prematurely developed him. Even Pierre was unprepared for the result of the sudden changes that had occurred in the young man during the last few weeks.

Towards Winslow, Len's hatred became fixed and unyielding. His avoidance of his former employer became so marked that Winslow made no attempt to break in upon his humor. Pierre always treated him as a boy, and did not change his calm manner or fatherly way with him. On the strength of their former friendship and intimacy Len sometimes conversed with Pierre, who was ever patient with him, as he was with everything and everybody. As may be supposed, Len was outspoken, and the subject was almost always Marie. They met a few days after the discovery of the blue vein, and Len soon turned the conversation upon his daughter.

"Why should Marie, because those Americans are here, never speak to me now?"

"Never mind the girl, Len; you are a rich man now, and that will give you a better chance to look about for someone who will please you as much as Marie. You know she is but a child in my eyes, and I must not lose her for a long time yet."

"If I am rich, why does she still shun me?" he persisted.

"You must let a woman have her way, Len," Pierre said.

"What has Winslow said of me? Why did his coming to your house shut me out altogether?" he continued, his rage growing.

"He is a worthy young man, Len. Do not believe anything that is dishonoring to him. He does no man harm."

"Pierre! Pierre! he does not love Marie, if she does love him," he cried, brutally.

"How much do you gain by that, Len?" said the old man, turning upon him his kind eyes, yet without a sign of anger. "You must not think to get nearer to Marie by speaking in this way about the persons she thinks are her friends."

"Pierre," said Len, "does Marie think that the water curse will come to me?"

"You know what everybody thinks about it, Len. And you know what we Acadians think of it."

"But, Pierre, why must that cursed story stand against me?" he exclaimed, in a rage again in a moment. "I have never believed the lie they tell about it, nor do I think I shall have the water curse."

"I hope not, Len, I hope not. You have only a year, and if you escape it with the money you have, make your life a good one. Restrain your temper, and avoid such suspicions as you seem to hold of worthy people."

In their talks they never got beyond this point. The young man knew the patience of Pierre, and often addressed him in this way. It was probably a relief from the pressure of passion and disappointment, which would have manifested itself in some other way. Yet his ideas never changed, and Pierre saw that he was more and more convinced on certain points touching Winslow, and more unreasonable as his chance of success lessened.

An occasion threw Winslow and Len together not long after the above meeting. Len was waiting for the tide to fall enough for him to cross the ford as Winslow came down for the same purpose. Len remained silent and sullen, while Winslow, as usual, with his calm indifference would have let him remain as he found him, had not the temptation to address him overcome his better judgment. While he spoke to him in good part, he was not expecting that his words would be so badly received.

"Good day, Mr. Lawson. I have not had a chance to congratulate you upon your good luck in finding an opal mine. Have you quite given over the Marie?"

"I suppose you would want it for its name," replied Len, quickly.

"Oh, for its name," said Winslow, perceiving what he had said, and the effect of his words upon Len; "as for that, it's a very good name. No, not for that reason. Do you want to sell it?"

"No, not till next week."

It was known that Winslow was to leave by that time.

"Oh, you won't give me a chance to bid for it?"

Len made no reply for a moment, and mistook the easy and indifferent manner of Winslow.

Stepping now on the fording stones, he went as far as the middle, when his anger got the better of him, and turning about, he said:

"If you got my boat you would change its name. That's why I would not sell her."

Winslow did not reply or look at him, as he was gazing out to sea. Len, now carried away by both hatred and anger, blurted out:

"Grace would not take the place of Marie."

Winslow was after him like a flash. Len saw that he must protect himself from the body leaping towards him over the ford stones, and braced himself for the shock. It was useless. Without a word, Winslow, as he reached Len, bent his body quickly, and in a trice that young man was landed on his back with a great splash in the water.

No word was spoken. Winslow proceeded on his way over the rocks, and passed up the road without once looking back.

CHAPTER XIV.

CROSS PURPOSES.

Affairs had moved along very rapidly during the last few days on Pierre Island. It had become the field, and Marie the focal point, of interest in the lives of Grace Gaston and Frank Winslow. This common interest brought them together in the interchange of thought as to her future and in union of purpose for her benefit. She had become their protégé, and they both gave her their care and protection.

At Bluff Castle, or out under the trees at the point of the island that gave the best view of the country, they often conferred with Pierre concerning the question of Marie's future. These self-imposed duties and the arranging of all their plans were productive of pleasant moments for them all. It threw Winslow much into the society of Miss Gaston, which he valued more and more as the days passed which would separate him altogether from his friends. His admiration for her did not lessen as he found each day of their fuller acquaintance some new quality of her personality. Perfectly at ease under almost all circumstances, she did not obtrude herself upon him, so that he could only judge of her as chance opened to his view some new phase of her character.

