YVONNE
"She is adopted," said Alexandre, "but we know no difference. She calls
us her parents. Her mother and father are dead, and she makes her home
with us since she was a baby. When I get my gold out she shall sing, oh,
so beautifully."
"Your gold out?" queried Amy.
"Ah, yes! Back here on my farm, which looks all rocks, there is much
gold underneath. I know not how to get it out, but some day I shall find
a miner who knows. See!"
From a drawer in the dresser he brought out two pieces of quartz, which
he asked the girls to look at carefully. "It is gold underneath, sans
doute, and, Mees, if you know a miner in Boston to study this, he could
have some of my gold when it is dug out, but as for me I know not how to
get it out, and poor Yvonne cannot have her music."
Gradually the girls gathered that Yvonne had a voice "sweeter than an
angel's," and that Alexandre had set his heart on giving her a musical
education. His plans soared far beyond the Western continent. He would
send her to Paris, to Italy, and she should astonish the world. The most
of this conversation or monologue took place in the little field back of
the house that Alexandre dignified as "my farm." The soil was poor and
rocky, and evidently he had hard work to raise the few patches of
vegetables needed for his family. There was a tiny orchard,--it had not
been an Acadian farm without that. The trees were knotty and scrubby,
and Amy was not surprised that the prospect of a gold-mine offered even
more than the usual attractions to the visionary Alexandre. But Amy,
though she knew nothing of mineralogy, thought it most unlikely that a
gold-mine lay hidden beneath the stony surface in which Alexandre had
dug a deep, deep hole with a vague idea that it was a shaft. Indeed, Amy
felt quite sure that even a mineralogist--for such was the meaning of
his "miner"--would give him little encouragement. Yet as she looked at
the slender figure of Yvonne walking ahead with Martine, she felt deep
sympathy with his ambition.
Evidently Yvonne, in spite of her infirmity, was the pride of the little
household. Her print gown of a delicate pink cambric was spotlessly
neat, and her white sunbonnet had been laundered with the greatest care.
Though much shorter and slighter than Martine, the latter was surprised
to find that the little Acadienne was hardly a year younger, and that it
was true, as Alexandre said, that she ought soon to have the chance to
study--if--and here was the question--if her voice was what he pictured
it.
"Miss Amy," murmured Priscilla, half impatiently, "I thought that we
came to see the loom."
"Indeed we did, but these people have been so interesting that we have
spent too much time out here." Then turning toward their host, who had
fallen back, she asked him to show them the loom.
"Ah, yes, with the greatest pleasure,--the loom, and the beautiful
quilts that my wife makes, and the lace of Yvonne. The mine did almost
make me forget, but we shall go in quick."
When they were again in the house he led them up a steep flight of
stairs to an unfinished room, with great rafters overhead and two small
windows admitting little light.
There at the loom sat his silent wife, and beside her stood the equally
silent sister. So it fell on Alexandre to explain the workings of the
great wooden frame. While he was talking, however, the attention of all
the girls flagged a little. Amy had never been interested in machinery,
and made no pretence of understanding it. Priscilla was impressed by the
quaintness of the scene, but she was weary from her two or three days of
travelling, and her mind wandered while the voluble Frenchman was
talking; and Martine, fully occupied with Yvonne, paid little heed to
any one else. Nevertheless they were all sufficiently impressed with the
skill with which the rather dull-looking wife of Alexandre managed warp
and woof, and produced, even as they were looking at her, a fragment of
pattern.
While Alexandre was in the midst of one of his speeches Priscilla
whispered to Amy, and Amy, as if at her suggestion, turned to Alexandre.
"We cannot stay much longer," she said politely, "and we are delighted
to have seen this loom, so that we can understand how these quilts are
made. It's really quite wonderful, your wife is so clever;" and she
paused for a moment to watch the busy fingers now flying in and out
among the threads. "But we came particularly to see some of the quilts."
"Oh, yes, Mees, certainly, we will show you quick;" then with an eye to
business,--"perhaps you will want to buy."
