WITH THE OLD ONES.
"The fresh salt breezes mingle with the smell
Of clover fields and ripened hay beside;
And Nature, musing, happy and serene,
Hath here for willing man her sweetest spell."
J. F. H.
After lunch, the Sleeping Water party separated. The Pitres found some
old friends from up the Bay. Agapit wandered away with some young men,
and Vesper, lazily declining to saunter with them, stood leaning against
a tree behind a bench on which his mother and Rose were seated.
The latter received and exchanged numerous greetings with her
acquaintances who passed by, sometimes detaining them for an
introduction to Mrs. Nimmo, who was making a supreme effort to be
gracious and agreeable to the woman that the fates had apparently
destined to be her daughter-in-law.
Vesper looked on, well pleased. "Why do you not introduce me?" he said,
mischievously, while his mother's attention was occupied with two
Acadien girls.
Rose gave him a troubled glance. She took no pleasure in his presence
now,--his mother had spoiled all that, and, although naturally simple
and unaffected, she was now tortured by self-consciousness.
"I think that you do not care," she said, in a low voice.
Vesper did not pursue the subject. "Have all Acadien women gentle
manners?" he asked, with a glance at the pair of shy, retiring ones
talking to his mother.
A far-away look came into Rose's eyes, and she replied, with more
composure: "The Abbé Casgrain says--he who wrote 'A Pilgrimage to the
Land of Evangeline'--that over all Acadiens hangs a quietness and
melancholy that come from the troubles of long ago; but Agapit does not
find it so."
"What does Agapit say?"
"He finds," and Rose drew her slight figure up proudly, "that we are
born to good manners. It was the best blood of France that settled
Acadie. Did our forefathers come here poor? No, they brought much money.
They built fine houses of stone, not wood; Grand Pré was a very fine
village. They also built châteaux. Then, after scatteration, we became
poor; but can we not keep our good manners?"
Vesper was much diverted by the glance with which his mother, having
bowed farewell to her new acquaintances, suddenly favored Rose. There
was pride in it,--pride in the beauty and distinction of the woman
beside her who was scarcely more than a girl; yet there was also in her
glance a jealousy and aversion that could not yet be overcome. Time
alone could effect this; and smothering a sigh, Vesper lifted his head
towards Narcisse, who had crawled from his shoulder to a most
uncomfortable seat on the lower limb of a pine-tree, where, however, he
professed to be most comfortable, and sat with his head against the
rough bark as delightedly as if it were the softest of cushions.
"I am quite right," said Narcisse, in English, which language he was
learning with astonishing rapidity, and Vesper again turned his
attention to the picturesque, constantly changing groups of people. He
liked best the brown and wrinkled old faces belonging to farmers and
their wives who were enjoying a well-earned holiday. The young men in
gray suits, he heard Rose telling his mother, were sailors from up the
Bay, whose schooners had arrived just in time for them to throw
themselves on their wheels and come to the picnic. The smooth-faced
girls in blue, with pink handkerchiefs on their heads, were from a
settlement back in the woods. The dark-eyed maidens in sailor hats, who
looked like a troop of young Evangelines, were the six demoiselles
Aucoin, the daughters of a lawyer in Meteghan, and the tall lady in blue
was an Acadienne from New York, who brought her family every summer to
her old home on the Bay.
"And that tall priest in the distance," said Rose, "is the father in
whose parish we are. Once he was a colonel in the army of France."
"There is something military in his figure," murmured Mrs. Nimmo.
"He was born among the Acadiens in France. They did not need him to
ministrate, so when he became a priest he journeyed here," continued
Rose, hurriedly, for the piercing eyes of the kindly-faced ecclesiastic
had sought out Vesper and his mother, and he was approaching them with
an uplifted hat.
Rose got up and said, in a fluttering voice, "May I present you, Father
La Croix, to Mrs. Nimmo, and also her son?"
The priest bowed gracefully, and begged to assure madame and her son
that their fame had already preceded them, and that he was deeply
grateful to them for honoring his picnic with their presence.
"I suppose there are not many English people here to-day," said Mrs.
Nimmo, smiling amiably, while Vesper contented himself with a silent
bow.