The old Acadian himself was much gratified with the interest his friends evinced in his daughter and himself, and it brought a new hope and solace to his saddened life.

Marie had become almost the constant companion of Miss Gaston during the few weeks she had spent away from Blomidon. She was never without her on her walks about the shores of the island or mainland. Often Winslow accompanied them, but never did he find Miss Gaston alone. He sometimes wondered at this, but as Marie went among them as a quiet spirit, without intrusion, ever welcomed by them all, no restraint was ever put upon their conversation by her presence. Moreover, he as a man was outspoken, and while ever calm and deliberate in his manner, imparted a fearless and decided tone to each act of his life. What he had to do he did at once, and was not easily turned aside. He became a lover in his own peculiar way, and as he strengthened as a lover he did not weaken as a man. It was not in his nature to do so. A strength and fineness of soul lay beneath it all, but he unwittingly deceived himself and he deceived others. Recognizing the force of character in Miss Gaston, he was drawn to her by every responsive sensibility of his being. He saw her often. He had every opportunity to realize what she was in herself and in her relations with others. Only one sentiment she did not share with him. Her womanly nature treasured it as its own, and in this one thing their friendship had been of too short duration for him to discover it from her own lips, and there was no other way by which it might be known, unless chance had revealed it. This chance did not occur, at least for some days after their stay, and then too late for the avoidance of that turn in the state of affairs which left for Miss Gaston the only unhappiness of her visit to Nova Scotia. It might be said that it was one of the regrets of her lifetime. She had found in Winslow a man of that quality which unites him to a woman of high nature in lasting affection. Such experiences are rare in practical life, but they have a force and quality which is only next to love in the highest sense between man and woman.

Without a father, she had come to Acadia with the Forests, and had been accompanied by Mr. Sternly during a part of their trip. This young man, one of the rising artists of the day, was yet in the early stages of his advancement, and while success was certain, he needed yet some years of study and labor to give him the prominence which his talents promised. Not as yet engaged, he and Miss Gaston were accepted lovers. She lived in his ultimate success, and had accepted him as the choice of her heart without binding him or herself to any future relationship till he had given to the world the highest type of success, and crowned his labors with the purest and loftiest ideal of artistic development. She had entered with him into this great hope. She had stimulated him with the influence of her ambition for him and the strength of her love as well. Between them existed the purest form of that love which crowns and glorifies all earthly labor. It was not a theme for the comment of others.

"Our protégé has been the means of making us better acquainted, Mr. Winslow," said Miss Gaston, during one of their walks, after they had been arranging some plans, as usual, for Marie and Pierre. "Mrs. Forest and her daughter are pleased that we were so fortunate."

"It has been fortunate for me, rather, in that I have found such good friends. I much regret that I must leave here so soon."

"We also regret it. The people staying at the hotel are hoping to arrange for an excursion to Grand-Pré, and Mrs. Forest told me she hoped it would come off before you went away."

Marie was with them, and they wandered towards the Blue Vein, enjoying to the fullest extent the lovely day and the soft breeze from the outgoing tide. They had turned among the huge masses of rock at the rear of the island. Marie, silent as was her wont while in the presence of Winslow, moved along with them, or stopped to examine some object that caught her attention as they walked. She had dropped behind them now, and Miss Gaston, turning to him, said:

"Now that it is all arranged for Marie to make her home with us, I am sure that you will do your duty by her and come to see her often. It will be a guarantee that you shall not neglect your other friends, for the Forests are often with us."

"I must go to Marie's home to see you," said Winslow, turning upon her with a strange look in his eyes, and a deeper and lower tone in his voice. "Miss Gaston, as I leave here so soon I esteem this opportunity a great privilege."

She started as if she had received a blow, and in an instant she realized the meaning of the situation. A painful light broke in upon her. She feared to let him go on and she hesitated before she should fully understand him. But there was no mistaking his voice and the look on his face. The strong man's soul was on his lips, and the influence of his strength was on her heart and moved her beyond the possibility of a doubt.

"Oh, Mr. Winslow," she cried, in a voice full of pain, "I fear I have been terribly mistaken. And I fear I have unwittingly deceived you."

"Then do not let us misunderstand each other any longer, Miss Gaston. I must tell you that I hoped much from this friendship, so suddenly—and I thought so happily—come to us. Do not, I beg of you, mistake my interest in Marie, and my affection for her father."

"Forgive me, Mr. Winslow," she said, with tears in her eyes, "this is a sadness for me. I was surely, surely blind."

Winslow looked at her long with pale face, and saw that to say more was to add still greater pain to her grief. He realized his position, and with effort kept himself in hand.

