TOWARD METEGHAN
Amy rested her hand on her bicycle, waiting to mount.
"I did not think that it would be quite so lonely; but still, you're
sure it's perfectly safe?"
"Oh, yes, Miss, and not a long way." There was a trace of accent in the
speech of the man who replied to Amy's question. He had just deposited a
pouch of mail in the vehicle in which sat Mrs. Redmond, Priscilla, and
Martine, and had turned to adjust the harness of his meek-looking horse.
"You are not afraid, are you?" Priscilla's voice was anxious. "I wish
that I had brought my bicycle, and could ride with you."
"You _do_ look like a maiden all forlorn,--spruce trees to right of you,
spruce trees to left of you. Excuse my smiling;" and Martine's smile
lengthened itself into a decided giggle.
"Don't," whispered Priscilla. "The driver will think that you are
laughing at him." It always surprised her that Martine should show so
little respect for Amy, who was several years her senior.
"Amy," interposed Mrs. Redmond, "do you object to our driving away and
leaving you? Doubtless if we tried, we could find some kind of a
conveyance to carry you and the bicycle."
"Not till after dinner, Madame." Their driver turned toward Mrs.
Redmond, lifting his hat politely,--"Every horse is away now."
"The only thing for Amy to do is to let you hold her on your lap,
Priscilla, while I take the bicycle on mine." At which absurd suggestion
even Priscilla was forced to laugh; for the vehicle sent down to
Meteghan station for her Majesty's mail was as narrow and shallow as any
carriage could well be that made even a pretence of holding four
persons. But with the deftness that comes with experience the driver had
managed to find room not only for his passengers, but for their suit
case and bags, for several packages that had come by train, and finally
for his great pouch of mail.
"There must be a perfect cavern under the seat," whispered Martine to
Mrs. Redmond. "I am sure that we could put Amy there."
But even as she spoke Amy had mounted, and was up the hill ahead before
the driver had taken his seat. Yet although Amy had taken the hill so
well, she was soon out of breath. The road was soft, and the hill
steeper than she had thought, and when a little chubby boy darted
directly toward her, she slipped from her wheel and bent down to talk to
the little fellow.
To her surprise, at first he did not respond to her "What's your name?"
but hung his head shyly. Then it occurred to her that he did not
understand, and when she repeated her question in French his "Louis,
Mademoiselle," showed that her venture had been right.
"Does every one here speak French, Monsieur?" she asked, as the carriage
approached.
"Yes, all," responded the driver, stopping beside her for a moment.
"And no English?"
"Oh, many, though some have no English."
Martine and Priscilla praised the bright eyes of little Louis. Mrs.
Redmond handed him an illustrated paper that she had brought from the
train, and the driver started up his horse.
"You follow me," he called back to Amy.
"Yes, yes," cried Amy, laughing, knowing that she could soon pass him;
but while she loitered to talk with the child, the carriage was soon so
far ahead that she could barely discern the fluttering of the long veil
that Martine held out to stream in the wind like a flag.
After leaving little Louis, Amy pedalled along leisurely. At first she
passed only one or two houses, but each of them offered her something to
think of. In front of one, two or three barefooted children were playing
hop-scotch, with the limits marked out in lines drawn by a stick on the
dusty road. "I should think they'd stub their toes," she thought, as she
watched them, "but they're so well-dressed, except their feet, that I
suppose they prefer to go without shoes."
In the doorway of a second cottage, set like the other, close to the
road, a mother was standing with a baby in her arms, and a tiny little
girl clinging to her skirts. These children, like all the others she had
seen, had the brightest of black eyes. Beside the door was a well,
boarded in, with a bucket beside it.
The woman looked so friendly that Amy stopped for a drink of water, and,
making use of her best French, she spent a few minutes talking with the
woman.
A fine team of oxen hauling an empty hay wagon, beside which walked a
strapping youth in blue jeans and a flapping straw hat, was the next
reminder to Amy that she was indeed in a foreign country. After she had
returned the cheerful _bonjour_ of two or three bareheaded women whom
she met trudging along toward a hayfield, Amy was recalled to herself.
