But Martine only laughed; perhaps she retained too firmly in her mind the remembrance of Priscilla's indifference to Yvonne and was now trying to pay her back. Priscilla had just given an enthusiastic account of her new acquaintance, and Mrs. Redmond and Amy had listened with great attention. Mrs. Redmond, indeed, was pleased that Priscilla had found something really to interest her. Although away from home not quite two weeks, Priscilla had begun to show the good effects of the trip in round and rosier cheeks, and in a slightly more animated manner. Yet it had seemed to Mrs. Redmond that she was not quite as pleased with things in general as the other two girls. She was sorry too to note the growing antagonism between Martine and Priscilla, though its cause was hard to discover. At first Martine's teasing had proceeded from the merest love of fun, and she thought that Priscilla took it all too seriously. Amy had already cautioned her that she could soon disarm Martine, by receiving everything she said as if said in pure fun. But Priscilla was sensitive, and she was just conscious enough of certain little foibles of her own to realize that sometimes Martine was laughing at her.
"Even if Eunice were a Tory, I shouldn't care," she continued. "I never heard any one talk as well as she does."
"Ah, that's just it, my dear Miss Prissie Prunes," retorted Martine; "I'll warrant that she's just as prim and precise as—"
Martine did not finish the sentence, but Priscilla realized well that she meant to say "as prim and precise as you are."
The day after this conversation Mrs. Airton called on Mrs. Redmond and the girls. Martine was not at home, but the others were pleased with the delicate little woman, in rather faded black, who was particularly cordial and anxious to have them see Annapolis at its best.
As she talked, it was easy to understand how Eunice came by her precise manner and language, for there was a certain bookishness in her choice of words, and correctness of expression, that, although not really subject to criticism, might become tiresome. Mrs. Airton had heard more or less about Mrs. Redmond and her party from Dr. Gray, to whose family Mrs. Redmond had brought an introduction.
"Now I hope," she said, toward the end of her visit, "that you will give us the pleasure of spending to-morrow afternoon with us and staying to tea. I suppose 'tea' has gone out of fashion in the States, but it's just the height of the strawberry season now, and perhaps you'll accept high tea in place of a late dinner."
"We shall be delighted to accept your invitation," Mrs. Redmond replied, "and as for tea, why, we never have late dinner at home in summer. We shall enjoy your hospitality."
Now it happened, unfortunately, that on the morning of Wednesday, the day for which Mrs. Airton had invited them, Martine and Priscilla had their first falling out. Like most fallings out, it began in a very trivial way. Among Martine's belongings was an elaborate toilet set of silver-mounted brushes and boxes; she had had the good sense not to carry them in her travelling bag, but at Annapolis, where they were to stay longer than at some places, she had unpacked them all from her trunk, and they were spread out in elaborate array on her bureau. Amy had planned an excursion for the morning to Granville across the Granville Ferry to a certain picturesque spot on the other side. When she and Priscilla were ready to start, they knocked at Martine's door, thinking that she too would be ready. To their surprise, they found her in a loose dressing-sack, busily engaged in polishing her silver.
"There, I forgot all about going with you," cried Martine; "the damp air has blackened my brushes so that I just thought the best thing was to sit down and polish them."
"Oh, dear," rejoined Priscilla, "we are late as it is; for if we miss this ferry-boat, we'll have to wait so long for another that we won't have any time on the other side."
"I can't help it," retorted Martine; "you can go without me if you like, though I'll drop what I'm doing and hurry to get dressed; but if you do not want to wait, it's all the same to me."
"Of course we'll wait," said Amy, gently. "I particularly wish you to be with us, Martine, and though it will shorten our time a little, we must make the best of it now."
Priscilla looked at her watch. "We ought to take this next ferry-boat, and if we wait for Martine we shall lose it. Cleaning silver seems such a waste of time when we're travelling."
Priscilla's manner rather than her actual words irritated Martine.
"I am the best judge of what wastes my own time," she said with unwonted sharpness, "and as a matter of fact, I'd rather stay here than go with you."
Amy, looking at her earnestly, realized that this was not the time for further argument.
"Very well," she rejoined. "Priscilla, let us go on. Martine is certainly the best judge of what she ought to do."
"I know I shouldn't have criticised Martine," apologized Priscilla, as they walked along; "but it seems so silly to me that she should carry a valuable set of silver like that on a trip of this kind. I spoke before I thought."
"Martine has always been greatly indulged," said Amy. "At least, I've been told that she sets no value on money, and so what would seem a little extravagant to us does not seem so to her."
"Well, good taste is good taste," rejoined Priscilla, "and if I had ten times as much money as I have, I'd never carry jewelry about with me travelling, nor expensive toilet-sets."
Amy did not reply to this. Her own view was much the same as that of Priscilla, but she realized that it was not for her to criticise either girl.
The trip to Granville proved less satisfactory than she had hoped. The town itself, though small, was attractively situated, and she identified one or two historical spots that she had hoped to see; but she missed the particular road for which she was looking, and on account of their engagement at Mrs. Airton's, she had to hurry back to Annapolis without accomplishing what she had set out to do. The mid-day sun was very hot, and she and Priscilla reached the house dusty and tired, to find Martine looking tantalizingly cool and comfortable, seated on a rustic bench under a tree in the orchard, busily working at a water-color sketch.
After their early dinner, Mrs. Redmond took Amy aside and said rather anxiously:
"I wish you could persuade Martine to go with us this afternoon."
"Go with us?" returned Amy. "Why, of course. Mrs. Airton expects her."
"I don't quite understand it, but she says that she does not care to go, and in fact she has engaged a horse for a ride."
"On horseback! Who is going with her?"
"No one. She says that it's perfectly safe for her to go alone, and though I tried to dissuade her, I can see that she is determined to have her own way."
"I suppose that's what they mean by Martine's being difficult to manage. Thus far I had thought her remarkably amiable."
"There's one thing about it," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "it may be better to let her have her way this time than to have her take it without our permission. I have learned that the horse she is to have is perfectly safe,—so safe in fact, that I fear she'll find it rather a bore,—and she says that she'll only go over the road where we drove the other afternoon, every step of which she knows; but I must say that I regret her discourtesy to Mrs. Airton, for her refusal of her invitation must seem very strange. Why do you suppose she is unwilling to go?"
"I'm afraid it's because she and Priscilla had a little disagreement this morning. It was so slight that I wouldn't have attached any importance to it, but apparently Martine has taken it more to heart."
When Priscilla learned of Martine's change of plan, she made no comment, believing in her inmost heart that Martine had taken this way to show her real distaste to those whom she called Priscilla's "Tory friends." When Mrs. Redmond and the other girls reached Mrs. Airton's early in the afternoon, they found their friend Mrs. Gray there, and one or two young girls of the neighborhood. For a while they sat in the low-studded sitting-room where Priscilla had looked at the commission signed by Sir Henry Clinton. Their conversation did not concern itself entirely with the past, but there were many questions about the present, of Nova Scotia in general and Annapolis in particular, that the Americans were anxious to ask and the others glad to answer.
