When the service was ended we breakfasted heartily, and, as soon as the priest's preparations were made, we embarked with, oh, such different hearts from yesterday!
Now that our anxiety was at rest, I had time to observe the priest more closely. Though his figure was slight, it moved to the dip of his paddle like that of a man vigorous in all exercise; his long, thin hands were full of strength; and his face, though worn, and burned to almost as dark a colour as that of an Indian, was that of a man who must have been handsome in his youth. At his age I could not even guess, beyond that he looked old with his scanty beard and long white hair, which fell almost to his shoulders. We sat face to face as he paddled in the stern of the canoe, and I marvelled at the wild grandeur of the river and forest, which I had barely marked before.
“It is beautiful—yes, very beautiful,” he said, presently, noticing my admiration; “but it wears another face in winter; then it is even terrible.”
“Have you been long among these people, mon père?”
“So long, that I know their tongue like our own; I know their faults and virtues, which are also like our own, but more simple, more direct; so long, that sometimes I forget I ever knew anything different. But come, my daughter, I can tell my story at any time, while you cannot have a better opportunity than the present to tell me yours, which I must know if I am to be of service to you. The man behind you cannot understand a word of French, so you may speak freely.”
Though I foresaw some explanation on my part would be necessary, I had so far hardly looked upon the man before me as other than our rescuer, one of our own blood and habit and tongue; but now it was the priest, and, more than that, my equal, for he invited my confidence not by right of his office but by right of his equality, for gentle I divined him to be; and at his demand I was sore confused, for I knew that questionings must follow which had been spared me on shipboard.
“My father,” I said, after a moment's hesitation, “I do not know that you will understand my story, but I am sure that as a gentleman you will believe it, and as a priest you will respect my confidence.”
“I know many secrets; I have listened to many stories, my daughter; yours will be none the less sacred that it comes of your own free will, and not on account of my office.”
Once I began, it was a relief. Since Lady Jane's death I had not spoken freely to a human soul, and before I had gone far, I knew I spake to one who understood.
When I told him of my guardian's death, of my utter loneliness, of my longing to be near him who stood nearer to me than all else in the world, I caught the murmur, “Poor child! poor child!” as he bent over his dipping paddle, and these low words of sympathy unsealed the last door of my heart, and I told him all without reserve: How Lady Jane had diverted her inheritance from her natural heir, Hugh, because he was withheld from writing to her by a sense of delicacy which would have been felt by few; how she had taken such offence at this during her illness that, unknown to me, she had altered her will in my favour, depriving him even of her former provision; how the same delicacy which had prevented him approaching his wealthy kinswoman separated him from me, her heir; how his first separation from Lady Jane had been a voluntary renunciation of his own interest, to ensure what he supposed would be my happiness; how he had, for my sake, performed a hundred sacrifices, which in happier days had been the delight of Lady Jane, his cousin; how all these things so worked on me that, knowing my love would neither speak nor come to me, I had thrown aside all other considerations save that I was bound to make restitution to one so unjustly wronged, and who had so suffered for my sake. For this I had broken through every barrier convention had set up, and, sure in his affection, I had come forth alone under an assumed name; “for I am no Madame de St. Just, mon père, but Margaret Nairn, and he whom I love is Hugh Maxwell, in garrison at Louisbourg.