"Yes," said Amy, "perhaps we may. Come, Priscilla; come, Martine."
The two women followed the girls downstairs, and when they were again in
the little front room, from a wooden chest in the corner they brought
out a large quilt of much more beautiful design than any they had seen.
"I must have that," cried Martine in delight; "it is just what I want."
Then, when a second was shown, she was equally enthusiastic, and then a
third was laid on top of the pile.
"The money from the quilts is saved for Yvonne," Alexandre whispered to
Amy, and the latter did not protest when four of the quilts were laid
aside for Martine. Amy also chose one for herself, but Priscilla,
although she praised them, expressed no inclination to buy. Only when
some narrow hand-made lace was brought out from the chest did she become
enthusiastic, or as nearly enthusiastic as was possible for Priscilla,
and Yvonne blushed under her praise.
"It is an old art," the little blind girl explained; "it was my
grandmother taught me, and her grandmother taught her, and so on back to
the days of old France."
"But how can she do it? She is blind!" exclaimed Amy.
"Oh, not all blind, and not always! She can see a little, though
everything is dim, and the lace it is knitted,--not pillow lace, like
some,--and she can make her fingers go, oh, so quickly! Ah, she has much
talent, the little Yvonne, and you must hear her sing."
So Yvonne sang to them standing there in the middle of the room, without
notes and unaccompanied, and the plaintiveness of the tone and the
richness of the voice drew tears from the eyes of the three American
girls, while father and mother and aunt were lost in admiration as they
gazed at the slender figure in the pale pink gown.
Hardly had she finished when Martine, jumping up, impulsively threw her
arms about Yvonne's neck.
"You must go back with me to the hotel. You must sing to me again. There
is a melodeon in the parlor, and I will accompany you. Please, Mr.
Babet, can she go back with us?"
"It is an honor for Yvonne," he replied politely; "I will ask her
mother."
"Oh, let me; I will make her say 'Yes'"; and in a few words of rapid
French Martine asked that Yvonne might go to the hotel as her guest, to
stay to tea. The mother at once assented, and both of the silent women
were in a flutter of excitement as they accompanied Yvonne to her
bedroom to make some additions to her dress.
"Ah," said Alexandre, "she has never been inside the hotel; it will seem
very grand to her."
Then Yvonne, kissing them all,--the mother, the aunt, and finally the
tall father,--turned her back to the cottage, and with beaming face
leaned on Martine's arm as Amy led the way.
A little distance down the road they saw a man standing by a gate.
"Good-day, little one," he called; "where are you going?"
"To the hotel, Uncle Placide."
"How happens it?"
"These American ladies have asked me. I am to have tea."
"Ah, well, she is a dear little one, and you are good to her."
The whole party had now halted in front of the gate, and these words
seemed to be particularly addressed to Amy; for, standing directly in
front of her, Placide lifted his hat. "Won't you enter?" he asked
pleasantly.
"But, uncle," remonstrated Yvonne, "we have no time; we go to the
hotel."
"Oh, but there is much time; I have been in the States, and I like to
talk to the strangers, so enter my garden at least, ladies, to taste of
my cherries."
There was nothing to do but enter the garden. At the mention of cherries
Yvonne indeed had seemed more willing to halt on her way to the hotel,
and the others, as Placide thrust upon them liberal handfuls of his
great crimson cherries, did not regret the delay.
"You are from Boston," he said, after Amy had mentioned her home. "Ah, I
worked in Boston, that is, in Lowell, which was the same, and then I
came home when I had saved enough to buy a house. It is not so gay here
as in Lowell, but it is happier, and I can make a pleasanter living. I
never did like the mill, but the pay was good."
"What do you do now, Mr. Placide?" asked Amy.
"Oh, I fish. The sea is good to us Acadians; it is better than the
factory. One gets health here as well as fish, and fish enough to keep
the house fed. So, with my potatoes and my cherries, I am rich." Then,
with an afterthought,--"But I hope sometime that little Yvonne can go to
Boston, where there is much music. She could study and be great singer,
for the voice it needs teaching. I know that, because I have been in the
States where people study so much."