Later, however, they got back to the subject in which Priscilla was especially interested,—the Loyalist refugees and the hard times they experienced. Eunice had shown her, among other things, her great-great-grandfather's silver breastplate, with his monogram and a crown finely engraved upon it, and one or two of his letters, the paper yellow with age and the ink faded.
"Since you are interested in such things," said Mrs. Airton, "perhaps you would like to see some other letters. You might show her, Eunice, that one that we have that is a copy of the one that my great-grand-aunt Hester wrote to Sir Guy Carlton, when she was trying to arrange to leave New York. You know, my dear," she continued in explanation, "in those days people almost always made copies of their letters, and we have a good many that are really very interesting. I believe this letter contained a request from Hester and her sister, Anne, whose husbands had both been killed toward the close of the war."
So Amy, taking up the paper, read without difficulty the clear, round handwriting:
"'The Memorial of Hester Danforth, widow of Benjamin Danforth, late captain of the Prince of Wales' American Regiment and Anne Dutton, widow of Josiah Dutton, Lt. in said Regt.
Humbly sheweth
That your Memorialist, Hester Danforth
has two sons, one fourteen and the other twelve years old, and Anne Dutton three children, oldest son fourteen, youngest son seven and her daughter ten years old—That as they purpose to go to Nova Scotia with their children—
They wish to go on the ship with Dr. Peter Brown, who is about going with a company of refugees to St. Johns River.
That they may be indulged with drawing the land's Government may allow them in that quarter and with the company that goes under the direction of Dr. Brown or such other company of refugees as may appear to your Memorialists more eligible.
That they may be indulged with the liberty of taking with each of them a man and woman servant and allowances of provisions, clothing, etc. as to your Excellency may seem meet.
That, should your Excellency graciously order six months advance upon their pensions to be paid previous to their sailing, it will be very thankfully received as indeed their circumstances are such as they cannot go with reasonable Comfort and Decency without it.
As your Memorialists sufferings have been very long and great—They humbly ask as many Favours and Indulgences as to your Excellency shall appear anyways reasonable and fit, and as in duty bound they will ever pray etc.
Hester Danforth
Anne Dutton
New York, June 2, 1783.'"
"I always think that an interesting letter," said Mrs. Airton, "because both of those ladies who signed it were brought up in the greatest luxury; their father had one of the large estates on the Hudson and their mother was of English birth and an heiress; but the family saved not a single shred of their fortune and it is rather touching to read behind the lines of this letter and to see that both these young women, for they were under thirty-five, had for some time been suffering for the necessities of life."
"'The fortune of war,'" commented Priscilla, in the very words that she had used on her first visit to Eunice.
"I hope," added Amy, "that they found life comfortable after they came here."
"Ah," said Mrs. Airton, shaking her head, "at first life here could hardly be called comfortable. Imagine twenty-five hundred people crowded into this little town, which had not rooms for one tenth the number. Often a whole family had to content itself with one room, and delicately reared women and children had to spend at least a part of that first winter in tents. Several hundred, it is said, were herded together in the church. Of course, after a few months they began to distribute themselves through the country. Sometimes they had great trouble in taking possession of the land granted them, because it was already in the possession of the New Englanders who had settled on the farms of the Acadians twenty years before. Usually these pre-Loyalist settlers had a rightful title to the land they claimed; then the refugees had to apply for other lands. Many of these refugees were professional men or merchants from New York City, and they found it hard in middle life to become farmers; but, as you say, my dear, it was the fortune of war, and in time they adapted themselves to the new conditions. In the course of a few years some went back to New York, others sailed over to St. John, where, from the beginning, city life prevailed, and those who stayed here in Nova Scotia seemed to be contented with their lot; although I for one feel very bitter when I think of all that my family in its various branches lost. I feel it the more because I'm able to do so little for my children, and they are reaching an age when a little money would mean so much."
"Ah, yes, mamma," interposed Eunice, "but if the money had stayed in the family after the Revolution it might all have been lost before this, and besides, Balfour and I do not care half as much for wealth as—" and here she stopped, for at this point Mrs. Gray interrupted her.
"Indeed, I think it a greater privilege to have grown up in Annapolis than to have lived in the finest city of the United States. Why, I can assure you, Mrs. Redmond," turning to the latter, "that few places of its size have had so many distinguished residents. When the fort was garrisoned, it was quite like an English town, and I've heard my grandmother speak of the parties that were given here when she was young; not to mention the Duke of Kent, who was here before her day, there have been such men in the garrison as Sir Colin Campbell, afterwards Lord Clyde, while Sir Fenwick Williams, the defender of Kars, was a native of the town, and surely no literary man in America has a wider reputation than Judge Haliburton, whose house was just down there beyond the hotel. I often think of the lines by Oliver Goldsmith, who lived here,—a grand-nephew, my dear," laying her hand on Amy's, "of the great English poet, who himself wrote 'The Rising Village,' describing Annapolis."
"Oh, can't you recite a part of it?" asked Amy. She had already discovered a vein of sentimentality in Mrs. Gray, and she was right in judging that the request would please her.
"I'm sorry to say," replied Mrs. Gray, "that my memory is not what it used to be, and the only lines I recall do not touch on the social so much as the natural charms of Annapolis."
"Oh, but please do say them." This time it was Priscilla, and Mrs. Gray began:—
"'Here the broad marsh extends its open plain, Until its limits touch the distant main; There verdant meads along the uplands spring, And grateful odours to the breezes fling. Here crops of grain in rich luxuriance rise, And wave their golden riches to the skies; There smiling orchards interrupt the scene, Or gardens, bounded by some hedge of green; The farmer's cottage bosomed 'mong the trees, Whose spreading branches shelter from the breeze; The winding stream that turns the busy mill, Whose clacking echoes o'er the distant hill; The neat, white church, beside whose walls are spread, The grass-clad hillocks of the sacred dead.'"
"It sounds like 'The Deserted Village,'" said Priscilla, politely; "that was one of the poems that we studied at school last year; you recite this beautifully."
"Ah, well, I'm aware that the first Oliver Goldsmith's poem is greater poetry, but here in Annapolis people were very fond of Oliver the younger, and if ever you've time to read the whole poem, you will find that he thoroughly appreciated Acadia."
But all the hours of that pleasant afternoon were not spent in historical conversation. Priscilla and Eunice, arm in arm, wandered out in the pleasant orchard, and, swinging together in the hammock, talked about all kinds of things, more frivolous than serious, such as girls care to talk about. In appearance the two girls were not unlike, though Eunice was a little the taller, despite the fact that she was a few months younger; her eyes were the same gray-blue and her hair the same pale brown as Priscilla's; not quite fair enough to be called golden, and hardly dark enough to be called brown.
