IN THE FOG
In the meantime, where was Martine? When Mr. Frazer and his staid sorrel
steed appeared in front of the hotel, Martine had smiled inwardly.
"His horse certainly looks safe, and the man himself,--well, he may be a
good guide, as they say, and perhaps he can tell me about everything we
see in passing; but if he proves a bore, as I am perfectly sure he will,
I'll contrive some way to rid myself of his company."
It was a perfect afternoon for a ride, mild and windless, with just
enough sun to relieve the landscape of the monotony by creating artistic
effects of light and shade. Martine was in great spirits, for, like most
persons from the inland cities, she loved the sea even more deeply than
those who dwell beside it.
"The Annapolis basin is tame," she had said the day before. "I am tired
of the still, blue water and the red mud and the marshes and the
meadows, and I long for a breath of the real ocean."
"We're some distance still from the ocean," Amy had rejoined. "The
nearest to it is the Bay of Fundy."
"Well, from all I've heard, the Bay of Fundy is fiercer than the ocean
itself, and I must see it; for I've been tracing our route on the map,
and it seems to me that we've left out the Bay of Fundy altogether; we
are curving away from it all the time."
"Perhaps we can have a picnic on the Bay Shore before we leave."
"Oh, no, my dear Miss Amy Redmond; we won't have many days, and 'a bird
in the hand is worth two in the bush.' Just as soon as I can manage it,
I'm going to the Bay Shore myself."
So Martine had "managed it" by giving up the afternoon at Mrs. Airton's,
and now, as she rode along toward the North Mountain, she had a certain
feeling of triumph.
At first she and her guide kept very close together. He felt it
incumbent on him to give her as much information as he could about the
country and its history. Even when his tale concerned the Loyalists,
Martine did not assume the air of indifference that was always hers when
Priscilla touched on the same subject.
"It's a pity," said Mr. Frazer, "that there is nothing to be seen now of
all the wonders that old General Ruggles did in his time. He had one of
the largest grants of land hereabouts, away up over the top of a
mountain, and though he was past seventy when the war ended, he set to
work clearing forests and laying out his grounds like a young man. He
imported all kinds of trees from Massachusetts, and his place was a
model for the whole county. He found a deep gulch on his land that was
sheltered from the winds and yet sunny, and there he planted some rare
trees,--black walnut and peach and other things that generally grow only
in the far south."
"Was he an English general?" asked Martine, listlessly.
"Oh, I've heard," replied Mr. Frazer, "that though he was bred a lawyer
in Massachusetts, he became a colonel in the wars that the Americans
fought against the French, and was high in command at Ticonderoga and
Crown Point; it was in that war that he got his title of Brigadier
General, and so he might be called an American officer."
"Then what was he doing down here in Nova Scotia?"
"Oh, when the Revolutionary troubles began he wasn't in favor of
breaking off from the mother country; he was a Chief Justice of Common
Pleas, and he wrote and spoke against separation. So at last he and his
family had to give up everything and take refuge with the British in
Boston. He doesn't seem to have been a fighter against his countrymen,
but he preferred exile to sacrificing his principles. I've always been
interested in the old general," added Mr. Frazer, apologetically,
"though I don't just know why, for he was dead long before my father
even was born. But I've read a lot about him, and people here still tell
many stories of him, and altogether he seems something like those heroes
we hear of, working so energetically to keep his spirits up."
"Yes," said Martine, "I agree with you that it does seem rather heroic,
only it's a pity that he was on the wrong side." Then, lest Mr. Frazer
should be inclined to argue with her, she quickly changed the subject.
"This road over the mountain is pleasanter than I thought it would be; I
mean, everything looks so cultivated and prosperous."
"Oh, there isn't a better section anywhere than this," he replied. "The
orchards and farms all pay well; why, there's a place up beyond," he
continued, "that they call Paradise; and if it wasn't for winter, which
I suppose they don't have in heaven, I should say that the name just
fitted."
Mr. Frazer was so pleased with his own wit that he chuckled softly, and
so far forgot himself as to urge his horse forward.
"Let's stop here," cried Martine, "for a moment; I never saw so many
beehives."