Her mother and the others were out of sight. "The driver will think that
I am not even following;" and making good speed up a long, gradual hill,
she saw the carriage waiting for her some distance ahead.
"This way, this way," shouted Martine. The driver waved his whip toward
the left, and when Amy caught up, they had changed their direction, and
she could feel the soft fresh breeze blowing in from St. Mary's Bay.
"Did you ever see such a clear blue sky?"
"Oh, yes, Martine,"--Amy was thinking of cloudless days on the North
Shore,--"but none bluer, perhaps."
"But it seems so foreign," interposed Priscilla, in a tone that
expressed some disapproval of foreign things. "I'm not sure that I like
it."
"It seems different from other places, though I can't tell why."
"This child is part of the why. Just look at him." Martine pointed to a
little boy of about eight, dressed in black, with deep embroidered
ruffles of white falling about his wrists, and a broad ruffled collar on
his coat. He wore a hat that was something like a tam-o'-shanter, and
something like a mortar-board, and he carried a large slate under his
arm.
"He's evidently on his way home from school. See the crowd of children
behind him."
As the children drew nearer, some stood still, the better to see the
party of strangers. Thus the latter had a chance to note various
peculiarities of dress and general appearance. One or two little girls
wore sunbonnets, one or two wore hats, and several had on their heads
black _couvre-chefs_, that made them look like little old women. The
sturdy little boys in blouses were more like other boys, and they indeed
were too busy racing and tumbling over one another to pay attention to
the travellers.
"Amy," exclaimed Martine, "you should have kept beside us all the way,
we have been hearing such wonderful stories. Down there by the bridge
there are several descendants of the Baron d'Entremont, and other people
whose ancestors came from France hundreds of years ago."
"The Baron d'Entremont!" Amy felt a thrill of pleasure. Surely that was
one of the names that Fritz had mentioned in connection with Pubnico,
and if she too could come across some of his descendants, how delightful
this would be!
The houses were now nearer together than they had been. At the right
there was a glimmer of blue water. On the bridge at the foot of the
decline Amy dismounted to watch the men loading with lumber a little
schooner at the wharf near-by. The carriage drew up before the tiny
post-office, where part of the mail was left. A gray-bearded man in the
door of a small shop caught Amy's eye. With his broad-brimmed hat, loose
trousers, and slippers,--yes, slippers,--he reminded her of pictures she
had seen of old Frenchmen. She longed to snap her kodak, to catch him
just as he stood there, leaning on his cane. But she did not dare, there
was something so very venerable and dignified in his appearance.
Then her eye fell on the name d'Entremont over the shop. Martine and
Priscilla joined her. Martine was in great spirits.
"Your mother is writing a post-card in the office. So, while we are
waiting, let us go in here and try the d'Entremont brand of ginger ale.
They're sure to have some, and one doesn't often have the chance to
patronize the descendant of a French nobleman."
Within the dim little shop two or three men were lounging near the
counter, who probably said to themselves, "Oh, those foolish Americans!"
But their manner showed no disrespect as they moved aside, and the
proprietor made one or two pleasant remarks as he served the trio.
A few minutes later Amy was again on her bicycle, the others had taken
their places in the carriage, and the little village was behind them.
The large farms that they had seen near Meteghan station gave place to
small gardens. The houses were near together, and they were painted in
colors that drew many exclamations of approval from Martine. "This is
great! I never dreamed that I should see a lavender cottage with green
trimmings,--and what a shade of yellow for a house! Oh, Mrs. Redmond, I
hope that our water-colors will last the trip. I'm afraid that we'll use
them all up, painting the wonders of Meteghan. This is Meteghan, isn't
it?"
"Yes, Mees," replied the driver. "It was all Meteghan, from the station,
only that was a different name for the other post-office. But there is
our church; this is the true village."
