CHAPTER III
TOWARD METEGHAN
Amy rested her hand on her bicycle, waiting to mount.
"I did not think that it would be quite so lonely; but still, you'resure it's perfectly safe?"
"Oh, yes, Miss, and not a long way." There was a trace of accent in thespeech of the man who replied to Amy's question. He had just deposited apouch of mail in the vehicle in which sat Mrs. Redmond, Priscilla, andMartine, and had turned to adjust the harness of his meek-looking horse.
"You are not afraid, are you?" Priscilla's voice was anxious. "I wishthat I had brought my bicycle, and could ride with you."
"You _do_ look like a maiden all forlorn,--spruce trees to right of you,spruce trees to left of you. Excuse my smiling;" and Martine's smilelengthened itself into a decided giggle.
"Don't," whispered Priscilla. "The driver will think that you arelaughing at him." It always surprised her that Martine should show solittle respect for Amy, who was several years her senior.
"Amy," interposed Mrs. Redmond, "do you object to our driving away andleaving you? Doubtless if we tried, we could find some kind of aconveyance to carry you and the bicycle."
"Not till after dinner, Madame." Their driver turned toward Mrs.Redmond, lifting his hat politely,--"Every horse is away now."
"The only thing for Amy to do is to let you hold her on your lap,Priscilla, while I take the bicycle on mine." At which absurd suggestioneven Priscilla was forced to laugh; for the vehicle sent down toMeteghan station for her Majesty's mail was as narrow and shallow as anycarriage could well be that made even a pretence of holding fourpersons. But with the deftness that comes with experience the driver hadmanaged to find room not only for his passengers, but for their suitcase and bags, for several packages that had come by train, and finallyfor his great pouch of mail.
"There must be a perfect cavern under the seat," whispered Martine toMrs. Redmond. "I am sure that we could put Amy there."
But even as she spoke Amy had mounted, and was up the hill ahead beforethe driver had taken his seat. Yet although Amy had taken the hill sowell, she was soon out of breath. The road was soft, and the hillsteeper than she had thought, and when a little chubby boy darteddirectly toward her, she slipped from her wheel and bent down to talk tothe little fellow.
To her surprise, at first he did not respond to her "What's your name?"but hung his head shyly. Then it occurred to her that he did notunderstand, and when she repeated her question in French his "Louis,Mademoiselle," showed that her venture had been right.
"Does every one here speak French, Monsieur?" she asked, as the carriageapproached.
"Yes, all," responded the driver, stopping beside her for a moment.
"And no English?"
"Oh, many, though some have no English."
Martine and Priscilla praised the bright eyes of little Louis. Mrs.Redmond handed him an illustrated paper that she had brought from thetrain, and the driver started up his horse.
"You follow me," he called back to Amy.
"Yes, yes," cried Amy, laughing, knowing that she could soon pass him;but while she loitered to talk with the child, the carriage was soon sofar ahead that she could barely discern the fluttering of the long veilthat Martine held out to stream in the wind like a flag.
After leaving little Louis, Amy pedalled along leisurely. At first shepassed only one or two houses, but each of them offered her something tothink of. In front of one, two or three barefooted children were playinghop-scotch, with the limits marked out in lines drawn by a stick on thedusty road. "I should think they'd stub their toes," she thought, as shewatched them, "but they're so well-dressed, except their feet, that Isuppose they prefer to go without shoes."
In the doorway of a second cottage, set like the other, close to theroad, a mother was standing with a baby in her arms, and a tiny littlegirl clinging to her skirts. These children, like all the others she hadseen, had the brightest of black eyes. Beside the door was a well,boarded in, with a bucket beside it.
The woman looked so friendly that Amy stopped for a drink of water, and,making use of her best French, she spent a few minutes talking with thewoman.