"I don't know," replied Mr. Frazer, timidly, "as it's hardly safe;
sometimes, when they're swarming, they are apt to sting if you go too
near them."
But Martine was already off her horse and over the low fence, and Mr.
Frazer could only follow her example. The farm was situated at the
junction of two roads. Martine had taken the precaution to tether her
horse to a hitching-post, but Mr. Frazer, trusting too implicitly to the
sedateness of his steed, had left it unfettered to nibble the grass by
the roadside. The hives that had attracted Martine's attention proved as
harmless as she had prophesied, so she wandered on toward an
old-fashioned garden, blazing with mid-summer blossoms. Now Jill, the
sorrel that Mr. Frazer had ridden so proudly, proved less reliable than
might have been expected from the character of its owner; for, in the
course of its nibbling, it wandered down the road, passing back of the
farm, and Mr. Frazer was so intent upon telling Martine all that he knew
about bees and flowers that he quite forgot to keep his eye on his
horse. Thus it happened that the animal found itself near some hives
whose occupants were changing habitations. Then, at the very moment when
Mr. Frazer bethought him of Jill, to his horror and great surprise he
saw her starting on a run down this back road. He did not wait to
explain matters to Martine; he knew by the cloud of bees in the distance
that the horse had undoubtedly been stung. "Wait until I come back," he
shouted, as he started in pursuit of his horse.
Martine smiled as he leaped over a fence, his coat tails flying in the
air.
"Unseemly haste," she murmured, "for so dignified a person. I wonder how
long he can keep it up."
For five or ten minutes Martine continued to wait in the old-fashioned
garden; then she looked at her watch. It was later than she supposed;
the sun was less bright, and a slight chill in the air warned her of
approaching fog.
"I didn't promise to wait," she said to herself, "and after all the
bother of arranging it I can't be cheated out of my sight of the Bay.
It's a straight road and perfectly safe, and my horse hasn't shown a
sign of a trick; so in five minutes, if my guide hasn't returned, I
shall go on alone."
At the end of five minutes Mr. Frazer had not appeared, and Martine,
remounting her horse, resumed her way toward the Bay Shore. She set off
at a speed that would have quite shaken the breath out of Mr. Frazer,
and she was really surprised to discover how much life her animal had.
Thus it happened that in spite of the delay she really had a glimpse of
the Bay of Fundy before the fog had hidden it. It is true that already
there was a thin veil of mist floating about her and permitting her to
see rather dimly the rocky shore, and the scattered hamlet that lay at
her feet.
Martine felt most uncomfortable. Her situation was certainly lonely, and
she would gladly have borne the rather tiresome conversation of her late
guide for the sake of his protection. But though she waited as long as
she dared, he did not appear; nor did she meet him as she turned about
toward Annapolis.
Toward Annapolis--but where was Annapolis? For all at once she seemed to
be riding through a cloud, and she recalled a day when she and a party
of friends had thought themselves lost on one of the highest of the
White Mountains, pushing their way vaguely through the cloud that
enshrouded them. Of one thing, however, she now felt sure. When she
reached the crossroads and the farm where the beehives were, she would
have no difficulty in continuing her way.
But, alas for all calculations! how it happened she never knew, but soon
she realized that she was on a road quite different from the one by
which she had travelled to the shore. In the fog she had turned
somewhere, and the new road was lonely in the extreme. There were no
houses near; at least, she judged there were not, for the road itself
was rough, more like a forest road, and both sides seemed to be lined
with trees. For a short time she went on cautiously; then a line of
verse came into her mind that she had heard Amy quote only the day
before,--
"'When once a man hath missed the right way,
The farther he doth go, the farther doth he stray.'"
So she brought herself to a full stop and, slipping from her horse,
stood beside him, gently stroking his side.
"Good old fellow," she said gently, "if I'd leave you to yourself, I
dare say you'd carry me home safely. Perhaps in a few minutes we can
turn round and make a fresh start; but now I want to think."
So she stood for five minutes or more, and among the many thoughts that
flew across her brain was one that, if shaped into words, would have
been: "I wish that I had gone with the others to Mrs. Airton's." But she
could not remain inactive.