"It is strange," Amy had said to her mother, after Eunice had first called on them, "that Eunice Airton reminds me of some one I have known; I cannot say just who, but it is one of those resemblances that worry one; you feel as if you must decide whom it is she resembles, yet try as I can I cannot think."
While the girls were in the orchard, Eunice pointed out to Priscilla the various additions that had been made to the house. Little ells and rooms had been added, some of them only one story high, and the original house, built by her Loyalist ancestor, was the very smallest part of the present dwelling.
"I thought it strange," said Priscilla, "when you said that this house was built just after the Revolution, that it should have been so large, but now I understand."
"Oh, there's been an ell added for nearly every generation. To tell you the truth," she concluded, "although my mother speaks so despondingly now, the family have seen better days, even in Annapolis. My grandfather Balfour was a very successful lawyer, and in spite of the Revolution"—here she smiled—"we might have been rich to-day if he had not sunk his money in unlucky speculation."
"Balfour?" queried Priscilla. "Where have I heard that name?"
"Oh, the name itself is not so very uncommon. There must be many of the name somewhere, although our family was the only one down here."
A little later the girls were looking over some of the old books on the bookshelves; they were chiefly history and poetry. There was Robertson's "Charles Fifth," a fine set of Pope's Complete Works, and Dodsley's "Miscellany," with the gilding on its calf binding not yet quite worn off. Priscilla looked at these books with less interest than Amy showed for them; she was not as ardent a lover of things ancient, although her respect for Eunice increased when the young girl told her that she had read nearly every book in the house.
"We have long winter evenings," she said, "and fewer amusements, I suppose, than you have in the cities; and really I would rather read than do anything else."
"But these books are so very old-fashioned, and Pope's poetry, don't you find it pretty dull? I didn't care so very much for 'The Rape of the Lock,' though some people call it amusing."
"I prefer Tennyson," replied Eunice, in a judicial tone, "but I feel there are certain things one must read some time, and mother says that I might as well read them now, while I have the books. Some time," and here she sighed, "we may have to break up our home, and that might mean packing away all our books; so it's well to 'make hay while the sun shines,'" she concluded with a bright smile that was in marked contrast with the sigh of a moment before.
In the meantime Amy, in looking over some of the books, gave an exclamation of surprise; she had opened a large Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written "Audrey Balfour, Her book."
"There is something very familiar in that name," she cried, "Audrey Balfour, and yet for the moment I can't recall any one to whom it belongs."
"It's a family name," said Eunice, "and I've always wished that it had been given to me, for there has always been an Audrey in the family for each generation until now."
At last supper was announced, and if any of the party had lacked appetite, the sight of the long table, with its delicate china and old-fashioned silver and glass, would have been an inspiration. The silver spoons, to be sure, were very, very thin, and the cups and saucers were not without cracks, and here and there showed other imperfections; but these things only emphasized the fact that silver and china were really old; and the large silver dish, heaped with great strawberries, was of a style that Mrs. Redmond said would make it almost worth its weight in gold to a collector.
"I am so sorry," said Mrs. Airton, politely, "that Miss Martine is not with you. I have seen her passing two or three times, and she is a particularly attractive girl."
"She is indeed very attractive," responded Mrs. Redmond, "and on this account we regret her occasional wilfulness; she had planned a ride to the Bay Shore and we could not induce her to give it up. But she wished me to thank you for her invitation, and she said that if she possibly could, she would be here in time for tea; but it seems now as if she has been unable to carry out this part of her plan."
"Oh, if she really goes to the shore," interposed Mrs. Gray, "I am sure she will hardly be back in Annapolis before dark. It's a long ride, and I only hope she doesn't find the road too hard."
"Martine is a good horsewoman; her father told us that we might trust her on any horse, and had I not known this, I should have hesitated to let her go."
"She did not go alone, I hope," said Mrs. Airton, anxiously.
"Oh, no; she consented rather reluctantly to an escort, and from the stable they sent a Mr. Frazer, an elderly man, who promised to look after her."
"Mr. Frazer!" Eunice laughed as she uttered the name. "Well, if he's on his own horse and if Miss Martine keeps beside him, she'll certainly have a slow, safe ride."
in the fog
In the meantime, where was Martine? When Mr. Frazer and his staid sorrel steed appeared in front of the hotel, Martine had smiled inwardly.
"His horse certainly looks safe, and the man himself,—well, he may be a good guide, as they say, and perhaps he can tell me about everything we see in passing; but if he proves a bore, as I am perfectly sure he will, I'll contrive some way to rid myself of his company."
It was a perfect afternoon for a ride, mild and windless, with just enough sun to relieve the landscape of the monotony by creating artistic effects of light and shade. Martine was in great spirits, for, like most persons from the inland cities, she loved the sea even more deeply than those who dwell beside it.
"The Annapolis basin is tame," she had said the day before. "I am tired of the still, blue water and the red mud and the marshes and the meadows, and I long for a breath of the real ocean."
"We're some distance still from the ocean," Amy had rejoined. "The nearest to it is the Bay of Fundy."
"Well, from all I've heard, the Bay of Fundy is fiercer than the ocean itself, and I must see it; for I've been tracing our route on the map, and it seems to me that we've left out the Bay of Fundy altogether; we are curving away from it all the time."
"Perhaps we can have a picnic on the Bay Shore before we leave."
"Oh, no, my dear Miss Amy Redmond; we won't have many days, and 'a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Just as soon as I can manage it, I'm going to the Bay Shore myself."
So Martine had "managed it" by giving up the afternoon at Mrs. Airton's, and now, as she rode along toward the North Mountain, she had a certain feeling of triumph.
At first she and her guide kept very close together. He felt it incumbent on him to give her as much information as he could about the country and its history. Even when his tale concerned the Loyalists, Martine did not assume the air of indifference that was always hers when Priscilla touched on the same subject.
"It's a pity," said Mr. Frazer, "that there is nothing to be seen now of all the wonders that old General Ruggles did in his time. He had one of the largest grants of land hereabouts, away up over the top of a mountain, and though he was past seventy when the war ended, he set to work clearing forests and laying out his grounds like a young man. He imported all kinds of trees from Massachusetts, and his place was a model for the whole county. He found a deep gulch on his land that was sheltered from the winds and yet sunny, and there he planted some rare trees,—black walnut and peach and other things that generally grow only in the far south."
"Was he an English general?" asked Martine, listlessly.
"Oh, I've heard," replied Mr. Frazer, "that though he was bred a lawyer in Massachusetts, he became a colonel in the wars that the Americans fought against the French, and was high in command at Ticonderoga and Crown Point; it was in that war that he got his title of Brigadier General, and so he might be called an American officer."
"Then what was he doing down here in Nova Scotia?"
"Oh, when the Revolutionary troubles began he wasn't in favor of breaking off from the mother country; he was a Chief Justice of Common Pleas, and he wrote and spoke against separation. So at last he and his family had to give up everything and take refuge with the British in Boston. He doesn't seem to have been a fighter against his countrymen, but he preferred exile to sacrificing his principles. I've always been interested in the old general," added Mr. Frazer, apologetically, "though I don't just know why, for he was dead long before my father even was born. But I've read a lot about him, and people here still tell many stories of him, and altogether he seems something like those heroes we hear of, working so energetically to keep his spirits up."
