AN ILLUMINATION.
"Sait-on où l'on va?"
"What a sleeper, what a lover of his bed!" exclaimed Agapit, the next
morning, as he rapped vigorously on Vesper's door. "Is he never going to
rise?"
"What do you want?" said a voice from within.
"I, Agapit, latest and warmest of your friends, apologize for disturbing
you, but am forced to ask a question."
"Come in; the door is not locked."
Agapit thrust his head in. "Did you sit late reading my books?"
Vesper lifted his closely cropped curly head from the pillow. "Yes."
"And did not your heart stir with pity for the unfortunate Acadiens?"
"I found the history interesting."
"I wept over it at my first reading,--I gnashed my teeth; but
come,--will you not go to the picnic with us? All the Bay is going, as
the two former days of it were dull."
"I had forgotten it. Does my mother wish to go?"
"Madame, your mother, is already prepared. See from your window, she
talks to the mail-driver, who never tires of her adorable French. Do you
know, this morning he came herding down the road three shy children, who
were triplets. She was charmed, having never seen more than twins."
Vesper raised himself on his elbow and glanced through the window at
Monsieur de la Rive, who, with his bright wings folded close to his
sides, was cheeping voluble remarks to Mrs. Nimmo.
"All right, I will go," he said.
Agapit hurried down-stairs, and Vesper began to dress himself in a
leisurely way, stopping frequently to go to the window and gaze dreamily
out at the Bay.
Soon Rose came to the kitchen door to feed her hens. She looked so
lovely, as she stood with her resplendent head in a blaze of sunlight,
that Vesper's fingers paused in the act of fastening his necktie, and he
stood still to watch her.
Presently the mail-driver went streaking down the road in fiery flight,
and Mrs. Nimmo, seeing Rose alone, came tripping towards her. To her
son, who understood her perfectly, there were visible in Mrs. Nimmo's
manner some sure and certain signs of an inward disturbance. Rose,
however, perceived nothing, and continued feeding her hens with her
usual grace and composure.
"Are you not going to the picnic?" asked Mrs. Nimmo, and her eye ran
over the simple cotton gown that Rose always wore in the morning.
"Yes, madame, but first I do my work."
"You will be glad to see your friends there,--and your family?"
"Ah, yes, madame,--it is such a pleasure."
"I should like to see your sister, Perside."
"I will present her, madame; she will be honored."
"And it is she that the blacksmith is going to marry? Do you know," and
Mrs. Nimmo laughed tremulously, "I have been thinking all the time that
it was you."
"Now I get at the cause of your discontent," soliloquized Vesper, above,
"my poor little mother."
Rose surveyed her companion in astonishment: "I thought all the Bay
knew."
"But I am not the Bay," said Mrs. Nimmo, with attempted playfulness; "I
am Boston."
A shadow crossed Rose's face. "Yes, madame, I know. I might have told
you, but I did not think; and you are delicate,--you would not ask."
"No, I am not delicate," said Mrs. Nimmo, honestly. "I am inclined to be
curious, or interested in other people, we will say,--I think you are
very kind to be making matrimonial plans for other young women, and not
to think of yourself."
"Madame?"
"You do not know that long word. It means pertaining to marriage."
"Ah! marriage, I understand that. But, lately, I resolve not to marry,"
and Rose turned her deep blue eyes, in which there was not a trace of
craft or deceit, on her nervously apprehensive interlocutor, while
Vesper murmured in the window above, "She is absolutely guileless, my
mother; cast out of your mind that vague and formless suspicion."
Mrs. Nimmo, however, preferred to keep the suspicion, and not only to
keep it, but to foster the stealthy creeping thing until it had taken on
the rudiments of organized reflection.
"Some young people do not care for marriage," she said, after a long
pause. "My son never has."
"May the Lord forgive you for that," ejaculated her son, piously. Then
he listened for Rose's response, which was given with deep respect and
humility. "He is devoted to you, madame. It is pleasant to see a son
thus."
"He is a dear boy, and it would kill me if he were to leave me. I am
glad that you appreciate him, and that he has found this place so
interesting. We shall hate to leave here."
"Must you go soon, madame?"
"Pretty soon, I think; as soon as my son finishes this quest of his. You
know it is very quiet here. You like it because it is your home, but we,
of course, are accustomed to a different life."
"I know that, madame," said Rose, sadly, "and it will seem yet more
quiet when we do not see you. I dread the long days."