"Whatever happens, I won't be lost on the mountain," cried Martine,
emphatically. "It's always better to go on than to stand still, and
especially as the fog is so thick that I'm likely to be drenched to the
skin if I stay here much longer."
At this moment the surrounding stillness was broken by a sound; she
listened intently, and in a very short time realized that what she heard
was really the noise of approaching wheels. She drew her horse close to
the side of the road; a vehicle of some kind was near her.
"Hello, hello," she shouted, picturing herself at the moment as a
stranded mariner on a shipwrecked vessel. The vehicle was close upon
her; the driver drew up his horse; Martine approached him.
"What on earth--" he began.
"Yes, on earth," responded Martine. "I shouldn't like to be at sea, lost
in the fog."
"So you're lost, are you?" replied the driver of the wagon, in a brisk,
cheerful voice. "Well, there's one thing, you needn't stay lost."
Martine looked at the speaker, who had now jumped down from his seat and
was standing beside her. He was a tall youth, with reddish brown hair
and a frank, pleasant face, and she judged that he was two or three
years her senior.
"It's fortunate," he said, "that we happened to have an order for some
groceries up beyond at the Jones farm. I don't come this way once a
month, and there is very little passing any day; so if you had waited
for some one to rescue you, you would have had to wait a long time."
Martine was not sure that she liked the word "rescue." All her life she
had prided herself on her independence, and it irritated her to realize
that she had put herself in a position that obliged her to depend on a
stranger.
[Illustration: "'Hello! hello!' she shouted."]
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said 'lost,'" she responded; "I've only just
missed my way a little, and if the fog should lift I could easily find
my way back to my friends."
"If the fog should lift!" The boy laughed heartily. "Are you acquainted
with the habits of fogs? Or perhaps it behaves differently in the
States; but in this part of the world, when it sets in late in the
afternoon, it generally stays all night. But come," he continued more
gently, "you'll catch cold if you stay here much longer. I'm on my way
to Annapolis myself, and I'll very gladly take you there. Come," he
continued, holding out his hand; "you'd better get into the wagon here,
and I have a rope by which we can lead the horse behind."
"Oh, no," said Martine; "I can ride just as well. I don't mind the fog,
if you will let me follow your wagon."
"Nonsense!" protested the boy; "you can't go fast enough to keep warm,
and your horse might make a misstep; and besides," he concluded, "I have
a sister about your age and I know what's best for girls. Come, jump
in."
To her own great surprise Martine found herself obeying the strange
youth; perhaps, after all, she felt that there would be more comfort for
her in his covered wagon than in picking her way through the fog, over
the rough road. When she was seated, he handed her a carriage robe which
he bade her wrap around her; then he tied his rope to the horse's
bridle, saying as he did so:
"I know this animal well, and he'll follow us like a tame cat."
Then he took his seat beside Martine and they drove along slowly. After
a turn or two they came to the place that Martine called "the beehive
farm." Already she had related the story of Mr. Frazer's adventure, and
her acquaintance had laughed heartily at her account of the good man's
flight after the recreant Jill.
"I didn't suppose even a swarm of bees could put any speed into Jill,
but Frazer himself is so conscientious that I wonder that he isn't
sitting here on the fence waiting for your return."
As they talked Martine wondered and wondered who her rescuer could be.
Both his language and his subjects of conversation were not what she
would have expected from a grocer's boy, for that was what he called
himself once or twice, and in the back of the wagon there was a large
kerosene can, with one or two empty boxes, as well as some packages that
certainly looked like groceries. But she did not waste much time in
speculating, because she found so many things to ask that she had never
thought to ask any one else before.
"Didn't realize that the first mill on the Continent was built at
Annapolis?"--said her companion, "and you from Chicago, where people are
supposed to think and dream about flour and grain? I am surprised. And
you didn't know that Membertou, that old Indian, is reckoned the first
convert made in America? Dear me, where have you been brought up?"
"Oh, I'm learning," responded Martine. "I'd never heard about the
Acadians until we came down here. But now I think they're just great;
don't you?"