"Yes," said Martine, "I agree with you that it does seem rather heroic, only it's a pity that he was on the wrong side." Then, lest Mr. Frazer should be inclined to argue with her, she quickly changed the subject.
"This road over the mountain is pleasanter than I thought it would be; I mean, everything looks so cultivated and prosperous."
"Oh, there isn't a better section anywhere than this," he replied. "The orchards and farms all pay well; why, there's a place up beyond," he continued, "that they call Paradise; and if it wasn't for winter, which I suppose they don't have in heaven, I should say that the name just fitted."
Mr. Frazer was so pleased with his own wit that he chuckled softly, and so far forgot himself as to urge his horse forward.
"Let's stop here," cried Martine, "for a moment; I never saw so many beehives."
"I don't know," replied Mr. Frazer, timidly, "as it's hardly safe; sometimes, when they're swarming, they are apt to sting if you go too near them."
But Martine was already off her horse and over the low fence, and Mr. Frazer could only follow her example. The farm was situated at the junction of two roads. Martine had taken the precaution to tether her horse to a hitching-post, but Mr. Frazer, trusting too implicitly to the sedateness of his steed, had left it unfettered to nibble the grass by the roadside. The hives that had attracted Martine's attention proved as harmless as she had prophesied, so she wandered on toward an old-fashioned garden, blazing with mid-summer blossoms. Now Jill, the sorrel that Mr. Frazer had ridden so proudly, proved less reliable than might have been expected from the character of its owner; for, in the course of its nibbling, it wandered down the road, passing back of the farm, and Mr. Frazer was so intent upon telling Martine all that he knew about bees and flowers that he quite forgot to keep his eye on his horse. Thus it happened that the animal found itself near some hives whose occupants were changing habitations. Then, at the very moment when Mr. Frazer bethought him of Jill, to his horror and great surprise he saw her starting on a run down this back road. He did not wait to explain matters to Martine; he knew by the cloud of bees in the distance that the horse had undoubtedly been stung. "Wait until I come back," he shouted, as he started in pursuit of his horse.
Martine smiled as he leaped over a fence, his coat tails flying in the air.
"Unseemly haste," she murmured, "for so dignified a person. I wonder how long he can keep it up."
For five or ten minutes Martine continued to wait in the old-fashioned garden; then she looked at her watch. It was later than she supposed; the sun was less bright, and a slight chill in the air warned her of approaching fog.
"I didn't promise to wait," she said to herself, "and after all the bother of arranging it I can't be cheated out of my sight of the Bay. It's a straight road and perfectly safe, and my horse hasn't shown a sign of a trick; so in five minutes, if my guide hasn't returned, I shall go on alone."
At the end of five minutes Mr. Frazer had not appeared, and Martine, remounting her horse, resumed her way toward the Bay Shore. She set off at a speed that would have quite shaken the breath out of Mr. Frazer, and she was really surprised to discover how much life her animal had. Thus it happened that in spite of the delay she really had a glimpse of the Bay of Fundy before the fog had hidden it. It is true that already there was a thin veil of mist floating about her and permitting her to see rather dimly the rocky shore, and the scattered hamlet that lay at her feet.
Martine felt most uncomfortable. Her situation was certainly lonely, and she would gladly have borne the rather tiresome conversation of her late guide for the sake of his protection. But though she waited as long as she dared, he did not appear; nor did she meet him as she turned about toward Annapolis.
Toward Annapolis—but where was Annapolis? For all at once she seemed to be riding through a cloud, and she recalled a day when she and a party of friends had thought themselves lost on one of the highest of the White Mountains, pushing their way vaguely through the cloud that enshrouded them. Of one thing, however, she now felt sure. When she reached the crossroads and the farm where the beehives were, she would have no difficulty in continuing her way.
But, alas for all calculations! how it happened she never knew, but soon she realized that she was on a road quite different from the one by which she had travelled to the shore. In the fog she had turned somewhere, and the new road was lonely in the extreme. There were no houses near; at least, she judged there were not, for the road itself was rough, more like a forest road, and both sides seemed to be lined with trees. For a short time she went on cautiously; then a line of verse came into her mind that she had heard Amy quote only the day before,—
"'When once a man hath misséd the right way, The farther he doth go, the farther doth he stray.' "
So she brought herself to a full stop and, slipping from her horse, stood beside him, gently stroking his side.
"Good old fellow," she said gently, "if I'd leave you to yourself, I dare say you'd carry me home safely. Perhaps in a few minutes we can turn round and make a fresh start; but now I want to think."
So she stood for five minutes or more, and among the many thoughts that flew across her brain was one that, if shaped into words, would have been: "I wish that I had gone with the others to Mrs. Airton's." But she could not remain inactive.
"Whatever happens, I won't be lost on the mountain," cried Martine, emphatically. "It's always better to go on than to stand still, and especially as the fog is so thick that I'm likely to be drenched to the skin if I stay here much longer."
At this moment the surrounding stillness was broken by a sound; she listened intently, and in a very short time realized that what she heard was really the noise of approaching wheels. She drew her horse close to the side of the road; a vehicle of some kind was near her.
"Hello, hello," she shouted, picturing herself at the moment as a stranded mariner on a shipwrecked vessel. The vehicle was close upon her; the driver drew up his horse; Martine approached him.
"What on earth—" he began.
"Yes, on earth," responded Martine. "I shouldn't like to be at sea, lost in the fog."
"So you're lost, are you?" replied the driver of the wagon, in a brisk, cheerful voice. "Well, there's one thing, you needn't stay lost."
Martine looked at the speaker, who had now jumped down from his seat and was standing beside her. He was a tall youth, with reddish brown hair and a frank, pleasant face, and she judged that he was two or three years her senior.
"It's fortunate," he said, "that we happened to have an order for some groceries up beyond at the Jones farm. I don't come this way once a month, and there is very little passing any day; so if you had waited for some one to rescue you, you would have had to wait a long time."
Martine was not sure that she liked the word "rescue." All her life she had prided herself on her independence, and it irritated her to realize that she had put herself in a position that obliged her to depend on a stranger.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said 'lost,'" she responded; "I've only just missed my way a little, and if the fog should lift I could easily find my way back to my friends."
"If the fog should lift!" The boy laughed heartily. "Are you acquainted with the habits of fogs? Or perhaps it behaves differently in the States; but in this part of the world, when it sets in late in the afternoon, it generally stays all night. But come," he continued more gently, "you'll catch cold if you stay here much longer. I'm on my way to Annapolis myself, and I'll very gladly take you there. Come," he continued, holding out his hand; "you'd better get into the wagon here, and I have a rope by which we can lead the horse behind."
"Oh, no," said Martine; "I can ride just as well. I don't mind the fog, if you will let me follow your wagon."