"I daresay we may come back sometime. My son likes to revisit favorite
spots, and the strong air of the Bay certainly agrees wonderfully with
him. He is sleeping like a baby this morning. I must go now and see if
he is up. Thank you for speaking so frankly to me about yourself. Do you
know, I believe you agree with me,"--and Mrs. Nimmo leaned
confidentially towards her,--"that it is a perfectly wicked thing for a
widow to marry again," and she tripped away, folding about her the white
shawl she always wore.
Rose gazed after her retreating form with a face that was, for a time,
wholly mystified.
By degrees, her expression became clearer. "Good heavens! she
understands," muttered Vesper; "now let us see if there will be any
resentment."
There was none. A vivid, agonized blush overspread Rose's cheeks. She
let the last remnant of food slip to the expectant hens from her two
hands, that suddenly went out in a gesture of acute distress; but the
glance that she bestowed on Mrs. Nimmo, who was just vanishing around
the corner of the house, was one of saintly magnanimity, with not a
trace of pride or rebellion in it.
Vesper shrugged his shoulders and left the window. "Strange that the
best of women will worry each other," and philosophically proceeding
with his toilet, he shortly after went down-stairs.
After a breakfast that was not scanty, as his breakfasts had been before
his illness, but one that was comprehensive and eaten with good
appetite, he made his way to the parlor, where his mother was sitting
among a number of vivacious Acadiens.
Rose, slim and elegant in a new black gown, and having on her head a
small straw hat, with a dotted veil drawn neatly over her pink cheeks
and mass of light hair, was receiving other young men and women who were
arriving, while Agapit, burly, and almost handsome in his Sunday suit of
black serge, was bustling about, and, immediately pouncing upon Vesper,
introduced him to each member of the party.
The young American did not care to talk. He returned to the doorway,
and, loitering there, amused himself by comparing the Acadiens who had
remained at home with those who had gone out into the world.
The latter were dressed more gaily; they had more assurance, and, in
nearly every case, less charm of manner than the former. There was
Rose's aunt,--white-haired Madame Pitre. She was like a sweet and demure
little owl in her hood-like handkerchief and plain gown. Amandine, her
daughter who had never left the Bay, was a second little owl; but the
sisters Diane and Lucie, factory girls from Worcester, were overdressed
birds of paradise, in their rustling silk blouses, big plumed hats, and
self-conscious manners.
"Here, at last, is the wagon," cried Agapit, running to the door, as a
huge, six-seated vehicle, drawn by four horses, appeared. He made haste
to assist his friends and relatives into it, then, darting to Vesper,
who stood on the veranda, exclaimed, "The most honorable seat beside me
is for madame, your mother."
"Do you care to go?" asked Vesper, addressing her.
"I should like to go to the picnic, but could you not drive me?"
"But certainly he can," exclaimed Agapit. "Toochune is in the stable.
Possibly this big wagon would be noisy for madame. I will go and
harness."
"You will do nothing of the kind," said Vesper, laying a detaining hand
on his shoulder. "You go on. We will follow."
Agapit nodded gaily, and sprang to the box, while Rose bent her flushed
face over Narcisse, who set up a sudden wail of despair. "He is coming,
my child. Thou knowest he does not break his promises."
Narcisse raised his fist as if to strike her; he was in a fury at being
restrained, and, although ordinarily a shy child, he was at present
utterly regardless of the strangers about him.
"Stop, stop, Agapit!" cried Diane; "he will cast himself over the
wheel!"
Agapit pulled up the horses, and Vesper, hearing the disturbance, and
knowing the cause, came sauntering after the wagon, with a broad smile
on his face.
He became grave, however, when he saw Rose's pained expression. "I think
it better not to yield," she said, in a low voice. "Calm thyself,
Narcisse, thou shalt not get out."
"I will," gasped the child. "You are a bad mother. The Englishman may
run away if I leave him. You know he is going."
"Let me have him for a minute," said Vesper. "I will talk to him," and,
reaching out his arms, he took the child from the blacksmith, who swung
him over the side of the wagon.
"Come get a drink of water," said the young American, good-humoredly.
"Your little face is as red as a turkey-cock's."
Narcisse pressed his hot forehead to Vesper's cheek, and meekly allowed
himself to be carried into the house.
"Now don't be a baby," said Vesper, putting him on the kitchen sink, and
holding a glass of water to his lips; "I am coming after you in half an
hour."
"Will you not run away?"
"No," said Vesper, "I will not."
Narcisse gave him a searching look. "I believe you; but my mother once
said to me that I should have a ball, and she did not give it."
"What is it that the Englishman has done to the child?" whispered Madame
Pitre to her neighbor, when Vesper brought back the quiet and composed
Narcisse and handed him to his mother. "It is like magic."