Father La Croix gazed about the crowd, now greatly augmented. "As far as
I can see, madame, you and your son are the only English that we have
the pleasure of entertaining. You are now in the heart of the French
district of Clare."
"And yet I hear a good deal of English spoken."
Father La Croix smiled. "We all understand it, and you see here a good
many young people employed in the States, who are home for their
holidays."
"And I suppose we are the only Protestants here," continued Mrs. Nimmo.
"The only ones,--you are also alone in the parish of Sleeping Water. If
at any time a sense of isolation should prey upon madame and her son--"
He did not finish his sentence except by another smile of infinite
amusement, and a slight withdrawal of his firm lips from his set of
remarkably white teeth.
Rose was disturbed. Vesper noticed that the mention of the word
Protestant at any time sent her into a transport of uneasiness. She was
terrified lest a word might be said to wound his feelings or those of
his mother.
"_Monsieur le curé_ is jesting, Madame de Forêt," he said, reassuringly.
"He is quite willing that we should remain heretics."
Rose's face cleared, and Vesper said to the priest, "Are there any old
people here to-day who would be inclined to talk about the early
settlers?"
"Yes, and they would be flattered,--up behind the lunch-tables is a
knot of old men exchanging reminiscences of early days. May I have the
pleasure of introducing you to them?"
"I shall be gratified if you will do so," and both men lifted their hats
to Mrs. Nimmo and Rose, and then disappeared among the crowd.
Narcisse immediately demanded to be taken from the tree, and, upon
reaching the ground, burst into tears. "Look, my mother,--I did not see
before."
Rose followed the direction of his pointing finger. He pretended to have
just discovered that under the feet of this changeful assemblage were
millions of crushed and suffering grass-blades.
Rose exchanged a glance with Mrs. Nimmo. This was a stroke of childish
diplomacy. He wished to follow Vesper.
"Show him something to distract his attention," whispered the elder
woman. "I will go talk to Madame Pitre."
"See, Narcisse, this little revolver," said Rose, leading him up to a
big wheel of fortune, before which a dozen men sat holding numbered
sticks in their hands. "When the wheel stops, some men lose, others
gain."
"I see only the grass-blades," wailed Narcisse. "My mother, does it hurt
them to be trampled on?"
"No, my child; see, they fly back again. I have even heard that it made
them grow."
"Let us walk where there is no grass," said Narcisse, passionately, and,
drawing her along with him, he went obliviously past the fruit and candy
booths, and the spread tables, to a little knoll where sat three old men
on rugs.
Vesper lay stretched on the grass before them, and, catching sight of
Narcisse, who was approaching so boldly, and his mother, who was holding
back so shyly, he craved permission from the old men to seat them on one
of the rugs.
The permission was gladly given, and Rose shook hands with the three old
men, whom she knew well. Two of them were brothers, from Meteghan, the
other was a cousin, from up the Bay, whom they rarely saw. The brothers
were slim, well-made, dapper old men; the cousin was a fat, jolly
farmer, dressed in homespun.
"I can tell you one of olden times," said this latter, in a thick,
syrupy voice, "better dan dat last."
"Suppose we have it then," said Vesper.
"Dere was Pierre Belliveau,--Pierre aged dwenty-one and a half at de
drama of 1755. His fadder was made prisoner. Pierre, he run to de fores'
wid four,--firs' Cyprian Gautreau and de tree brudders, Joseph _dit_
Coudgeau, Charlitte _dit_ Le Fort--"
"Is that where the husband of Madame de Forêt got his name?" interrupted
Vesper, indicating his landlady by a gesture.
"Yes," said the old man, "it is a name of long ago,--besides Charlitte
was Bonaventure, an' dese five men suffered horrible, mos' horrible, for
winter came on, an' dey was all de time hungry w'en dey wasn't eatin',
an' dey had to roam by night like dogs, to pick up w'at dey could. But
dey live till de spring, an' dey wander like de wile beasties roun' de
fores' of Beauséjour, an' dey was well watched by de English. If dey had
been shot, dis man would not be talkin' to you, for Bonaventure was my
ancessor on my modder's side. On a day w'en dey come to Tintamarre--you
know de great ma'sh of Tintamarre?"