"Pardon me if I return," he said, hurriedly, as he heard Marie's steps approaching them again. He turned away, and caught for an instant the full look of Marie's eyes as he hurried past her. In another instant he was out of sight, and the two women met. Marie saw the tears and agitation of Miss Gaston, and as she came near her friend she was clasped in a moment about the neck, and found her own tears falling, called forth by the silent grief of the older woman.

"Oh, Marie," she said, at last, "I have been injuring you, and I have injured Mr. Winslow. But not for a moment did I think of all this that has occurred."

"You could not injure me or him, Grace," answered Marie, still held by her friend.

"Marie, I shall never forgive myself till you both have forgiven me."

"I forgive you now, and Mr. Winslow forgives you, too," said Marie, smiling in her tears.

It was some time before they returned from the beach. They were both silent, and holding each other's hand, and by the sudden stroke of chance bound still more closely together, the one by sympathy and love, the other by the added quality of a heart filled with the deep desire of doing reparation for a great injury.

Miss Gaston looked upon her coming to Pierre Island as a great misfortune, and her staying there after the development of the first events and the condition of things which she should have been cognizant of, the greatest blunder of her life. From what Winslow had said of the Pierres she had at once inferred that Marie held first place in his affections. She believed him capable of any disinterested action for the advantage of another, yet she looked upon his relation with the Acadian family as having a deeper meaning than that which was now disclosed. In this she had been deceived, and it had led to such consequences as to bind her to the end of restoring the original condition of affairs as far as in her power lay. How much she would do to see her friends as they were before she came into their lives. With the instinct of a woman, and with that insight peculiar to herself, she had found in Marie such qualities as had pleased her, and had satisfied her as to Winslow's choice. In doing for Marie she felt that she was aiding Winslow as well, and from this double service she had derived a great deal of satisfaction and pleasure.

The intense feeling of regret and sorrow would often quite overcome her as she walked back towards the ford with Marie, and the tears often came to her eyes as she reflected on the possible consequences of her intervention. She feared that it might be even more serious than the strong nature of her friend promised.

With these feelings, and with an occasional overpowering emotion which affected Marie as well, they now came in sight of the ford, and the appearance of the Forests on the other side, and their signals of welcome caused her to put a strong restraint upon her feelings. They were soon able to converse across the channel which rippled out softly and laid bare the higher stones of the ford.

Miss Forest was in the greatest good humor. She said at once, when her friend came within speaking distance:

"It is all arranged, Grace. We go in the morning."

"To Grand-Pré?"

"Yes."

"Marie," she continued, "you and your father and Suzanne must come with us. We have arranged for everything, and you must come."

Miss Gaston left Marie with a few kind words, and as the tide had fallen, she stepped over the rocks of the ford and joined her friends.

Marie passed up the steep road to Bluff House still oppressed with the grief that had called forth her sympathy with Miss Gaston. From the summit Winslow himself, seated alone, looked down upon the scene presented to his view, and gave himself up for the time to the emotions which his experience of the afternoon left him. He recalled the whole incident, and for the first time he found that the child woman had in some mysterious way been the cause of all his present unhappiness. He recalled what Miss Gaston had said in regard to Marie and himself, and he wondered how it was possible for her to suppose him occupying the position she had assumed for him in the life of the Acadian maiden. He saw Miss Gaston going up the beach towards the mainland, and as her form grew smaller and at last was lost to view in the road which turned along the side of the hill, he looked at Marie coming nearer and nearer as she ascended with slow steps the island road. Her form stood out with bolder lines, and her large eyes and beautiful face had taken a new quality in his eyes. He found himself thinking about her as a woman, not as a child, as he had done previously. The influence of Miss Gaston on him was already at work, and in the confusion of his thoughts he did not fail to realize that from that day the two women who had so much to do with his destiny had suddenly fallen from the position he had falsely placed them in, and had by a rapid turn of affairs assumed the place they rightly belonged to, and which also changed considerably his own position in regard to them.

CHAPTER XV.

EVANGELINE'S RETURN.

Early next morning the residents of Pierre Island, including old Suzanne, and their American friends and a number of visitors from the hotel were on board a large and powerful tugboat engaged for the purpose of taking them to Grand-Pré. It was a pleasant party. Merry laughter and conversation were heard from every part of the boat. Under the morning sun that filled with glorious light the clear air, the whole blue sheet of the Basin spread before them, and the white fog-veil of Blomidon slowly melted away. The warm day lay open and full of delightful repose, giving of its best everywhere. When at its best the glory of a Nova Scotia day on the Basin of Minas is not to be equalled anywhere for balmy freshness on the swelling flood of a Fundy tide fresh from the ocean. Its cool, salty depths were clean and fleet to-day on its errand to the marsh country of Grand-Pré.