The girls found it hard to leave Placide, for he was even more fluent
than Alexandre, and his years in the States had given him a certain
amount of information about things American, and he was evidently fond
of displaying what he knew. But at last they managed to say good-bye,
and continued their way down the road.
"I am tired," sighed Priscilla, as the four stood at the door of the
little hotel.
"Then let us sit here on the piazza. Would this suit you, Yvonne?"
Yvonne turned toward Amy with a smile. "I like whatever the other ladies
like; it is all good for me."
"Oh, yes," added Martine, "it will be great fun to sit here and watch
the passers-by. Things are rushing this afternoon; two persons are
entering that shop across the way, and I can count three ox-carts and
two buggies in sight. Where do you suppose the buggies are going?"
"Perhaps half a mile up the road; perhaps to Yarmouth. You know there is
a continuous street along St. Mary's Bay, about forty miles from
Yarmouth to Weymouth."
"One street forty miles long!" Amy's statement roused Priscilla from her
lethargy.
"The young lady says true," interposed Madame, their landlady, who had
stepped out on the piazza. "Forty miles, and all Acadians! Is it not
marvellous that they have grown to be so much, when the English treated
them so cruelly, long, long ago?"
"Ah, yes, Evangeline," responded Martine, politely.
"Evangeline never came back," said the literal Priscilla.
"That is true," assented the landlady. "But there is more than
Evangeline to tell about. Little Yvonne here knows many tales."
Yvonne sighed softly. "Ah, yes, very many. But Evangeline lived not in
Meteghan. Her country was Grand Pre, far north. You will go there,
without doubt?"
"Yes, Yvonne, we shall spend a week there."
"There are not so many stories about Meteghan, for no one lived here
until after the exile."
"I remember one," interposed Amy; "the story of Aubrey, who was lost in
the woods. At least, some writers say that he was lost in the Meteghan
woods, others that it all happened near Digby."
"Tell us the story, Amy, and we can decide for ourselves where it was."
"How like Martine!" thought Priscilla, "as if a girl could decide where
to place an historic event!"
"After all," continued Amy, "it's only a little story, but it tells of
something that happened on that first expedition to St. Mary's Bay, when
De Monts brought his vessels here in 1604, and Champlain named this
stretch of water, as he named so many other places. One member of the
expedition was Aubrey, a priest, with an intelligent love of nature. A
small party went off from the vessel to look for ore along the shores of
St. Mary's Bay. The priest was one of the number, but when the boat was
ready to return he could not be found. He had left his sword in the
woods, and had gone back to look for it. For four days the others
searched for him without success, and suspicion fell on one or two
Huguenots in the party, in whose company he was last seen. With one of
them he had had some rather violent discussions on religious matters. To
the credit of all, however, no harm was done to the Huguenots in spite
of the suspicion. After sailing without Aubrey, the party went farther
north, and it was nearly three weeks before they returned to the
neighborhood where he had disappeared."
"Did they find him?" asked Martine, somewhat impatiently. Amy was to
learn that Martine's temperament led her always to desire the climax
almost before she had heard the story itself.
"Yes, they found him; for when they were some distance from shore they
saw something that looked like a flag waving. A boat was sent out, and
to the delight of those who went in it, they saw that the flag was a
handkerchief tied to a hat on a stick, that the missing Aubrey was
holding to attract their attention. Looking for his sword, the good
priest had missed his way, and for seventeen days he had wandered in the
woods, living on berries and roots."
"How delighted he must have been to see his friends!"
"Not more delighted than they to see him; for had he not been found, the
consequences for the suspected Huguenots might have been serious."
"It is Yvonne's turn to tell us a story," said Martine, "but we all need
to rest before tea, and I want to tell your mother about the quilts. If
she disapproves of my buying so many--"
"I suppose that you will send them back;" Amy's tone contradicted her
words.
"Oh, no; I will not send them back. But I do wonder what I shall do with
them."
Yvonne and Martine went indoors, and Amy and Priscilla soon followed.