"No; I never heard of it."
"Well, it big ma'sh in Westmoreland County. One day dey come dere, an'
dey perceive not far from dem a _goêlette_,--a schooner. De sea was low,
an' all de men in de schooner atten' de return of de tide, for dey was
high an' dry. Dose five Acadiens look at dat schooner, den dey
w'isper,--den dey wander, as perchance, near dat schooner. De cap'en
look at dem like a happy wile beas', 'cause he was sent from Port Royal
to catch the runawoods. He call out, he invite dose Acadiens, he say,
'Come on, we make you no harm,' an' dey go, meek like sheep; soon de sea
mount, de cap'en shout, 'Raise de anchor,' but Pierre said, 'We mus' go
ashore.' 'Trow dose Romans in _la cale_,' say dat bad man. _La cale
c'est_--"
"In the hold," supplied the two other eager old men, in a breath.
"Yes, in de hole,--but tink you dey went? No; Charlitte he was big, he
had de force of five men, he look at Pierre. Pierre he shout, '_Fesse_,
Charlitte,' and Charlitte he snatch a bar from de deck, he bang it on de
head of de Englishman an' massacre him. 'Debarrass us of anoder,' cried
Pierre. Charlitte he raise his bar again,--an' still anoder, an' tree
Englishmen lay on de deck. Only de cap'en remain, an' a sailor very
big,--mos' as big as Charlitte. De cap'en was consternate, yet he made a
sign of de han'. De sailor jump on Pierre an' try to pitch him in de
hole. Tink you Charlitte let him go? No; he runs, he chucks dat sailor
in de sea. Den de cap'en falls on his knees. 'Spare me de life an' I
will spare you de lives.' 'Spare us de lives!' said Pierre, 'did you
spare de lives of dose unhappy ones of Port Royal whom you sen' to
exile? No; an' you would carry us to Halifax to de cruel English. Dat is
how you spare. Where are our mudders an' fadders, our brudders an'
sisters? You carry dem to a way-off shore w'ere dey cry mos' all de
time. We shall see dem never. Recommen' your soul to God.' Den after a
little he say very low, 'Charlitte _fesse_,' again. An' Charlitte he
_fesse_, an' dey brush de han' over de eyes an' lower dat cap'en in de
sea.
"Den Pierre, who was fine sailor, run de schooner up to Petitcodiac.
Later on, de son of Bonaventure come to dis Bay, an' his daughter was my
mudder."
When the old man finished speaking, a shudder ran over the little group,
and Vesper gazed thoughtfully at the lively scene beyond them. This was
a dearly bought picnic. These quiet old men, gentle Mrs. Rose, the
prattling children, the vivacious young men and women, were all
descendants of ancestors who had with tears and blood sought a
resting-place for their children. He longed to hear more of their
exploits, and he was just about to prefer a request when little
Narcisse, who had been listening with parted lips, leaned forward and
patted the old man's boot. "Tell Narcisse yet another story with trees
in it."
The fat old man nodded his head. "I know anodder of a Belliveau, dis one
Charles. He was a carpenter an' he made ships from trees. At de great
derangement de English hole him prisoner at Port Royal. One of de ships
to take away de Acadiens had broke her mas' in a tempes'. Charles he
make anodder, and w'en he finish dat mas' he ask his pay. One refuse him
dat. Den de mas' will fall,' he say. 'I done someting to it.' De cap'en
hurry to give him de price, an' Charlie he say, 'It all right.' W'en dey
embark de prisoners dey put Charles on dat schooner. Dey soon leave de
war-ship dat go wid dem, but de cap'en of de war-ship he say to de
cap'en of de schooner, 'Take care, my fren', you got some good sailors
'mong dose Acadiens.' De cap'en of de schooner laugh. He was like dose
trees, Narcisse, dat is rooted so strong dey tink dat no ting can never
upset dem. He still let dose Acadiens come on deck,--six, seven at a
times, cause de hole pretty foul, an' dey might die. One day, w'en de
order was given, 'Go down, you Acadiens, an' come up seven odder,' de
firs' lot dey open de hatch, den spring on de bridge. Dey garrotte de
cap'en and crew, an' Charles go to turn de schooner. De cap'en call,
'Dat gran' mas' is weak,--you go for to break it.' 'Liar,' shouted
Charles, 'dis is I dat make it.' Dose Acadiens mount de River St.