"Nonsense!" protested the boy; "you can't go fast enough to keep warm, and your horse might make a misstep; and besides," he concluded, "I have a sister about your age and I know what's best for girls. Come, jump in."
To her own great surprise Martine found herself obeying the strange youth; perhaps, after all, she felt that there would be more comfort for her in his covered wagon than in picking her way through the fog, over the rough road. When she was seated, he handed her a carriage robe which he bade her wrap around her; then he tied his rope to the horse's bridle, saying as he did so:
"I know this animal well, and he'll follow us like a tame cat."
Then he took his seat beside Martine and they drove along slowly. After a turn or two they came to the place that Martine called "the beehive farm." Already she had related the story of Mr. Frazer's adventure, and her acquaintance had laughed heartily at her account of the good man's flight after the recreant Jill.
"I didn't suppose even a swarm of bees could put any speed into Jill, but Frazer himself is so conscientious that I wonder that he isn't sitting here on the fence waiting for your return."
As they talked Martine wondered and wondered who her rescuer could be. Both his language and his subjects of conversation were not what she would have expected from a grocer's boy, for that was what he called himself once or twice, and in the back of the wagon there was a large kerosene can, with one or two empty boxes, as well as some packages that certainly looked like groceries. But she did not waste much time in speculating, because she found so many things to ask that she had never thought to ask any one else before.
"Didn't realize that the first mill on the Continent was built at Annapolis?"—said her companion, "and you from Chicago, where people are supposed to think and dream about flour and grain? I am surprised. And you didn't know that Membertou, that old Indian, is reckoned the first convert made in America? Dear me, where have you been brought up?"
"Oh, I'm learning," responded Martine. "I'd never heard about the Acadians until we came down here. But now I think they're just great; don't you?"
"I should hardly call them great," returned the other, with a smile, "although there's any amount of interesting history connected with them; but I've always taken more interest myself in the early days of Port Royal than in the exile of the Acadians. I wish they'd change the name of Goat Island back to Biencourtville, for that's what it's called on Lescarbot's map."
"Oh," replied Martine, not knowing what else to say.
She knew nothing about Lescarbot and less about his map, but she didn't wish to display her ignorance.
"I remember Biencourt," she added meekly; "he had a very hard time, hadn't he?"
The face of the other brightened.
"Oh, I'm glad you remember him; he's my idea of a hero. I believe if he had lived Port Royal would have fared much better. Charles La Tour was not at all the same kind of man. But Madame La Tour, ah, she was the right sort! Perhaps you know her story."
"No," replied Martine, meekly, "I do not, but probably Amy does."
"Who is this paragon, this 'Amy'? You've spoken of her several times; she seems to know everything."
"I really think she does," replied Martine—"know almost everything. But I wish you could tell me about Madame La Tour."
"There won't be time now, but I could lend you a book, if you stay here longer. She doesn't exactly belong to Annapolis; it was the fort at the mouth of the St. John that she defended. But here we are fairly in the town, and you can consider yourself saved," he concluded with a smile.
"Why, there's Mrs. Airton's house!" exclaimed Martine in surprise; "I didn't know you were coming this way."
The boy looked at her curiously.
"Do you know Mrs. Airton?"
"Well, not exactly, for I was out when she called, but she was kind enough to ask me to tea to-day, only I thought I'd like to ride instead. I thought that perhaps I'd be back in time for tea."
"You were right in that," rejoined her companion, pulling up his horse. "I'm sure they're not through tea yet; I can leave you and take your horse on to the stable. Here, jump out."
But Martine hesitated, and for the moment she was annoyed at her rescuer. If Priscilla or Amy should look from a window, how mortifying it would be to be seen driving in a grocer's cart with a riderless steed tagging on behind.
"No, thank you," she said; "I would rather go on to my boarding-house; please drive on."
She never knew whether her new acquaintance would have heeded her request or not, for hardly had she spoken when from a side door Eunice Airton and Priscilla rushed toward the wagon.
"Where's Martine?" cried Priscilla, excitedly; "we recognized the horse."
"Oh, Balfour," began Eunice, "what—"
Without further ado Martine jumped down from the seat. The girls had approached the wagon from the rear, and at first had not seen her. Her sudden appearance surprised them. By this time Amy had reached the group.
"What happened?" and she looked on Martine for an explanation.
"Nothing, nothing," replied Martine, "only I was caught in the fog."
Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm.
"Your clothes are damp; you may take cold."
"Come into the house," added Eunice; "we are not yet through tea."
Martine saw that protest could not avail. As a matter of fact, she was not only cold but hungry, and the prospect of something to eat was one that she could not resist.
"You said that you might come to tea," remarked Amy, "and so Mrs. Airton will not be altogether surprised."
Had any one but Amy said this, Martine would have suspected her of sarcasm; but even if Amy would inwardly smile at her ignominious return, Martine could bear ridicule from her better than from any one else.
When Martine had replaced her waist with a drier one belonging to Eunice, Eunice led her to the dining-room, where the others had resumed their seats. Mrs. Redmond and Mrs. Airton made little comment on her misadventure, and never did hot biscuit, and strawberries, and chocolate, and cookies seem more appetizing to Martine than they did on this occasion. Later, when Amy and Priscilla were helping Eunice clear the table, Mrs. Airton sat down beside Martine.
"I am glad it was Balfour who found you," she said, "though I am sorry that he could not come in to tea with you. It is his night at the store, and he usually waits for his tea until late in the evening."
"Balfour?" asked Martine; "who is Balfour? Of course I know he drove me home, but who is he?"
"Balfour," replied Mrs. Airton, "why, Balfour is my son and Eunice's brother."
"Ah," cried Martine, "I did not realize that; now I understand."
But what she understood she did not then explain.
Not long after tea Mr. Frazer rushed excitedly into Mrs. Airton's sitting-room.
"I'm so glad the young lady's safe," he cried, "though indeed I thought she'd wait for me; but the sorrel led me a long chase, and when I got back to the farm she wasn't there. But I never thought of her going to the Bay Shore with the fog rolling in so thick, and when I found she wasn't at the house, I went back again to the farm, thinking she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. At last I met some one who had seen her driving with Balfour; then I knew she was safe. So I must apologize again for the behavior of my sorrel, though it was all the fault of the bees."
Martine forgave the sorrel as readily as she forgave Mr. Frazer, for her adventure had ended so pleasantly that there was no occasion for blaming any one.
letters and some comments
"Do you realize that we have only a day or two longer in Annapolis?" asked Amy, one soft afternoon in July, as she sat with Martine and Priscilla within the walls of the old fort.
Mrs. Redmond, seated some distance from them, was sketching a bit of far-off shore that came within her range of view. Martine had her hands folded idly in her lap, though the sketching-block and materials that lay beside her showed that at least she had made some pretence of work that day.
"Yes, I realize it all too well," she responded. "I wish we could stay here all summer."
