His head throbbed, his muscles contracted. Only this afternoon he had been firm, as firm as a rock. He had sternly resolved not to see her again, not to write to her, not to meet her, not to send her a message, unless he should hear that she had been released from the bond of her marriage. What had come over him now? He was as weak as a child. He had better stop and think the matter over; and he sprang from his wheel and threw himself down on a grassy bank, covered with broad leaves that concealed the dead and withered flowers of the summer.
Somewhere in the darkness behind him was lonely Piau's Isle, where several of the Acadien forefathers of the Bay lay buried. What courage and powers of endurance they had possessed! They had bravely borne their burdens, lived their day, and were now at rest. Some day,—in a few years, perhaps,—he, too, would be a handful of dust, and he, too, would leave a record behind him; what would his record be?
He bit his lip and set his teeth savagely. He was a fool and a coward. He would not go to Sleeping Water, but would immediately turn his back on temptation, and go to Weymouth. He could stay at a hotel there all night, and take the train in the morning.
The soft air caressed his weary head; for a long time he lay staring up at the stars through the interlaced branches of an apple-tree over him, then he slowly rose. His face was towards the head of the Bay; he no longer looked towards Sleeping Water, but for a minute he stood irresolutely, and in that brief space of time his good resolution was irrevocably lost.
Some girls were going to a merrymaking, and, as they went, they laughed gaily and continuously. One of them had clear, silvery tones like those of Rose. The color again surged to his face, the blood flew madly through his veins. He must see her, if only for an instant; and, hesitating no longer, he turned and went careering swiftly through the darkness.
A short time later he had reached the inn. There was a light in Rose's window. She must have gone to bed. Célina only was in the kitchen, and, with a hasty glance at her, he walked to the stable.
A terrible quacking in the duck-yard advised him who was there, and he was further assured by hearing an irritable voice exclaim, "If fowls were hatched dumb, there would not be this distracting tumult!"
Agapit was after a duck. It fell to his lot to do the killing for the household, and it was so great a trial to his kind heart that, if the other members of the family had due warning, they usually, at such times, shut themselves up to be out of reach of his lamentable outcries when he was confronted by a protesting chicken, an innocent lamb, a tumultuous pig, or a trusting calf.
Just now he emerged from the yard, holding a sleepy drake by the wing.
"Miséricorde!" he exclaimed, when he almost ran into Vesper, "who is it? You—you?" and he peered at him through the darkness.