A fine team of oxen hauling an empty hay wagon, beside which walked astrapping youth in blue jeans and a flapping straw hat, was the nextreminder to Amy that she was indeed in a foreign country. After she hadreturned the cheerful _bonjour_ of two or three bareheaded women whomshe met trudging along toward a hayfield, Amy was recalled to herself.Her mother and the others were out of sight. "The driver will think thatI am not even following;" and making good speed up a long, gradual hill,she saw the carriage waiting for her some distance ahead.
"This way, this way," shouted Martine. The driver waved his whip towardthe left, and when Amy caught up, they had changed their direction, andshe could feel the soft fresh breeze blowing in from St. Mary's Bay.
"Did you ever see such a clear blue sky?"
"Oh, yes, Martine,"--Amy was thinking of cloudless days on the NorthShore,--"but none bluer, perhaps."
"But it seems so foreign," interposed Priscilla, in a tone thatexpressed some disapproval of foreign things. "I'm not sure that I likeit."
"It seems different from other places, though I can't tell why."
"This child is part of the why. Just look at him." Martine pointed to alittle boy of about eight, dressed in black, with deep embroideredruffles of white falling about his wrists, and a broad ruffled collar onhis coat. He wore a hat that was something like a tam-o'-shanter, andsomething like a mortar-board, and he carried a large slate under hisarm.
"He's evidently on his way home from school. See the crowd of childrenbehind him."
As the children drew nearer, some stood still, the better to see theparty of strangers. Thus the latter had a chance to note variouspeculiarities of dress and general appearance. One or two little girlswore sunbonnets, one or two wore hats, and several had on their headsblack _couvre-chefs_, that made them look like little old women. Thesturdy little boys in blouses were more like other boys, and they indeedwere too busy racing and tumbling over one another to pay attention tothe travellers.
"Amy," exclaimed Martine, "you should have kept beside us all the way,we have been hearing such wonderful stories. Down there by the bridgethere are several descendants of the Baron d'Entremont, and other peoplewhose ancestors came from France hundreds of years ago."
"The Baron d'Entremont!" Amy felt a thrill of pleasure. Surely that wasone of the names that Fritz had mentioned in connection with Pubnico,and if she too could come across some of his descendants, how delightfulthis would be!
The houses were now nearer together than they had been. At the rightthere was a glimmer of blue water. On the bridge at the foot of thedecline Amy dismounted to watch the men loading with lumber a littleschooner at the wharf near-by. The carriage drew up before the tinypost-office, where part of the mail was left. A gray-bearded man in thedoor of a small shop caught Amy's eye. With his broad-brimmed hat, loosetrousers, and slippers,--yes, slippers,--he reminded her of pictures shehad seen of old Frenchmen. She longed to snap her kodak, to catch himjust as he stood there, leaning on his cane. But she did not dare, therewas something so very venerable and dignified in his appearance.
Then her eye fell on the name d'Entremont over the shop. Martine andPriscilla joined her. Martine was in great spirits.
"Your mother is writing a post-card in the office. So, while we arewaiting, let us go in here and try the d'Entremont brand of ginger ale.They're sure to have some, and one doesn't often have the chance topatronize the descendant of a French nobleman."
Within the dim little shop two or three men were lounging near thecounter, who probably said to themselves, "Oh, those foolish Americans!"
But their manner showed no disrespect as they moved aside, and theproprietor made one or two pleasant remarks as he served the trio.
A few minutes later Amy was again on her bicycle, the others had takentheir places in the carriage, and the little village was b
ehind them.The large farms that they had seen near Meteghan station gave place tosmall gardens. The houses were near together, and they were painted incolors that drew many exclamations of approval from Martine. "This isgreat! I never dreamed that I should see a lavender cottage with greentrimmings,--and what a shade of yellow for a house! Oh, Mrs. Redmond, Ihope that our water-colors will last the trip. I'm afraid that we'll usethem all up, painting the wonders of Meteghan. This is Meteghan, isn'tit?"
"Yes, Mees," replied the driver. "It was all Meteghan, from the station,only that was a different name for the other post-office. But there isour church; this is the true village."