"It has been so much pleasanter since we knew the Airtons that we shall find it very hard to go," added Priscilla.
"Of course we might stay here the rest of the summer," replied Amy, "only, since we had a definite route planned out it would be a pity not to follow it."
"The other places may be very stupid," murmured Martine.
"Not Grand Pré," rejoined Priscilla. "You'll probably enjoy that far better than Annapolis; you seem to forget that it is full of memories of the expelled Acadians."
"Oh, yes, the Acadians; but do you know they don't seem half so important to me as they did when we were in Clare. I've really grown tremendously interested in those first Frenchmen, who had such an unlucky time here at Port Royal. Annapolis has memories enough for me."
"What a fickle creature you are, Martine! Surely you haven't forgotten Yvonne."
"No, no," and Martine sprang to her feet. "I'm only waiting for a letter from my father and then you shall know what is going to happen to Yvonne. Why, I've written her three times since I left Meteghan; I thought you knew that, Amy."
"Yes, but don't excite yourself unduly, child; only, when you expressed your indifference to Acadians I wondered whom you included. Nothing would make me forget little Pierre. Here's a letter that I received from him to-day."
Amy drew from her pocket a half-sheet of paper and read its contents to her friends:—
"'My dear Mademoiselle, Amy Redmond,—It gives me great pleasure to think that you and your beautiful mother and the charming young ladies like so well our historic Annapolis. I once it visited with my uncle, to view the fort that was built in the days of the greatness of Acadia; it was sad to me to know that now it belongs to the cruel English, who drove my ancestors from their happy homes. When I am a learned man, I shall teach history in a great school, and I will write books to make all know the truth; but now I am only a little boy, and I thank you for your letter and the book you sent me that will ever keep your lovely face fresh in my mind. So with her best duty from my mother, I subscribe myself,
"'Your humble friend,
"'Pierre Robichaud.
"'P. S. Please write soon again.'"
Martine and Priscilla smiled at the quaint letter, with its curious mingling of pride and humility and its touch of French gallantry.
"Pierre seems quite sure of his own future,"—and Amy replaced the sheet in her pocket. "With his aim so firmly in view, it's quite probable that he'll attain his ambition."
"'Best duty,'" observed Priscilla, "isn't that a strange expression?"
"It certainly isn't French; he has picked it up from some of the 'cruel' English."
"He probably had an old-fashioned school-teacher at some time. I hope that we'll see both Pierre and Yvonne before we return home; but now we must keep our minds on Annapolis. I'm so afraid that you haven't got all you might of its history."
"Oh, my dear Amy, Priscilla is just brimful of the Loyalists and their sufferings; you ought to hear some of the stories that she has gathered up. Show her your note-book, Priscilla."
Priscilla reddened and shook her head, while Martine continued:
"And as for me, I'm so charged with historical associations that I feel as if I'd give them out in electric sparks if any one should rub me the right way. Of course I know that this is not the original French fort, but when one is dreaming, she needn't be so very particular about facts; so if I shut my eyes, here on this very spot," and Martine suited the action to the word, "I can see Poutrincourt and Lescarbot and all the others who were here that long winter when De Monts had gone back to France, leaving Pontgravé in charge. I just imagine that the old barracks over there is the great hall where they used to have their feasts, and I can see them all marching in with the fifteen gentlemen at the head who sat at Poutrincourt's table, the Grand Master strutting in front, with his staff of office in his hand and his napkin over his shoulder. L'Ordre de Bon Temps—that was a capital idea of Lescarbot's, to keep them all in good spirits and make each man think himself of supreme importance for a day."
"Tell me about it," said Priscilla. "If I ever knew, I believe I've forgotten what it was."
"That's it, my dear; you have been so very full of the much less important English history of Annapolis that you've overlooked the more romantic French." Then pointing toward the Basin, Martine chanted:
"'Sing on, wild sea, your sad refrain, For all the gallant sons of France Whose songs and sufferings enhance The romance of the western main.'"
"Well, if this is a wild sea I wonder what you'd call the Bay of Fundy," said Amy, laughing.
"Oh, dear! You are so very practical; but I can't argue with you now, for I must make Priscilla understand just what 'The Order of the Good Time' was. During the long winter Lescarbot suggested that each of the fifteen gentlemen of greatest importance in the settlement should be appointed caterer for a day at a time; so they took turns, and each one tried to outdo the others in providing as many delicacies as possible. The steward of the day was called the Grand Master, and fish and game were so abundant here that often the table was supplied with food that the King of France might have envied. In order to keep up their dignity, they all observed a very formal ceremony, entering the hall at each meal just as I told you a little while ago. At the close of the day, after grace, the Grand Master removed his collar and placed it on the neck of the one who was to do duty the next day, while they drank each other's health in wine and recited appropriate verses. No wonder the Indians thought it great sport to watch the white men dine, for they crowded the hall at every meal, and Membertou, their Chief, was often at the Governor's table."
"I hope the other Indians had something to eat."
"Oh, yes indeed; they were always well fed by the French, and well treated; so that from the very beginning the French and Indians were on the very friendliest terms."
"You must have done a deal of reading, Martine, you know your subject so well," said Amy, quizzically.
"Oh, I haven't read so much," she began.
"No, it's all Balfour Airton," interposed Priscilla. "He talks like a book, and he's discovered that he can make Martine listen to him."
"Any one would like to listen to him," rejoined Martine, "and I'm glad to say that though he is of English descent, he doesn't consider the English absolutely perfect."
"There, there," said Amy, throwing oil on the waters, "our acquaintance with the Airtons has certainly added to the pleasure of us all. Balfour seems a plucky fellow, for it can't be particularly pleasant to him to serve as a grocer's clerk in the summer holidays."
"But he needs the money."
"Oh, yes, Martine; but I know boys who would remain idle rather than do work that they thought a little beneath them."
"To tell you the truth," added Priscilla, "I'm afraid that the Airtons have very little money indeed. Eunice says that there's a mortgage on their house, and that they may have to give it up before long. Balfour has offered to stay out of college and look for work in Halifax, but his mother will not listen to this; she wishes him to be a lawyer like his grandfather."
"He has a scholarship at college, and he earns more or less money all the year, so that really his education costs his family nothing."
"I fear our conversation is too personal," interrupted Amy, "though it has certainly been a pleasure to meet two people so free from self-consciousness as Eunice and Balfour. That reminds me," concluded Amy, "that I had a letter to-day from my friend Brenda, Mrs. Weston. She is surprised that we find so much to interest us in Nova Scotia. She made a trip this way one summer with her parents, but they travelled rather hurriedly through the province and made their longest stay at Halifax."
"Oh, Halifax," interrupted Martine. "Nothing but English; only fancy," with a true English accent, and she raised her hand toward her eye as if holding a monocle. "If there's anything in the world I dislike, it's the real English. Excuse me, Priscilla; I did not mean to hurt your feelings."
"My feelings? Why, I'm no more English than you are, Martine. You won't deny that you have some English blood in your veins?"