John,--I don' know what dey did wid dose English. I hope dey kill 'em,"
he added, mildly.
"Père Baudouin," said Rose, bending forward, "this is an Englishman from
Boston."
"I know," said the old man; "he is good English, dose were bad."
Vesper smiled, and asked him whether he had ever heard of the Fiery
Frenchman of Grand Pré.
The old man considered carefully and consulted with his cousins. Neither
of them had ever heard of such a person. There were so many Acadiens,
they said, in an explanatory way, so many different bands, so many
scattering groups journeying homeward. But they would inquire.
"Here comes Father La Croix," said Rose, softly; "will you not ask him
to help you?"
"You are very kind to be so much interested in this search of mine,"
said Vesper, in a low voice.
Rose's lip trembled, and avoiding his glance, she kept her eyes fixed
steadily on the ex-colonel and present priest, who was expressing a
courteous hope that Vesper had obtained the information he wished.
"Not yet," said Vesper, "though I am greatly indebted to these
gentlemen," and he turned to thank the old men.
"I know of your mission," said Father La Croix, "and if you will favor
me with some details, perhaps I can help you."
Vesper walked to and fro on the grass with him for some minutes, and
then watched him threading his way in and out among the groups of his
parishioners and their guests until at last he mounted the band-stand,
and extended his hand over the crowd.
He did not utter a word, yet there was almost instantaneous silence. The
merry-go-round stopped, the dancers paused, and a hush fell on all
present.
"My dear people," he said, "it rejoices me to see so many of you here
to-day, and to know that you are enjoying yourselves. Let us be thankful
to God for the fine weather. I am here to request you to do me a favor.
You all have old people in your homes,--you hear them talking of the
great expulsion. I wish you to ask these old ones whether they remember
a certain Etex LeNoir, called the Fiery Frenchman of Grand Pré. He, too,
was carried away, but never reached his destination, having died on the
ship _Confidence_, but his wife and child probably arrived in
Philadelphia. Find out, if you can, the fate of this widow and her
child,--whether they died in a foreign land, or whether she succeeded in
coming back to Acadie,--and bring the information to me."
He descended the steps, and Vesper hastened to thank him warmly for his
interest.
"It may result in nothing," said the priest, "yet there is an immense
amount of information stored up among the Acadiens on this Bay; I do not
at all despair of finding this family," and he took a kindly leave of
Vesper, after directing him where to find his mother.
"But this is terrible," said Rose, trying to restrain the ardent
Narcisse, who was dragging her towards his beloved Englishman. "My
child, thy mother will be forced to whip thee."
Vesper at that moment turned around, and his keen glance sought her out.
"Why do you struggle with him?" he asked, coming to meet them.
"But I cannot have him tease you."
"He does not tease me," and in quiet sympathy Vesper endeavored to
restore peace to her troubled mind. She, most beautiful flower of all
this show, and most deserving of joy and comfort, had been unhappy and
ill at ease ever since they entered the gates. The lingering, furtive
glances of several young Acadiens were unheeded by her. Her only thought
was to reach her home and be away from this bustle and excitement, and
it was his mother who had wrought this change in her; and in sharp
regret, Vesper surveyed the little lady, who, apparently in the most
amiable of moods, was sitting chatting to an Acadien matron to whom
Father La Croix had introduced her.
A slight scuffle in a clump of green bushes beside them distracted his
attention from her. A pleading exclamation from a manly voice was
followed by an eloquent silence, a brisk sound like a slap, or a box on
the ears, and a laugh from a girl, with a threatening, "_Tu me paicras
ça_" (Thou shalt pay me for that).
Vesper laughed too. There was something so irresistibly comical in the
man's second exclamation of dismayed surprise.
"It is Perside," said Rose, wearily. "How can she be so gay, in so
public a place?"
"Serves the blacksmith right, for trying to kiss her," said Vesper.
"Perside," said Rose, rebukingly, and thrusting her head through the
verdant screen, "come and be presented to Mrs. Nimmo."