"Star of the Sea" was an imposing building, but the journey sinceleaving Yarmouth had been long, and they were too eager now to reachtheir destination to give the church more than a passing glance.
Amy's quick eye had noted the swinging sign of the little inn not sovery far beyond the church, and, hastening ahead, she was the first tobe welcomed by Madame, wife of their driver, who was also proprietor ofthe small hotel.
Welcomed with ceremonious politeness, they were soon made to feelperfectly at home. When the question was pressed, they all admitted thatthey were very hungry. In the pleasant rooms to which they were shown,they had barely time to make themselves ready when a loud bell calledthem to dinner. As the four entered the dining-room, they saw that therewere several other guests at the long table. One, a stout man with afondness for jokes, proved to be the agent for a millinery house inHalifax. There were one or two others who said so little that even Amycould not tell whether they were French or English; two middle-agedladies near Mrs. Redmond quickly let her know that they were teachersfrom Connecticut, now for the first time making a tour of the provinces.They had sailed from New York to Halifax for the sake of the sea voyage,and had come down slowly through Windsor, Grand Pre, and Annapolis, andwere enthusiastic about all these places.
"But if you can," one of them concluded, "you must have a few days atLittle Brook,--Petit Ruisseau, as some call it. It's the centre ofeverything interesting in Clare; it's really where the first Acadianslanded after the expulsion, and only a short distance from Point al'Eglise."
Amy listened eagerly. Here evidently was some one who could tell hermuch that she wished to hear about this new country, and later, whenthey were all outside on the little piazza at the front, she learnedwhat she wished to know. On consulting her mother, they decided thatafter a day at Meteghan they would go on to Little Brook, and spend atleast two or three days there--if possible at the Hotel Paris, which theteachers recommended.
Missing Priscilla and Martine, Amy found them in the littlesitting-room.
"Tell me," whispered Martine, "aren't you disappointed?"
"Disappointed with what?"
"Why, in this house--this room especially; it's so--so unforeign."
Amy glanced around her,--at the bright-flowered carpet; themarble-topped table, on which was displayed a bouquet of wax-flowersunder a glass globe; on the two machine-made oak rockers; and then onthe pictures.
"Where do you suppose they found that picture of the Queen with suchvery pink cheeks, and a mouth as small as a pin, and those wax-figureprincelings--and those saints? Do you suppose Madame and her childrenknow the names of them all?"
At that moment Madame herself entered the door.
"You like pretty things. Ah, you must see my rugs, if you would careto."
"Yes, indeed," Amy replied politely.
"Then come with me. They are in my room,--the best,--and the Americanladies always admire them."
So the two girls followed their landlady upstairs, where she proudlydisplayed rug after rug of wonderful design and still more wonderfulcolor. Martine dared not say what she thought,--that it seemed a pitythat so much time had been put into things that could only dazzle ratherthan please the average beholder. Amy conscientiously praised those thatcould be properly praised,--for here and there was a rug of reallyartistic design,--and Priscilla gave an exclamation of delight as shenoticed on the bed a really exquisite spread.
"You like that?" asked Madame. "It is good work, all by hand; only twoor tree women can now make them. My old aunt who made that is dead,but--"
"It is like the finest Marseilles, only I never saw so beautiful apattern. I did not know people could make such things by hand."
"On a loom, surely yes; there are only one or two in Meteghan, but youcan see one work, if you wish, at Alexandre Babet's."
"There, that will be something to see! Is it far?" cried Martine.
"Oh, no. You can find it quickly."
"After we are rested," responded Amy. "The sun is still hot. Your rugsand the spread are beautiful."
As the girls sat down on the piazza, Priscilla turned to Amy. "You didnot think those rugs really beautiful?"
Amy did not resent this slight touch of reproach, even though Priscillawas so much her junior.
"Yes, and no. Some of them were beautiful even from my point of view.They all were from that of their owner, and since she desired to pleaseus by showing them, it seemed only fair to reward her with a word ofpraise."