Tide and steam were united in accomplishing the journey between Cumberland Hills and Horton Heights. On the east the tide sped up into the Cobequid Bay, where the land was lost sight of altogether. On the west Blomidon lay like a sleeping beast. Where it sloped down to the beginning of the more level country of farms and orchards the Cornwallis Valley opens up. Here begin the red banks and dyked levels of the marsh country. The blue tide has now its fringe of red run into its pure ocean color from the alluvial deposits that fill all the river ways, many of them running to the sea. As their course took them farther south the fringe became broader, and doubling Kingsport Point long wedges of salt marsh cut into the tide until their sedgy growth lay completely buried by the current. The whole body of water around the boat was now red, and the headlands were of the same color, and were cut down almost perpendicular by the action of the sea.

The boat has now reached the Grand-Pré country. Pierre pointed out to Winslow, who stood ever at his side, the different rivers, and where the dykes ran, and the location of the many Acadian villages. On the west were Habitant and Canard, once large rivers, but now dyked in and made fruitful even to the bottom of the ancient channels. Here the dykes crossed the rivers, and shut out the salt water. The Cornwallis on the north-west, and the Avon on the east, with the historic Gaspereau between them, yet flowed untrammelled by any obstruction, the winding dykes following the sinuosities of the rivers, which were lost to view up the valleys whence they came.

The wooded land in front is Long Island. Quickly the boat goes with the tide till the island is on the right, and entering the mouth of the Gaspereau, the Grand-Pré meadows lie before them, stretching level between Long Island and the upland on the south. Here centre the events of the story of Evangeline. Here was the Grand-Pré of a prosperous and happy people. Here was the Grand-Pré made desolate and lost to its people. Here is the Grand-Pré of another race, rich, beautiful, and for ever to be known in its sad story.

The steamer was soon at the pier inside the broad mouth of the river Gaspereau. Here were the Acadian people taken aboard the vessels by boats under the careless eyes of the soldiery, who did not understand their language and gave little heed to their grief. The season was cold and late. The work was to be done, and the sooner over the better, after the tedious delay of getting enough ships for the purpose, and being kept in the country when they were looking forward to the time when they might return to their homes. The people were hurried off, and the work promised to be over with soon. The mornings were now unpleasantly cold after uncomfortable nights in the canvas tents, and the ground was often frozen. They were too glad to escape, and short work they made of bustling the poor people into the ships. As there were not enough vessels to take the people comfortably, they had to be stowed away as well as possible in the few there were.

After viewing the scene, the whole party took the road along which the Acadians came to the beach, and in a short time arrived at Grand-Pré. By the row of French willows which the people had set out near the church, they now stood to look up the gentle slope covered with fruit trees, and beautiful with the young green of the year's crops. Here had stood the village of Grand-Pré. Between the slope and the willows Colonel Winslow had picketed his camp.

"Evangeline has returned to Grand-Pré," said Miss Forest, taking Marie's hand as she spoke, "after an absence of a century and a half."

"Only to look upon her fathers' home," said Pierre, who stood near; "only to stand near the graves of her ancestors, unmarked even by a mound. Only to gaze into the hollow of a cellar once the foundation of a Gotro home, or upon the deathless willow that grew in the place of a people's love and marked the home of a trustful peasantry. To our name has the Acadian Grand-Pré descended, but the Acadian Grand-Pré is no more."

His friends listened to his words in silence, and appreciated the feelings of the venerable old man, embodying in himself the convictions of thousands of his race, their humility and calm, their melancholy patience, the later generations of the Acadian people. They now wandered over the ground near the willows where stood the church of St. Charles, which had served as the prison for the four hundred and twenty-four male inhabitants from ten years and upwards. They walked up the slope on the old French road, while the last Gotro, the heir to Grand-Pré, pointed out the homes of his ancestors. At last, from the hill they looked over the vast stretch of dykeland and the numerous lines of dyke which had been thrown up one beyond the other till the whole meadow had been enclosed.

Winslow and Miss Gaston found themselves a little apart from the others, the first time they had been alone since they had separated on the beach at Pierre Island the day before.

"Mr. Winslow, will you permit me to say it, I think we have united our interest in Marie. I feel that this makes a bond between us which I am sure cannot be without value to either of us. I dare to believe that I may rightfully hold this opinion. Am I right?"

"I cannot relinquish my service to the daughter of my friend Pierre. I can share it with you with pleasure and in all confidence."

"I am very glad of it," she returned. "I must believe that our united service is acceptable to Marie, as well as to her father. She accepts yours no less than mine."

"I must take this opportunity to say good-bye, Miss Gaston. I shall not return by the boat, as I go by train from here."

The approach of their friends prevented any further conversation of a personal or private nature, and with many expressions of regret and surprise on all sides, he boarded the train which soon arrived, and was taken from among them.