"Star of the Sea" was an imposing building, but the journey since
leaving Yarmouth had been long, and they were too eager now to reach
their destination to give the church more than a passing glance.
Amy's quick eye had noted the swinging sign of the little inn not so
very far beyond the church, and, hastening ahead, she was the first to
be welcomed by Madame, wife of their driver, who was also proprietor of
the small hotel.
Welcomed with ceremonious politeness, they were soon made to feel
perfectly at home. When the question was pressed, they all admitted that
they were very hungry. In the pleasant rooms to which they were shown,
they had barely time to make themselves ready when a loud bell called
them to dinner. As the four entered the dining-room, they saw that there
were several other guests at the long table. One, a stout man with a
fondness for jokes, proved to be the agent for a millinery house in
Halifax. There were one or two others who said so little that even Amy
could not tell whether they were French or English; two middle-aged
ladies near Mrs. Redmond quickly let her know that they were teachers
from Connecticut, now for the first time making a tour of the provinces.
They had sailed from New York to Halifax for the sake of the sea voyage,
and had come down slowly through Windsor, Grand Pre, and Annapolis, and
were enthusiastic about all these places.
"But if you can," one of them concluded, "you must have a few days at
Little Brook,--Petit Ruisseau, as some call it. It's the centre of
everything interesting in Clare; it's really where the first Acadians
landed after the expulsion, and only a short distance from Point a
l'Eglise."
Amy listened eagerly. Here evidently was some one who could tell her
much that she wished to hear about this new country, and later, when
they were all outside on the little piazza at the front, she learned
what she wished to know. On consulting her mother, they decided that
after a day at Meteghan they would go on to Little Brook, and spend at
least two or three days there--if possible at the Hotel Paris, which the
teachers recommended.
Missing Priscilla and Martine, Amy found them in the little
sitting-room.
"Tell me," whispered Martine, "aren't you disappointed?"
"Disappointed with what?"
"Why, in this house--this room especially; it's so--so unforeign."
Amy glanced around her,--at the bright-flowered carpet; the
marble-topped table, on which was displayed a bouquet of wax-flowers
under a glass globe; on the two machine-made oak rockers; and then on
the pictures.
"Where do you suppose they found that picture of the Queen with such
very pink cheeks, and a mouth as small as a pin, and those wax-figure
princelings--and those saints? Do you suppose Madame and her children
know the names of them all?"
At that moment Madame herself entered the door.
"You like pretty things. Ah, you must see my rugs, if you would care
to."
"Yes, indeed," Amy replied politely.
"Then come with me. They are in my room,--the best,--and the American
ladies always admire them."
So the two girls followed their landlady upstairs, where she proudly
displayed rug after rug of wonderful design and still more wonderful
color. Martine dared not say what she thought,--that it seemed a pity
that so much time had been put into things that could only dazzle rather
than please the average beholder. Amy conscientiously praised those that
could be properly praised,--for here and there was a rug of really
artistic design,--and Priscilla gave an exclamation of delight as she
noticed on the bed a really exquisite spread.
"You like that?" asked Madame. "It is good work, all by hand; only two
or tree women can now make them. My old aunt who made that is dead,
but--"
"It is like the finest Marseilles, only I never saw so beautiful a
pattern. I did not know people could make such things by hand."
"On a loom, surely yes; there are only one or two in Meteghan, but you
can see one work, if you wish, at Alexandre Babet's."
"There, that will be something to see! Is it far?" cried Martine.
"Oh, no. You can find it quickly."
"After we are rested," responded Amy. "The sun is still hot. Your rugs
and the spread are beautiful."
As the girls sat down on the piazza, Priscilla turned to Amy. "You did
not think those rugs really beautiful?"
Amy did not resent this slight touch of reproach, even though Priscilla
was so much her junior.
"Yes, and no. Some of them were beautiful even from my point of view.
They all were from that of their owner, and since she desired to please
us by showing them, it seemed only fair to reward her with a word of
praise."