"But if every one praises her she will go on using those terribleaniline colors. They made my head ache just to look at them."
"Oh, Priscilla, you are so precise I'll call you 'Prim' as well as'Prissie.'"
"_No_ one else calls me 'Prissie,' Martine."
"No one else dares tease you. Probably your little brothers and sistersare frightened to death of you, and then, because you are the oldest,you have always been made to think that you are absolutely perfect."
"Oh, Martine!"
"There, there, I know just how it is. It's so in our family; I have anelder brother, and he has always been held up as a model, although,between you and me, he's far from perfect. It just keeps me busy,showing him his faults. So, Miss Prissie, if you are too old-maidishI'll have to show you yours."
Priscilla was helpless under Martine's rapid fire of words. In hermoments of reflection it surprised her that a girl whom six monthsbefore she had not even heard of, should now venture to say things toher that no one in her own family would dare to say.
A little later, Amy and Priscilla and Martine set out to see the loomthat made the fine quilts. Priscilla had desired to postpone the visituntil next morning. "It would be better to rest now."
"I'm tired resting," protested Martine. "Unless we move on, I will goindoors, and play doleful things on the melodeon. You don't know what Iam when I'm melancholy."
Unmoved by Martine, when Amy showed that it was better not to spend thewhole afternoon listlessly, Priscilla objected no longer.
The Babet house was a ten minutes' walk up the street. After mistakingone or two houses for the one they were seeking, their third trialbrought a tall, long-bearded man to the door who answered to the name ofAlexandre Babet.
"We hear that some one here--your wife, perhaps,--makes those beautifulquilts."
"Oh, yes," responded Alexandre, in fair English. "They are good quilts,and we have a loom."
Martine pinched Priscilla's arm. "I'm disappointed; I thought that he'dspeak French."
"Come in, come in;" and Alexandre showed them into the neatest ofsitting-rooms,--neat, but painfully bare. It was brightened, to be sure,by one or two gay pictures of saints in brilliant-colored garments, andby two or three geraniums in flower on the window. But the wooden floorwas unpainted, and on it was only one rug, and there was littlefurniture besides the high dresser and a long table.
Alexandre went off to summon his wife, and soon she came in from thekitchen, accompanied by another, whom Alexandre introduced as hissister. The girls soon became embarrassed under the piercing gaze oftheir black eyes. The women wore dark calico gowns with little shawlsover their shoulders, and their _couvre-chefs_ were bound closely totheir heads. Neither of them understood English, nor spoke it. ButAlexandre proved as talkative as any two women. Moreover, heoccasionally translated his own words into French, and in the same waymade the women understan
d what the young American girls said--to thegreat amusement of Amy and Martine. Priscilla sat solemnly through theconversation, as if she found something pathetic in the aspect of thewomen.
During a moment of silence, when the room seemed rather close anduncomfortable,--for the windows were shut, and the blinds weredrawn,--there came a gentle tapping on the door. Madame Babet sprang toher feet.
"No, no, sit still; she can come in." Then turning to the others,Alexandre added, "It is Yvonne, our little one. Come in, Yvonne," hecalled in a louder tone; "here are Americans."
Upon this the door was pushed open, and a little girl wearing a pinkgingham gown and a white sunbonnet, entered slowly, holding one handoutstretched, as if not quite sure of herself. Then, walking directlytoward Madame Babet, she slipped to the floor beside her, and laid herhead on her lap.
The girls looked from her to Alexandre to read an explanation in hisface, and he, understanding, raised his hand to his eyes.
"Blind!" exclaimed Martine, involuntarily. "Poor little thing!"
"She understands English," said the man, warningly; "she does not wishpity."
"I see much," said Yvonne, proudly, "when the light does not glare. Isee the American ladies. This one is pretty;" and rising, she made herway carefully to Martine, and laid her hand confidingly in hers.
Martine's color deepened; she felt a great tenderness toward the girl,and she raised the little hand to her lips.