Marie and Miss Gaston clung to each other almost as mother and child. In Marie's eyes was the story of her grief. In her friend's heart was the sad doubt that had come into it from the sudden departure of Winslow. From that day began the patient waiting of the mourning Evangeline and the long absence of her Gabriel.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE RETURN OF GABRIEL.

"Sweet, sorrowing, mute, unplaining maidenhood."

As the coming of Frank Winslow to Pierre Island had been the cause of so many changes and important events in the lives of several individuals, so the period of his absence, on the contrary, was strangely quiet and uneventful. Pierre Island and its venerable inhabitant, seldom disturbed now by the signs of an outside world, felt the years pass away and realized no change.

Marie had been in New York for three years under the care of Miss Gaston. As all her winters for some time had been spent away from home, it was no unusual condition for her father.

Winslow had gone west immediately after his return to the States, so that when Miss Gaston reached the city he was many miles away. From the Rocky Mountains he had gone to the Klondike. During his stay in that region he had kept in touch with his friends in the East.

After the departure of the Americans, and particularly of Winslow, Len Lawson had changed considerably in demeanor, and when he learned that his rival was in a distant country he did not conceal his satisfaction in the least. He openly expressed it to Pierre. His manner otherwise was not so unpleasant, and but for the ever-haunting fear of the curse that would soon be upon him, his nature seemed to have undergone a change for the better. Pierre Island saw much of him, and had become a place of refuge, so to speak, when driven to a condition of despair. He was sure of the old man's protection and sympathy.

Frank Winslow found in a strange country, and amid the hardships and occupation peculiar to his mission there, an agreeable means of distraction from the serious thought resulting from the conditions which had lately involved his life. The blow he had received was a severe one, and had come suddenly and unexpectedly. In the toil and routine of his new life he set himself bravely to the task he had before him. There was a grievous wound to be healed, and his force of character turned him into such directions as tended to make him as quickly as possible grow into the new life that must now open to him. His previous active career had kept him remarkably free from woman's influence. Though but a young man, he had travelled a great deal, but with a strict adherence to the demands of his work, and so absorbed by it that he had been able to give it his undivided attention. Science had received his allegiance, to the exclusion of every other mistress.

After coming into intimate relations with Grace Gaston, and seeing in her those high qualities which pleased his manly heart, he was at once powerfully influenced. Everything tended to bring him more and more into a realization of her personality, and that made the result inevitable, so far as he was concerned. From their first meeting to their final parting he was affected. Such a feeling, whether love or friendship, is of a permanent character. He had interpreted it as meaning love. He had been powerfully moved by it. He had acted as the lover, and as the lover had at last come to her. As a result they both suffered, each in his and her own way, and were prevented in consequence from enjoying the full value which a friendship such as was possible to them would bestow. In the wilds of Alaska he felt the same powerful feelings which had moved him at Pierre Island. His experience gave it a different coloring in his life. There was no uncertainty in relation to it as regarded Grace Gaston. Time was needed to soften the effect of the disappointment upon his life, which had come through her. So he was glad that the work which he had in hand would require not a few years to accomplish.

Grace Gaston found in Marie the development of a womanhood of a pure and retiring nature. Her wonderfully sensitive heart demanded certain conditions to satisfy it. As she broke away from the ties of youth, a few years wrought great changes in her. She ever retained her shyness. A quiet retirement, except to those in whom she placed implicit faith, and a modesty which no state of her life could eradicate or alter, were ever the qualities to characterize her. In her everyday life she was strong of character and purpose. Warm of heart, and of firm hope, she grew to riper womanhood capable of any sacrifice for those of her intimate life. With her mental and moral growth was also the beauty of face and form which, never brilliant, was nevertheless of that high type which commands admiration and derives its strength from unaffected native loveliness. Her womanhood was of that pure quality seen only in the reposeful face and the half melancholy, languid relaxation of form utterly unconscious of itself.

To Grace Gaston every day that came found in her heart some hope for the change in the relations that existed between Winslow and her loved companion, Marie. It was the regret of her existence that through her unwitting action she had been the means of separating these two persons. She had come in the way of Marie's love. She had interrupted the course of events which she fully believed would have opened Winslow's heart to a strong attachment for the Acadian girl. For this act of hers she could never rest content with herself until she saw these two friends returned to each other, and the original state of affairs restored as she had found them when she had arrived at Pierre Island, or just before she had seen Winslow at Blomidon. Marie, she believed, was the real and true object of his life. She held to this idea as an intuition, and she had all faith in the ultimate result. She longed for the final restoration of the picture which she had rudely marred. Her own happiness depended on it. She read the force of Winslow's character. She knew the heart of Marie, and she knew the qualities which had endeared her to herself. In pursuance of this idea, and in acting for its end, she did not see or realize all the results of her efforts. While she exerted every womanly tact to make him understand what had taken place in Marie's life, and of the wonderful development in her personality, she failed to see the impression she made on Winslow's mind in regard to herself. He found her taking a higher and better place in his life than he had been able to give her at first. She rose steadily in his estimation, and though she knew it not, she often left with him all the pain and all the regrets which he suffered on learning the true state of her heart. As to Marie, she was the same to him as she was when he left Pierre Island. He could not change the picture of her in his mind. Shy, gentle, and in the first blush of womanhood, wonderfully beautiful, he remembered, and with a strange light in her eyes which he had seen but a few times,—this was the recollection of the daughter of his friend Pierre, and this only when he gave her a thought.