"But if every one praises her she will go on using those terrible
aniline colors. They made my head ache just to look at them."
"Oh, Priscilla, you are so precise I'll call you 'Prim' as well as
'Prissie.'"
"_No_ one else calls me 'Prissie,' Martine."
"No one else dares tease you. Probably your little brothers and sisters
are frightened to death of you, and then, because you are the oldest,
you have always been made to think that you are absolutely perfect."
"Oh, Martine!"
"There, there, I know just how it is. It's so in our family; I have an
elder brother, and he has always been held up as a model, although,
between you and me, he's far from perfect. It just keeps me busy,
showing him his faults. So, Miss Prissie, if you are too old-maidish
I'll have to show you yours."
Priscilla was helpless under Martine's rapid fire of words. In her
moments of reflection it surprised her that a girl whom six months
before she had not even heard of, should now venture to say things to
her that no one in her own family would dare to say.
A little later, Amy and Priscilla and Martine set out to see the loom
that made the fine quilts. Priscilla had desired to postpone the visit
until next morning. "It would be better to rest now."
"I'm tired resting," protested Martine. "Unless we move on, I will go
indoors, and play doleful things on the melodeon. You don't know what I
am when I'm melancholy."
Unmoved by Martine, when Amy showed that it was better not to spend the
whole afternoon listlessly, Priscilla objected no longer.
The Babet house was a ten minutes' walk up the street. After mistaking
one or two houses for the one they were seeking, their third trial
brought a tall, long-bearded man to the door who answered to the name of
Alexandre Babet.
"We hear that some one here--your wife, perhaps,--makes those beautiful
quilts."
"Oh, yes," responded Alexandre, in fair English. "They are good quilts,
and we have a loom."
Martine pinched Priscilla's arm. "I'm disappointed; I thought that he'd
speak French."
"Come in, come in;" and Alexandre showed them into the neatest of
sitting-rooms,--neat, but painfully bare. It was brightened, to be sure,
by one or two gay pictures of saints in brilliant-colored garments, and
by two or three geraniums in flower on the window. But the wooden floor
was unpainted, and on it was only one rug, and there was little
furniture besides the high dresser and a long table.
Alexandre went off to summon his wife, and soon she came in from the
kitchen, accompanied by another, whom Alexandre introduced as his
sister. The girls soon became embarrassed under the piercing gaze of
their black eyes. The women wore dark calico gowns with little shawls
over their shoulders, and their _couvre-chefs_ were bound closely to
their heads. Neither of them understood English, nor spoke it. But
Alexandre proved as talkative as any two women. Moreover, he
occasionally translated his own words into French, and in the same way
made the women understand what the young American girls said--to the
great amusement of Amy and Martine. Priscilla sat solemnly through the
conversation, as if she found something pathetic in the aspect of the
women.
During a moment of silence, when the room seemed rather close and
uncomfortable,--for the windows were shut, and the blinds were
drawn,--there came a gentle tapping on the door. Madame Babet sprang to
her feet.
"No, no, sit still; she can come in." Then turning to the others,
Alexandre added, "It is Yvonne, our little one. Come in, Yvonne," he
called in a louder tone; "here are Americans."
Upon this the door was pushed open, and a little girl wearing a pink
gingham gown and a white sunbonnet, entered slowly, holding one hand
outstretched, as if not quite sure of herself. Then, walking directly
toward Madame Babet, she slipped to the floor beside her, and laid her
head on her lap.
The girls looked from her to Alexandre to read an explanation in his
face, and he, understanding, raised his hand to his eyes.
"Blind!" exclaimed Martine, involuntarily. "Poor little thing!"
"She understands English," said the man, warningly; "she does not wish
pity."
"I see much," said Yvonne, proudly, "when the light does not glare. I
see the American ladies. This one is pretty;" and rising, she made her
way carefully to Martine, and laid her hand confidingly in hers.
Martine's color deepened; she felt a great tenderness toward the girl,
and she raised the little hand to her lips.