"Unluckily, I can't deny it; but I'm glad that they named me Martine; that at least is un-English."
"It certainly is a queer name."
"Not queer at all, Priscilla. My grandfather was Martin, and Martine is the French feminine for it. If I'd been a boy, I would have been named Martin. Unluckily I wasn't, and so Martine was the best that could be done. My elder brother had been named for my father; Lucian, you know, is his name. I never heard any one else call 'Martine' a queer name;" and the Chicago girl turned away petulantly.
Noting again the signs of a coming storm, already too frequent on this trip, Amy hastened to change the subject.
"I don't know why I should have so many letters in my pocket to-day, but since I brought my mail with me, let me read you a little from Brenda's letter; you know her, Priscilla?"
"Yes, indeed."
"Oh, Brenda,—Mrs. Weston," cried Martine, eagerly, all trace of annoyance disappearing from her face and voice. "I've never talked with her, but I've seen her several times; I think she's just fine. She isn't a bit prim and stiff like most Bostonians. Why, she has as much style as a Chicago girl."
"My dear," interposed Amy, "remember that Priscilla and I are from the neighborhood of Boston."
"Oh, yes, but you don't set up for style—there, I don't mean that, of course; I only mean—"
But Martine was getting herself into deep water, and her floundering amused Amy, although she maintained a grave face, as she said:
"Style is not confined to dress; other things are considered just as important by the true critic. However, I'm glad that you admire Brenda, for you'll be the more interested in her letter.
"'Your account of what you have seen in Nova Scotia is perfectly fascinating. But you haven't told me how you like those funny little brown fish that they call Digby chickens, that have a flavor made up of smoked ham and salt cod; you can fancy how surprised I was when I ordered them, for I thought they'd be real chickens. We didn't see any French in Nova Scotia; I can't imagine where you found them. Are they the real thing? or do they speak with a Stratford atte Bow accent?
"'How different this summer is from last, when we were all so worried about Arthur and the Spanish War,—at least, I was. It is just a year since I was so very ill, and now I am perfectly happy. I feel quite ridiculous when they ask me to chaperone parties of girls who are older than I until I remember that I am really an old married woman and quite settled.
"'It is all I can do to prevent Arthur's going to the Philippines; he really has the war fever, and I wonder what will come of it all. Next month he is to make an address at some reunion of Spanish War Veterans; doesn't it seem absurd to call him a veteran? Tim McSorley is at Manila. Maggie is down here at Rockley with us this summer, and you haven't an idea how useful she is. My mother says that the way she does things is recommendation enough for the Mansion School, and that if Julia needed to earn money she would make a small fortune training girls.
"'I had a letter yesterday from Happy Hill,—you know that's the name of the farm where she has the girls this summer. They are nearly all new girls, who do not interest me as much as the others who were there my year. Norah is with Julia this summer; but there, I'm telling you things that are no news to you, and in fact I have very little news of any kind to write; but I hope you'll give my love to your mother and Priscilla, and Miss Stratford and I only hope that you are as strict with them as you can be some times, when you want people to get all the information they can out of a trip.
"'Oh, that reminds me. I hear that Fritz Tomkins is in Nova Scotia; you do not mention him in your letter, but you must be delighted to have him with you. Of course four women can get along perfectly well, but if anything should happen, it is so much better to have a man in your party; and Fritz is so like a brother that I'm sure you can make him very useful. With love to all,
"'Sincerely,
"'Brenda Weston.'"
Amy had read the whole letter aloud without realizing how personal it was, for her original intention had been only to read that part relating to Nova Scotia.
"That sounds just like Brenda," she said to the girls, "and I'm glad that she's so happy, for last summer was a miserable one for her."
"It was for all of us," murmured Priscilla.
And then Amy suddenly realized that the Spanish War was a subject too sore for her to touch on in Priscilla's presence.
"Come," she said, "one last look at old Port Royal. We shall have several farewell calls to pay to-day and to-morrow, and we may not have time to return to the Fort."
"Amy," said Martine, "I know I'm very stupid, but I'd really like to know where Port Royal ends and Fort Anne begins. Some one told me that this is really Fort Anne, but you always speak of it as Port Royal; so just to gratify my curiosity I'm willing to listen to a little more history."
"Then I'll give you as much, or rather as little, as I can to make you understand some of the happenings at this Fort in the early days. I am sorry that I cannot go at all into details about the many sieges and expeditions against the Fort in the seventeenth century. The quarrels of D'Aunay and Charles de La Tour form a most exciting series of episodes, and you must read them at length in Parkman or some other history. Although theirs was not warfare between French and English, La Tour was a Huguenot, and in a general way the English were on his side. In fact, he once came down to Boston and interested Winthrop and others in his cause. In the end I suppose La Tour may be considered to have been the conqueror; at least, he survived D'Aunay, and later married for his second wife D'Aunay's widow. Port Royal was captured by Cromwell's fleet in 1654, and a few years later, in the reign of Charles II, was given back to France. In 1690, when England and France were again at war, De Menneval, the governor of the Fort, had to surrender to Sir William Phipps, and the account of this expedition you will surely read sometime, for Phipps was a New Englander and his career most interesting."
"The New Englanders seem to have had a special spite against Acadia," said Martine; "so it isn't strange, Priscilla, that you have inherited part of it."
"Oh, no, I haven't; only if I must choose I naturally prefer what is English to what is French."
"After all that Phipps thought he had accomplished," continued Amy, "Acadia was again handed back to France; but I will pass over other attacks to remind you of what you have doubtless read many times in your school histories, that, when the Treaty of Utrecht settled the wars between Queen Anne and Louis XIV, Acadia was given to the English. Since that time the fort has been Fort Anne and the town Annapolis."
"It's no wonder," said Martine, "that the Acadians hardly knew whom to obey, when they'd been handed over from one side to another so often."
"This does account for much of the misunderstanding that finally led to their deportation. They trusted too implicitly in the French King, and for a long time vainly hoped that he would conquer the English and make them again his subjects."
Hardly had Amy finished when a boyish voice was heard crying, "Good-morning, good-morning. Is it really true that you're starting North to-day?"
"No, not to-day; we have still a day or two left before we set out for Grand Pré; we are going over to see your mother this afternoon."
"I'm glad of that," responded Balfour, "for I'm to have a day off, or rather an afternoon, and I wanted to be sure of your plans."
Balfour did not explain that he had asked for this special holiday in order to have some time with his new friends.
"You won't spend the whole afternoon with my mother," he began awkwardly,—"at least, not all of you,—and so I thought that perhaps some of you would go for a drive with me."
"I am going to stay with Eunice," said Priscilla; "it will be our last day together."
Martine said nothing.
Then Balfour turned to Amy:
"Would not you and Miss Martine drive with me? I can take you to one or two out-of-the-way places that you probably haven't visited."
"Surely," responded Amy, "that will be delightful. I can go, and with pleasure. As for Martine, she must speak for herself."