So Grace Gaston was true to her trust and faithful to the charge she had placed upon herself. No mother more seriously considered the training and culture of her daughter. She felt all the anxiety of her responsible task and looked to a certain result. On her faithful and intelligent arrangement and preparation depended the life happiness of two of her friends. And on the desired result hung the expiation of the blame she could not rid herself of.

"Marie, I am finishing my letter to Mr. Winslow. What is there from your father he would like to hear?"

"Père wrote to me that Len Lawson had lost a good deal of his money trying to improve the Blue Vein mine. It is not so good now, as the vein is very small, and the stone is not so fine. Len has had the water fever for some time, and between the two he is changing."

"I have told him that you think you cannot leave your father for so long a time again. He does not show any sign of decline, but as he is so old you think that you should not be away from him so much."

"Yes, and père hopes to see Mr. Winslow this year."

"I will tell him so. I think that we will see him this year."

"It is late for him to return from that country, is it not?"

"Yes, but he says that he will have to come south at once."

"Why does he return this year? He said that it would take him another year to complete his work."

"Yes, he wrote to me that he could not expect to come home before next summer."

"Grace, do you think that he is in bad health? It is a terrible country, even for strong men," asked Marie, looking inquiringly into the face of her friend.

"His last letter does not say why he is returning so soon."

"He must be sick, Grace. That dreadful country, and he has been working so hard."

"I fear he has overworked himself, Marie, and he is compelled to return this year, a year earlier than he first intended."

"If he is not well, my dear father may not see him, even if he returns."

"He would not spend the summer here, and he could not do better than to go to Pierre Island, even in the autumn." As she spoke she laid her hand on Marie's arm, and looked up into her face with a loving expression of countenance.

"I hope he will come," said Marie, without the slightest embarrassment of manner. A soft look came into her eyes as she spoke her thoughts and feelings.

So it was that Marie had in the matured strength of her womanhood unconsciously consecrated her life to her love. Not by deliberate purpose had she done so, but every act and thought of her life were in accord with it, and it was announced in them and dominated her being and controlled her actions. It was akin to worship, yet there was not the slightest element of encouragement in it, so far as she was concerned. She lived happily with her love, nevertheless the forgetfulness of herself, and the disposition on her part to set aside her life for the good of others did not permit her to dwell upon any expectation. She clung firmly to what she had, and lived her years as a precious possession.

In a few more weeks Marie was at home again at Pierre Island, among the rocks and bluffs of Minas Basin. What a loveliness was there in the warm reflections of the sky on the long, bare beaches at low tide. Out along the fringe of the flats she walked as a girl, seeing the beauty of things and places, and feeling the joy of life amid the scenes and objects which before had not so attracted her attention. Her ears were filled with glad sounds. They spoke of the long, lazy fall of the low-tide surf. It sighed through the salmon weir, and overhead soughed in the foliage of the stunted pines, and among the caves and coves of Pierre Island, echoed back with weird loudness from the face of the cliffs. How fresh and clean the breeze came, fanning her face, from the salt tides and briny pools of weed! Where the sand and finer stone had been laid step above step, showing each change of the tide, she walked along the last tide line and marked the gatherings of the sea laid upon the shore. It was all so delightfully real to her now, since she had been away from it so long, and had grown so far into a new life while away. Never before in her absence had she felt the same joy on her return. She was not given to idle dreaming, but she was living in a new life of fresh, maturer years, and she saw the world of her youth, her beautiful world, through the eyes of her love. It tinted everything. She had become a poet in fancy and perception, in the emotional intensity and expansion of her being. Her education and development gave her an intelligent appreciation of the higher poetic qualities of life around her now, and of her place in it. There was suggestion in it, rich thought, and her love crowned it all.

So Marie brought back to Pierre Island a quality she had never before known or seen in it. She did not realize that it came from herself, and that her changed personality had given of itself to every commonplace object. Nor did she know that the strange thrills which came to her in the play of light and color, of harmonious sound upon her sensibilities, were given life and received their peculiar character from the influences of her love and the expectation of the return of Winslow.