"It is rather that the child needs a father," replied the young
Acadienne addressed. "Rose should marry."
"I wish the Englishman was poor," muttered Madame Pitre, "and also
Acadien; but he does not think of Rose, and Acadiens do not marry out of
their race."
Vesper watched them out of sight, and then he found that Agapit had
spoken truly when he said that all the Bay was going to the picnic.
Célina's mother, a brown-faced, vigorous old woman who was to take
charge of the inn for the day, was the only person to be seen, and he
therefore went himself to the stable and harnessed Toochune to the
dog-cart.
Célina's mother admiringly watched the dog-cart joining the procession
of bicycles, buggies, two-wheeled carts, and big family wagons going
down the Bay, and fancied that its occupants must be extremely happy.
Mrs. Nimmo, however, was not happy, and nothing distracted her attention
from her own teasing thoughts. She listened abstractedly to the merry
chatter of French in the air, and gazed disconsolately at the gloriously
sunny Bay, where a few distant schooner sails stood up sharp against the
sky like the white wings of birds.
At last she sighed heavily, and said, in a plaintive voice, "Vesper, are
you not getting tired of Sleeping Water?"
He flicked his whip at a fly that was torturing Toochune, then said,
calmly, "No, I am not."
"I never saw you so interested in a place," she observed, with a fretful
side glance. "The travelling agents and loquacious peasants never seem
to bore you."
"But I do not talk to the agents, and I do not find the others
loquacious; neither would I call them peasants."
"It doesn't matter what you call them. They are all beneath you."
Vesper looked meditatively across the Bay at a zigzag, woolly trail of
smoke made by a steamer that was going back and forth in a distressed
way, as if unable to find the narrow passage that led to the Bay of
Fundy.
"The Checkertons have gone to the White Mountains," said Mrs. Nimmo, in
a vexed tone, as if the thought gave her no pleasure. "I should like to
join them there."
"Very well, we can leave here to-morrow."
Her face brightened. "But your business?"
"I can send some one to look after it, or Agapit would attend to it."
"And you would not need to come back?"
"Not necessarily. I might do so, however."
"In the event of some of the LeNoirs being found?"
"In the event of my not being able to exist without--the Bay."
"Give me the Charles River," said Mrs. Nimmo, hastily. "It is worth
fifty Bays."
"To me also," said Vesper; "but there is one family here that I should
like to transplant to the banks of the Charles."
Mrs. Nimmo did not speak until they had passed through long Comeauville
and longer Saulnierville, and were entering peaceful Meteghan River with
its quietly flowing stream and grassy meadows. Then having partly
subdued the first shock of having a horror of such magnitude presented
to her, she murmured, "Are you sure that you know your own mind?"
"Quite sure, mother," he said, earnestly and affectionately; "but now,
as always, my first duty is to you."
Tears sprang to her eyes, and ran quietly down her cheeks. "When you lay
ill," she said, in a repressed voice, "I sat by you. I prayed to God to
spare your life. I vowed that I would do anything to please you, yet,
now that you are well, I cannot bear the idea of giving you up to
another woman."
Vesper looked over his shoulder, then guided Toochune up by one of the
gay gardens before the never-ending row of houses in order to allow a
hay-wagon to pass them. When they were again in the middle of the road,
he said, "I, too, had serious thoughts when I was ill, but you know how
difficult it is for me to speak of the things nearest my heart."
"I know that you are a good son," she said, passionately. "You would
give up the woman of your choice for my sake, but I would not allow it,
for it would make you hate me,--I have seen so much trouble in families
where mothers have opposed their sons' marriages. It does no good, and
then--I do not want you to be a lonely old man when I'm gone."
"Mother," he said, protestingly.
"How did it happen?" she asked, suddenly composing herself, and dabbing
at her face with her handkerchief.
Vesper's face grew pale, and, after a short hesitation, he said,
dreamily, "I scarcely know. She has become mixed up with my life in an
imperceptible way, and there is an inexpressible something about her
that I have never found in any other woman."
Mrs. Nimmo struggled with a dozen conflicting thoughts. Then she sighed,
miserably, "Have you asked her to marry you?"
"No."
"But you will?"
"I do not know," he said, reluctantly. "I have nothing planned. I wish
to tell you, to save misunderstandings."
"She has some crotchet against marriage,--she told me so this morning.
Do you know what it is?"
"I can guess."
Mrs. Nimmo pondered a minute. "She has fallen in love with you," she
said at last, "and because she thinks you will not marry her, she will
have no other man."
"I think you scarcely understand her. She does not understand herself."
