In another moment there appeared at the head of the path a white, slight figure, with something black about the head and shoulders. It was Yvonne, come out to see the cause of the loud disturbance.
“It is I, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed in an eager voice, hastening to meet her,—“Paul Grande, back from the West.”
A slight gasping cry escaped her, and she paused irresolutely. It was but for the least part of an instant; yet my memory took note of it afterward, though it passed me unobserved at the time. Then she came to meet me with outstretched hands of welcome. Both little hands I crushed together passionately in my grasp, and would have dropped on my knees to kiss them but for two hindrances: Firstly, her father appeared at the moment close behind her—and things which are but natural in privacy are like to seem theatrical when critically observed. Further, finding perhaps a too frank eloquence in my demeanour, Yvonne had swiftly but firmly extricated her hands from their captivity. She had said nothing but “I am glad to see you again, after so long a time, monsieur;” and this so quietly that I knew not whether it was indifference spoke, or emotion.
But the welcome of Giles de Lamourie was right ardent for one of his courteous reserve. There was an affection in his voice that warmed my spirit strangely, the more that I had never suspected it; and he kissed me on both cheeks as if I had been his own son—“as,” said the up-leaping heart within me, “I do most resolutely set myself to be!”
“And to what good chance do we owe it, Paul, that we see you here at Grand Pré, at a time when the swords of New France are everywhere busy?” he asked.
“To a brief season of idleness in two years of ceaseless action,” I replied, “and to a desire that would not be denied.” I sought furtively to catch Yvonne’s eyes; but she was picking an apple-flower to pieces. This little dainty depredation of her fingers pierced me with remembrance.
“You have earned your idleness, Paul,” said De Lamourie, “if the stories we hear of your exploits be the half of them true. But we had thought down here that Quebec”—“or Trois Pistoles,” murmured Yvonne over the remnants of the apple-flower—“would have offered metal more attractive for the enrichment of your holiday.”
I flushed hotly. But in the deepening dusk my confusion passed unseen. What gossip had come this way? What magnifying and distortion of a very little affair, so soon gone by and so lightly forgotten?
“The swords of New France are just now sheathed for a little,” said I, with some reserve in my voice. “They are biding the call to new and hotter work, or I should not be free for even this breathing-spell. As for Quebec,”—for I would not seem to have heard mademoiselle’s interruption,—“for years there has been but one place where I desired to be, and that is here; so I have come, but it is not for long. Great schemes are afoot.”
“For long or for little, my boy,” said he, dropping his tone of banter, “your home here must be under our roof.”