When Marie did think of the possibility of seeing Winslow at Pierre Island, a fear and trembling seized upon her heart at times, and she longed for the presence of her friend, Miss Gaston, the woman she loved as only a woman can love who has no near relative in the world but a father.

She learned from her father that Len Lawson, her old playmate of the beach, whom she had now to drive from her life, had been away for several weeks, consulting skilful specialists, and trying to get a remedy for his malady. The curse was upon him. Every passion and ambition of his former life was drowned in the awful fever of the old malediction. His love for Marie, his interest in his mine, and the wealth he had acquired, were forgotten in his efforts to get relief from the curse which was upon him day and night.

Not many days after coming home, while the novelty of it all was yet with her, she spent several hours at the bluff side of Pierre Island. She looked with a strange feeling of dread at the shelf in the cove from which Winslow had been rescued. Then she wandered on to the place where the Blue Vein lay under the mass of fallen rock. The opening had been enlarged, and there was every evidence of labor above where the tide reached. Otherwise there was nothing unusual in the appearance of the place. There had not been any labor done since Len had gone away, and the tide had washed out all the signs of human effort. Marie avoided the place with a kind of terror, as though the shadow of an impending fate was already over it. Finally the rising of the tide warned her that it was time for her return. Slowly she moved along the edge of the rising water, taking a delicate bit of seaweed to press, or examining a shell or mineral specimen. In this easy way she reached Bluff Castle at last.

Suddenly the attention of Marie was called to voices which came from the house. She stopped, and in a moment the color left her face, and, trembling, she sank upon a bench near the door. Her fear did not leave her. The sounds of familiar voices, one her father's, the other so well remembered, yet so changed, came to her with unnerving power. The hoped for, yet the unexpected, had occurred. She had never dwelt upon his coming, and of the possibility of being compelled to enter his presence unannounced, or with nothing to bring them together easily and naturally. He was near her, in her own home, yet she dared not enter. She had not the strength to rise and remove herself from the seat. Suddenly her courage returned, in the words which came to her from within. Her strength asserted itself and she was no longer afraid. She had pictured to herself the stalwart, strong Winslow of three years past, but the words that came to her now told the story, and aroused the woman in her, the heart of sympathy for the man she loved.

"Friend Pierre, it is good to feel the air here. It will mean life and strength to me soon. But for you I would never have climbed Island Road. It seems impossible that I have lost so much."

Marie, aroused all at once, did not see as she heard the words thus spoken, a pale, emaciated man, changed out of almost every semblance of his former athletic self, lying back in an easy chair. Only the firm voice and fine, honest eyes told the Winslow, but fallen so low.

In a moment she was the woman again, equal to him in the purpose of her obedient and sympathetic heart. She felt that he needed her, and then she entered. Gabriel had been found.

CHAPTER XVII.

THE WATER CURSE.

For a brief space of time Winslow gazed at Marie, and then broke out, astonishment written in his face:

"What, Marie! Then we have both changed."

Her look was equally one of surprise and pain as she took his extended hand, and she was powerless to utter a word.

She was spared further embarrassment, however, by Pierre, who said:

"Marie, put Mr. Winslow's room to rights. We have been waiting for you."

Marie, glad to escape, hurried away.

From that moment a new light came into the life of Marie. New and pleasant duties became hers. Miss Gaston, who heard from her a few days after Winslow's arrival, realized the change in her friend. She wisely concluded not to go to Pierre Island that year, or at least till she was sure her coming would not be the cause of any break in the new condition of affairs. She had her own history to make, and yet her own happiness did not prevent her entering into the lives of her friends.

As the days went by, Marie became more and more a revelation to Winslow. After the fatigue of his journey, and the long and tedious road to Pierre Island, he did not realize fully what the extent of the development was that had taken place in Marie. He saw it more and more as the time passed and his keener perceptions renewed their activity.

So Winslow saw only Pierre and his family about him. It was some days before he could walk to the beach, although his strength came back with every breath of the Fundy air and the pure sunshine of the late summer days. Marie from the first was installed as nurse and companion. As an associate she was in a very short time as necessary as she had at first been as a nurse. In this way Winslow came to know the woman better than he had known the girl, every day disclosing some quality of her beautiful nature. At last he found that his years spent in the Yukon were of the greatest value in his life. They led to his present position, which any other course would have lost to him.

One day he said to Pierre:

"What has become of Len's boat?"