Mrs. Nimmo uttered a soft, "Nonsense!" under her breath.
"Suppose we drop the matter for a time," said Vesper, in acute
sensitiveness. "It is in an incipient state as yet."
"I know you better than to suppose that it will remain incipient," said
his mother, despairingly. "You never give anything up. But, as you say,
we had better not talk any more about it. It has given me a terrible
shock, and I will need time to get over it,--I thank you for telling me,
however," and she silently directed her attention to the distant red
cathedral spire, and the white houses of Meteghan,--the place where the
picnic was being held.
They caught up with the big wagon just before it reached a large brown
building, surrounded by a garden and pleasure-grounds, and situated some
distance from the road. This was the convent, and Vesper knew that,
within its quiet walls, Rose had received the education that had added
to her native grace the gentle _savoir faire_ that reminded him of
convent-bred girls that he had met abroad, and that made her seem more
like the denizen of a city than the mistress of a little country inn.
In front of the convent the road was almost blocked by vehicles. Rows of
horses stood with their heads tied to its garden fence, and bicycles by
the dozen were ranged in the shadow of its big trees. Across the road
from it a green field had been surrounded by a hedge of young spruce
trees, and from this enclosure sounds of music and merrymaking could be
heard. A continual stream of people kept pouring in at the
entrance-gate, without, however, making much diminution in the crowd
outside.
Agapit requested his passengers to alight, then, accompanied by one of
the young men of his party, who took charge of Vesper's horse, he drove
to a near stable. Five minutes later he returned, and found his
companions drawn up together watching Acadien boys and girls flock into
the saloon of a travelling photographer.
"There is now no time for picture-taking," he vociferated; "come, let us
enter. See, I have tickets," and he proudly marshalled his small army up
to the gate, and entered the picnic grounds at their head.
They found Vesper and his mother inside. This ecclesiastical fair going
on under the convent walls, and almost in the shadow of the red
cathedral, reminded them of the fairs of history. Here, as there, no
policemen were needed among the throngs of buyers and sellers, who
strolled around and around the grassy enclosure, and examined the wares
exhibited in verdant booths. Good order was ensured by the presence of
several priests, who were greeted with courtesy and reverence by all.
Agapit, who was a devout Catholic, stood with his hat in his hand until
his own parish priest had passed; then his eyes fell on the essentially
modern and central object in the fair grounds,--a huge merry-go-round
from Boston, with brightly painted blue seats, to which a load of
Acadien children clung in an ecstasy of delight, as they felt themselves
being madly whirled through the air.
"Let us all ride!" he exclaimed. "Come, showman, give us the next turn."
The wheezing, panting engine stopped, and they all mounted, even Madame
Pitre, who shivered with delicious apprehension, and Mrs. Nimmo, who
whispered in her son's ear, "I never did such a thing before, but in
Acadie one must do as the Acadiens do."
Vesper sat down beside her, and took the slightly dubious Narcisse on
his knee, holding him closely when an expression of fear flitted over
his delicate features, and encouraging him to sit upright when at last
he became more bold.
"Another turn," shouted Agapit, when the music ceased, and they were
again stationary. The whistle blew, and they all set out again; but no
one wished to attempt a third round, and, giddily stumbling over each
other, they dismounted and with laughing remarks wandered to another
part of the grounds, where dancing was going on in two spruce arbors.
"It is necessary for all to join," he proclaimed, at the top of his
voice, but his best persuasions failed to induce either Rose or Vesper
to step into the arbors, where two young Acadiens sat perched up in two
corners, and gleefully tuned their fiddles.
"She will not dance, because she wishes to make herself singular,"
reflected Mrs. Nimmo, bitterly, and Vesper, who felt the unspoken
thought as keenly as if it had been uttered, moved a step nearer Rose,
who modestly stood apart from them.
Agapit flung down his money,--ten cents apiece for each dance,--and,
ordering his associates to choose their partners, signed to the fiddlers
to begin.
Mrs. Nimmo forgot Rose for a time, as she watched the dancers. The girls
were shy and demure; the young men danced lustily, and with great
spirit, emphasizing the first note of each bar by a stamp on the floor,
and beating a kind of tattoo with one foot, when not taking part in the
quadrille.
"Do you have only square dances?" she asked Madame Pitre, when a second
and a third quadrille were succeeded by a fourth.
"Yes," said the Acadienne, gravely. "There is no sin in a quadrille.
There is in a waltz."
"Come seek the lunch-tables," said Agapit, presently bursting out on
them, and mopping his perspiring face with his handkerchief. "Most
ambrosial dainties are known to the cooks of this parish."