Perside came forward. She was a laughing, piquant beauty, smaller and
more self-conscious than Rose. With admirable composure she dismissed
her blacksmith-_fiancé_, and followed her sister.
Mrs. Nimmo had been receiving a flattering amount of attention, and was
holding quite a small court of Acadien women about her. Among them was
Rose's stepmother. Vesper had not met her before, and he gazed at her
calm, statuesque, almost severe profile, under the dark handkerchief.
Her hands, worn by honest toil, and folded in her lap, were unmistakable
signs of a long and hard struggle with poverty. Yet her smile was
gentleness and sweetness itself, when she returned Vesper's salutation.
A poor farm, many cares, many children,--he knew her history, for Rose
had told him of her mother's death during Perside's infancy, and the
great kindness of the young woman who had married their father and had
brought up not only his children, but also the motherless Agapit.
With a filial courtesy that won the admiration of the Acadiens, among
whom respect for parents is earnestly inculcated, Vesper asked his
mother if she wished him to take her home.
"If you are quite ready to leave," she replied, getting up and drawing
her wrap about her.
The Acadien women uttered their regrets that madame should leave so
soon. But would she not come to visit them in their own homes?
"You are very kind," she said, graciously, "but we leave
soon,--possibly in two days," and her inquiring eyes rested on her son,
who gravely inclined his head in assent.
There was a chorus of farewells and requests that madame would, at some
future time, visit the Bay, and Mrs. Nimmo, bowing her acknowledgments,
and singling out Perside for a specially approving glance, took her
son's arm and was about to move away when he said, "If you do not
object, we will take the child with us. He is tired, and is wearing out
his mother."
Mrs. Nimmo could afford to be magnanimous, as they were so soon to go
away, and might possibly shake off all connection with this place.
Therefore she favored the pale and suffering Rose with a compassionate
glance, and extended an inviting hand to the impetuous boy, who,
however, disdained it and ran to Vesper.
"But why are they going?" cried Agapit, hurrying up to Rose, as she
stood gazing after the retreating Nimmos. "Did you tell them of the
fireworks, and the concert, and the French play; also that there would
be a moon to return by?"
"Madame was weary."
"Come thou then with me. I enjoy myself so much. My shirt is wet on my
back from the dancing. It is hot like a hay field--what, thou wilt not?
Rose, why art thou so dull to-day?"
She tried to compose herself, to banish the heartrending look of sorrow
from her face, but she was not skilled in the art of concealing her
emotions, and the effort was a vain one.
"Rose!" said her cousin, in sudden dismay. "Rose--Rose!"
"What is the matter with thee?" she asked, alarmed in her turn by his
strange agitation.
"Hush,--walk aside with me. Now tell me, what is this?"
"Narcisse has been a trouble," began Rose, hurriedly; then she calmed
herself. "I will not deceive thee,--it is not Narcisse, though he has
worried me. Agapit, I wish to go home."
"I will send thee; but be quiet, speak not above thy breath. Tell me,
has this Englishman--"
"The Englishman has done nothing," said Rose, brokenly, "except that in
two days he goes back to the world."
"And dost thou care? Stop, let me see thy face. Rose, thou art like a
sister to me. My poor one, my dear cousin, do not cry. Come, where is
thy dignity, thy pride? Remember that Acadien women do not give their
hearts; they must be begged."
"I remember," she said, resolutely. "I will be strong. Fear not, Agapit,
and let us return. The women will be staring."
She brushed her hand over her face, then by a determined effort of will
summoned back her lost composure, and with a firm, light step rejoined
the group that they had just left.
"_Mon Dieu!_" muttered Agapit, "my pleasure is gone, and I was lately so
happy. I thought of this nightmare, and yet I did not imagine it would
come. I might have known,--he is so calm, so cool, so handsome. That
kind charms women and men too, for I also love him, yet I must give him
up. Rose, my sister, thou must not go home early. I must keep thee here
and suffer with thee, for, until the Englishman leaves, thou must be
kept from him as a little bunch of tow from a slow fire. Does he already
love thee? May the holy saints forbid--yes--no, I cannot tell. He is
inscrutable. If he does, I think it not. If he does not, I think it
so."