"The poor fellow got into a rage one day, during a talk with me. It was in the height of summer, and the dread of the curse was breaking him down. He suddenly left me and hurried away to his boat, which was lying on the beach out of the tide. I saw him go aboard of her, and very soon smoke rose from the little cabin. I suspected what he intended to do when he left me, and went after him, but too late to prevent him setting the fire, which soon spread over the whole boat from the cabin. Len stood by, looking on without a word or movement, till the coming tide washed over the remains of the Marie. He then went away, and I did not see him for weeks, nor did I know where he had gone."

"You wrote to me that he had fallen a victim to the water curse, as the other members of the family had before him."

"Yes, poor boy. He often told me that he did not believe he would be afflicted, as his father was not so bad with it as his grandfather."

"Len was a strange character to me," said Winslow. "There was at times a mad look in his eyes. I think it must be a form of insanity, perhaps a mild type of mental derangement."

"It came on like a fever, and seemed to affect his mind."

"Was it a sudden fever, or did it gradually affect him?" asked Winslow.

"The thirst came with awful suddenness," the old man replied; "but leading up to that time for weeks and months he was a changed man. It was a sad thing to see him avoiding everybody but me, and moving about as if followed by something he did not see, but feared at every step."

"Was there an accompanying sickness of any kind?"

"No, not that we could detect. At the last he remained with us till the worst came."

"Marie was away?"

"Yes, and we did all we could for him. Nothing gave him ease of mind. At last, on the day when he came of age, we were in the house. Len was never quiet. For days he did not rest, and I think he got very little sleep, for I often heard him pacing the house or passing out of doors. Several times I followed him to the cliffs, fearing he might do violence to himself. For during those last days his life must have been very hard to bear. Yet he had no idea of committing suicide. Surely Len's suffering was enough to atone for any act committed by any ancestor of his."

"Len was a very intelligent fellow. Perhaps this had much to do with making his dread of the curse greater than it would have otherwise been?"

"Perhaps you are right. His wealth gave him a different standing in the community, and his love for Marie also made him look upon the coming of the curse with hatred. At last the time came. He was exhausted with expectation and with the sleepless wandering of many days and nights. He could not stand, but sat with a ghastly face and rolling eyes as the moment came. The time passed. I saw the nervous twitching of his mouth and the clenching of his hands. Several minutes passed, and he began to struggle as one in a fit. He started from his chair, only to fall back again like a corpse. He slipped to the floor, beating with his hands the mat on which he lay; then with a terrible cry he was on his feet again, and seizing me by the arm, he cried:

"'Pierre! Pierre! the curse is upon me! The curse is mine! I am dying of thirst.'

"Rushing to the kitchen, he seized a large tin of water, and carrying it to his lips, he began to drink eagerly. I thought he would kill himself, for he took every drop, except what he spilled in his madness to drink and satisfy his terrible thirst.

"Strange to say, he calmed down, and burying his face in his hands, he wept, a broken-spirited man."

"You think it changed him?"

"He was from that moment another man. A more hopeless and afflicted looking man you could not easily find. I feared insanity before the curse worked its worst upon him. I do not know what the effect of the fatal thirst will finally be, but if he does not lose his reason entirely, he will kill himself. Poor boy, poor boy!" murmured the old man.

"It seems to me a wonderful case, and impossible to understand. Has he been under any treatment?"

"He spent some time with two eminent physicians who were interested in his case, but they failed to help him in any way, and did not seem to understand the affliction at all. He is away now. It unfits him sadly for any occupation, and his easy means of living permits him too much time to brood over his condition."

"He has ceased expecting any hope from Marie, then?"

"He no longer speaks of her. He does not even mention your name now. He is dead to his old life, old in his youth, and with no desire in life but to be cured of his insatiable thirst. That is the only hope left to him."

Winslow was much impressed by Pierre's account of Len's trouble, and while they were speaking Marie appeared, coming towards them. He at once left the old man, who looked after him with a kindly look of affection in his eyes.

"You are late, nurse," said Winslow, as he came near her. "Your father has been able to tell me all about Len while I have been waiting for you."

"Suzanne needed my help, and could not wait. I knew the patient could," said Marie, laughing, "especially if he had père to talk to."

So they both walked away from the old man, who still gazed after them. His heart was with them as their forms gradually became smaller with the increasing distance.

We cannot go with Marie and Winslow very far in their walk. They talked a great deal about Len, and Marie spoke of him with sorrow, and heard of his great trouble with tears. They had been friends in their younger days, and of late years had been separated completely, while his case seemed to her so sad she turned away for a moment to hide her tears from her companion.

Winslow looked at her as she turned away, and suddenly he stepped close to her and spoke words that quickly gushed from his heart. She was startled and turned about to face him, her eyes now uncovered and moist with tears. There she stood without a word, and he came even nearer, looking into the eyes that did not fall from his own. He saw a fresh flow of tears as her look fell away at last, and from the sight of his happy eyes she hid the new glory which came into hers.