THE MADAWASKA WOOING
Petit Pierre of Attegat,
—Peter, the Little, round and fat,
Balanced himself on the edge of a chair
And gazed in the eyes of Father Claire.
Without on the porch, defiant sat
The prettiest maiden in Attegat.
And here was trouble; for Zelia Dionne
Had vowed to the Virgin she’d be a nun;
But Peter, who loved her more than life,
Was fully as bound she should be his wife.
Yet as often as Peter pressed to wed
The pretty Zelia tossed her head.
“I’m not for the wife of man,” she said.
“I’ve dreamed three times our Mary came
And pressed my brow and spoke my name.
I know she means for me to kneel
And take the vows at St. Basil.”
Though Peter stormed, yet Zelia clung
To her belief and braved his tongue.
“Je t’aime, mon cher,” she shyly said,
And drooped her eyes and bent her head;
“But when our Virgin Mother calls
A maiden to her convent walls,
How shameless she to disobey
And follow her own guilty way!”
“But dearest,” Peter warmly plead,
“’Twould not be guilty if it led
To our own home and our own love!
Our Holy Mother from Above,
Will pardon us—I know she will—”
And yet the maid responded still,
“I dare not, Peter, disobey,
And follow my own guilty way.”
So thus it chanced that Zelia Dionne
Had vowed herself to be a nun.
Though Peter teased for many a day
She pressed her lips and said him nay,
And when he begged that she at least
Would leave the question to the priest,
Although she grudged her faint consent
As meaning doubt, at last she went,
Overpersuaded by Peter’s prayer,
To take the case to Father Clair.
Peter, the Little, of Attegat
Fumbled with trembling hands his hat,
As breathlessly he tried to trace
The thoughts that crossed the father’s face.
“My son,” at length the priest returned,
—How Peter’s heart within him burned—
“If truly by the maid the Queen
Of Most High Heaven hath been seen,
—If only in her maiden dreams—
You must allow it ill beseems
My mouth to speak. It may be sin,
For—well, my son, bring Zelia in!”
She stood before him half abashed
Yet boldly, too;—her dark cheek dashed
With ruddy flame; for all her soul
Burned holily. For now her whole
Rich nature stirred. She was not awed
For had she not been called of God?
And little Peter sat and stared
And marvelled how he’d ever dared
To lift his eyes to such a maid,
Or strive to wreck the choice she’d made.
She told in simple terms the tale.
“And do you wish to take the veil?”
The father asked. “Think long, think twice
And never mourn the sacrifice.”
She quivered, but she said, “I’ve thought;
Our Mary wills it and I ought.”
“And can you gladly say farewell
To earth and love and friends; to dwell
With perfect peace nor ever sigh
For things behind?” She said, “I’ll try.”
But even as she spoke the word,
The old time love for Peter stirred;
And mingling with her quick regret,
There came a sob and Peter’s wet,
Sad eyes peered at her through a rain
Of honest tears. She tried in vain
To choke her grief, but Zelia Dionne
Forgot her vow to be a nun,
And crying, “Pierre, I love you best!”
She flung herself upon his breast.
A moment thus—and then in prayer
Both knelt before good Father Clair.
“My daughter, did that vision speak
That night when motherly and meek,
She pressed her hand upon thy brow?
No? Then, my child, she spoke just now;
And in the promptings of thy heart
Her word is clear. My child, thou art
Blest in this choice, for that caress
Upon thy brow was but to bless
And not to call thee from thy choice.
Depart in peace, wed and rejoice.”
Peter, the Little, of Attegat,
Clapped on his curls, his fuzzy hat,
And clasping the hand of his promised bride
He trudged back home with one at his side,
—No longer the self-vowed, mournful nun,
But laughing, black-eyed Zelia Dionne.