Amy prepared her mother for Yvonne by telling her all that they had
learned about the little girl.
"I won't discourage Martine's altruism," said Mrs. Redmond. "Her
impulsiveness in the past has sometimes led her into trouble, but
Martine herself will be benefited by having this warm interest in
another. As to the quilts, though we cannot carry them about with us,
they can be easily expressed home, and the duty will not be large."
After tea the whole party sat in the little parlor, to listen to Yvonne.
Her first two or three songs were without accompaniment. They were
plaintive songs with French words, and unfamiliar to the Americans who
were listening. But a chance question revealed the fact that Yvonne was
also familiar with much music that Amy knew well. Thereupon Martine
suggested that if Amy would improvise some accompaniments Yvonne might
be heard to even better advantage. So Amy, seated there at the melodeon,
played, and Yvonne continued to sing, and some of the music was rendered
with a dramatic power that surprised all who listened.
"Ah, she will be great some day," said the landlady, listening
enraptured to the bird-like tones. "How it had pleased her poor mother
to know that she was to be a singer!"
While Yvonne sang, various plans were rushing through Martine's busy
brain. "Yvonne shall have a parlor organ, Yvonne shall have teachers,
Yvonne shall have her eyes examined by a good oculist. Evidently she is
not blind,--not really blind."
While she was thinking and planning, her eyes never left the face of the
little French girl, held there by the wonderfully happy expression which
lit it. Yvonne's wide, brown eyes, her half-parted lips, the little
brown tendrils curling around her forehead, all combined to make a
picture that impressed itself strongly on all in the room. Moreover, the
gentle and unassuming manner of the young singer, as she received the
praise showered on her, completely won the hearts of all. Or perhaps it
would be more nearly true to say that if Priscilla's heart was not
completely won, she at least had begun to see some reason in Martine's
infatuation.
"Is it not wonderful?" asked Martine of Mrs. Redmond.
"She certainly sings remarkably well--for a little girl."
Martine looked up quickly at Mrs. Redmond. Was the latter able to find
some flaw in what she herself considered altogether perfect? She had no
time just then to question her, for Yvonne herself might overhear the
reply, and besides, the young girl was about to sing again, and Martine
could not spare a note.
When at last the tall figure of Alexandre Babet appeared in the doorway,
they knew that the music must end, and with a protracted farewell from
Martine, Yvonne and her adopted father started for home before nine
o'clock.
"Yvonne did not seem as much overcome by the grandeur of the hotel as
Alexandre prophesied," remarked Amy, as the girls went upstairs.
"Yvonne would never be overpowered by anything," responded Martine; "I
don't believe she'd be surprised by the Auditorium."
Whereat both Amy and Priscilla laughed loudly. "To compare small things
with great," said Priscilla, "of course she wouldn't be impressed by
this hotel. Why, it's smaller than a summer boarding-house."
"I wonder what Alexandre meant?" mused Martine.
"Oh, it was only his way of trying to make you think that you were doing
Yvonne a great favor by asking her here," responded Amy.
"Yes, the French way of pretending that things are what they are not,"
added Priscilla, as if the word "French" comprised the very essence of
deceit.
"Take care," retorted Martine. "I never dared tell you before, but I had
a French great-great-grandmother."
Although Priscilla made no reply to this, her inward comment was, "That
accounts for many things that have made me wonder."
At breakfast the next morning, before Martine had come down to the
table, Amy asked her mother what she really thought of Yvonne's singing.
"I do not profess to be a judge of that kind of thing, but the child
seems to have a fine natural voice, as well as a musical nature. Yet,
like all other singers, she must have her tones properly placed, and she
is still too young to profit by expensive musical instruction. It is my
own opinion that it would be better for her to sing little for the next
few years. Some of the things that she sang last evening were beyond
her, and there is danger of her forcing her voice, and so injuring it."
"Have you said this to Martine?"
"No, for Martine is the type of girl who profits most by finding out
things for herself. She will learn gradually that everything cannot be
done at once for Yvonne."