A TEA PARTY
"Prissie, Prissie," said Martine, in a teasing tone, "you are altogether
too enthusiastic; I don't believe in these perfect people, and your
little Tory must be rather a prig, from what you say."
When Martine called her "Prissie," Priscilla knew that she meant
mischief, and though in her inmost heart she admitted that Martine's
teasing carried no real sting, she never stood this teasing with very
good grace.
"She isn't a Tory," she replied rather sharply; "there are no Tories in
these days, and Eunice Airton is not a prig."
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."