Amy had no doubt as to Martine's desire, so that it was hardly necessary for her to await a reply.
"Why, of course," replied Martine; "there's nothing I'd like so well."
an excursion
Balfour, when the three started on their afternoon expedition, was in a particularly happy frame of mind.
"There's one advantage in working all summer—a half holiday seems ten times more valuable now than usually. Not that I'm working hard this summer, only my days are not my own, and I can seldom make plans; besides, I do begrudge the time that I have to take from study."
"Then you will probably think to-day wasted."
"No, indeed; besides, we are going to study nature, and—"
"A little French history," interposed Martine. "Did you not say that you would take us to an old battleground?"
"Yes, I hope to, for my steed is not like Jill. We can depend on getting somewhere with Lion, whereas Jill—"
"Mr. Frazer would say that she went fast enough the day he rode her in my company."
"It's a great thing for a horse to know when to stop, as well as when to go on. Whoa, Lion! There, we can leave him standing while we go up that little hill. It's said to be the site of an ancient French church. It may interest you."
Amy and Martine loudly praised the beauty of the scenery as they stood on the elevated land above the narrow, winding river.
"They say that a church stood here in the earliest French days, with a set of silver bells that rang out most musically over the water. Then, when the church fell to pieces, the bells sank into the earth, and are hidden somewhere underground,—and any one who likes may dig for them."
Martine began to prod in the earth with her parasol.
"Come, my dear, we won't have time to-day, and you need a crowbar rather than that tiny stick. If you found them they would be rather too clumsy to carry home;" and Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm.
"I'd rather look for Apostle spoons," replied Martine. "I heard of a woman who dug up two in her garden, and when she saw how dirty they were, threw them into a kettle of lye that she happened to have boiling for soap, or something of that kind. She almost lost her head when the ugly lead things came out looking like gold, for they were silver washed with gilt. If she found such things, why not I, for it's a true story, isn't it?" turning to Balfour.
"Oh, yes, fairly true, and there's always a chance of finding something by digging long enough. But I would never waste my time digging, except with hoe and spade, for fruit and vegetables. There's good money," he concluded, "in strawberries here in Nova Scotia. In Annapolis I know a man who has several acres, and in good seasons he gets two thousand boxes a day."
"Strawberries! Aren't apples the prize crop here?"
"Yes, and more certain than anything else. A man can get $300 an acre from a good orchard. If money were the only thing I'd rather be a farmer than a lawyer down here."
"That's better than some gold mines," said Amy, as they turned and walked down the hill to the carriage.
"When I was a small shaver," continued Balfour, "and had plenty of time to spare, I used to walk there along the top of the dykes of Annapolis. From the base of seven or eight feet it narrows to hardly a foot at the top, and I can tell you that it was ticklish work keeping a footing."
"Why didn't I know of that before?" cried Martine. "I certainly should have tried it. I love to walk on railroad tracks, and dyke-walking must be almost the same."
"You can't try anything of that kind while you are in my care," interposed Amy. "The river is probably deeper than it looks, and if you should go too near the edge—"
"Oh, I can swim, my dear Miss Amy Redmond, though, to put your careful soul at ease, I'll promise not to go near the water. All the same, I wish that I were an Indian, at this very moment gliding down from Minas to Digby. Didn't you tell me that this was one of their favorite routes?" and she turned to Balfour for a reply.
"Why, yes," he replied, "from any point outside Minas they used to glide over to French Cross, then by a portage of four miles to Aylesford, and they would be borne on by the current down the Annapolis River, sometimes as far even as Digby."
"French Cross?" asked Amy. "What have I heard of French Cross?"
"Perhaps of the awful winter there that some of the Acadians passed through, just after the deportation."
"Tell me about it," cried Martine, eagerly. "I never heard of it."
"Well, after the Acadians had been put aboard the ships at Grand Pré, some friendly Micmacs hurried down secretly to warn the French at the eastern end of Annapolis. When they heard the news, about sixty Acadians decided on flight, and with a Micmac guide began to make their way north. They hoped to reach a point on the shore where the English would not see them, from which they could cross over to New Brunswick, and then get the protection of the French at Quebec. But when they reached Aylesford they did not dare try to cross. Their food was poor, sickness broke out among them, many died, and were buried in the soft Aylesford sand. The others went on to French Cross, but still did not dare cross the Bay. During the bitter cold of December, while they were suffering everything, they saw the last of the transports pass down the Bay, carrying their countrymen to the southern colonies. Many died during the winter, and when spring came the friendly Indians made birch-bark canoes for the remainder, who then crossed in safety to the New Brunswick shore."
"Man's inhumanity to man," sighed Amy, sentimentally.
"What wretches the English were!" exclaimed Martine, more energetically.
"Remember, please, that I am English;" and Balfour raised his hand in remonstrance. "Besides, the persecutors of the Acadians were not English, but your fellow New Englanders, who took the whole matter on themselves, without asking leave of any one else."
"But I am no New Englander," objected Martine.
"Oh, it's all the same. Some of your ancestors were from New England undoubtedly, unless you are different from most Chicagoans. But if you repudiate New England, you cannot object to my arousing your sympathies for some of those exiled Loyalists who suffered quite as much as the over-pitied Acadians."
"It's a shame Priscilla is not here," murmured Martine.
Now Balfour was not likely to speak idly, and in a moment he had begun his recital.
"The old lady who told this story to my mother was visiting Annapolis from Fredericton, and her mother, the daughter of an officer in a New Jersey regiment, experienced all the hardships that she described. The vessels with these New Jersey officers and soldiers and their families went up the St. John River in early October, and landed at a place called St. Ann's, that later became Fredericton, the capital of the Province. It was a wet, cold season, and the people had no shelter but tents, that they tried to cover with spruce boughs. Their floor was the ground, and when snow fell in early November the old lady's mother said that her family tried to shut it out by putting their one rug against the opening. Often a part of the family had to sit up all night to keep the others from freezing. When everything else failed they would heat boards at the fire, and hold them over the children to give them needed warmth."
"A likely story!" and Martine smiled.
"Indeed, it is perfectly true," rejoined Balfour, gravely. "Many men and women died of exposure and lack of food that terrible winter. Their graves were dug with pickaxe and shovel, in the hard ground not far from the tents. Like the Acadians at French Cross, they had no clergyman to pay the last rites. They had been used to comfortable and pleasant homes, and many of them had had wealth; so it was doubly hard to have to live in Indian fashion on fish, and moose, and berries. In the spring they made maple sugar, and killed pigeons. There was great rejoicing when the first vessels came with corn and rye. They were in constant fear of the Indians, and it was long before they could live even half decently."
"I have always sympathized with the Loyalists," said Amy, quietly.
"Oh, well, it's all over now," returned Balfour, bitterly. "But it must have been hard for many of them to remember that their houses and lands, and even their personal property, had been passed over to people who to them seemed to have no shadow of right to it."
"Do you care now?" asked Martine, gently.