"I should hardly call them great," returned the other, with a smile,
"although there's any amount of interesting history connected with them;
but I've always taken more interest myself in the early days of Port
Royal than in the exile of the Acadians. I wish they'd change the name
of Goat Island back to Biencourtville, for that's what it's called on
Lescarbot's map."
"Oh," replied Martine, not knowing what else to say.
She knew nothing about Lescarbot and less about his map, but she didn't
wish to display her ignorance.
"I remember Biencourt," she added meekly; "he had a very hard time,
hadn't he?"
The face of the other brightened.
"Oh, I'm glad you remember him; he's my idea of a hero. I believe if he
had lived Port Royal would have fared much better. Charles La Tour was
not at all the same kind of man. But Madame La Tour, ah, she was the
right sort! Perhaps you know her story."
"No," replied Martine, meekly, "I do not, but probably Amy does."
"Who is this paragon, this 'Amy'? You've spoken of her several times;
she seems to know everything."
"I really think she does," replied Martine--"know almost everything. But
I wish you could tell me about Madame La Tour."
"There won't be time now, but I could lend you a book, if you stay here
longer. She doesn't exactly belong to Annapolis; it was the fort at the
mouth of the St. John that she defended. But here we are fairly in the
town, and you can consider yourself saved," he concluded with a smile.
"Why, there's Mrs. Airton's house!" exclaimed Martine in surprise; "I
didn't know you were coming this way."
The boy looked at her curiously.
"Do you know Mrs. Airton?"
"Well, not exactly, for I was out when she called, but she was kind
enough to ask me to tea to-day, only I thought I'd like to ride instead.
I thought that perhaps I'd be back in time for tea."
"You were right in that," rejoined her companion, pulling up his horse.
"I'm sure they're not through tea yet; I can leave you and take your
horse on to the stable. Here, jump out."
But Martine hesitated, and for the moment she was annoyed at her
rescuer. If Priscilla or Amy should look from a window, how mortifying
it would be to be seen driving in a grocer's cart with a riderless steed
tagging on behind.
"No, thank you," she said; "I would rather go on to my boarding-house;
please drive on."
She never knew whether her new acquaintance would have heeded her
request or not, for hardly had she spoken when from a side door Eunice
Airton and Priscilla rushed toward the wagon.
"Where's Martine?" cried Priscilla, excitedly; "we recognized the
horse."
"Oh, Balfour," began Eunice, "what--"
Without further ado Martine jumped down from the seat. The girls had
approached the wagon from the rear, and at first had not seen her. Her
sudden appearance surprised them. By this time Amy had reached the
group.
"What happened?" and she looked on Martine for an explanation.
"Nothing, nothing," replied Martine, "only I was caught in the fog."
Amy laid her hand on Martine's arm.
"Your clothes are damp; you may take cold."
"Come into the house," added Eunice; "we are not yet through tea."
Martine saw that protest could not avail. As a matter of fact, she was
not only cold but hungry, and the prospect of something to eat was one
that she could not resist.
"You said that you might come to tea," remarked Amy, "and so Mrs. Airton
will not be altogether surprised."
Had any one but Amy said this, Martine would have suspected her of
sarcasm; but even if Amy would inwardly smile at her ignominious return,
Martine could bear ridicule from her better than from any one else.
When Martine had replaced her waist with a drier one belonging to
Eunice, Eunice led her to the dining-room, where the others had resumed
their seats. Mrs. Redmond and Mrs. Airton made little comment on her
misadventure, and never did hot biscuit, and strawberries, and
chocolate, and cookies seem more appetizing to Martine than they did on
this occasion. Later, when Amy and Priscilla were helping Eunice clear
the table, Mrs. Airton sat down beside Martine.
"I am glad it was Balfour who found you," she said, "though I am sorry
that he could not come in to tea with you. It is his night at the store,
and he usually waits for his tea until late in the evening."
"Balfour?" asked Martine; "who is Balfour? Of course I know he drove me
home, but who is he?"
"Balfour," replied Mrs. Airton, "why, Balfour is my son and Eunice's
brother."
"Ah," cried Martine, "I did not realize that; now I understand."
But what she understood she did not then explain.
Not long after tea Mr. Frazer rushed excitedly into Mrs. Airton's
sitting-room.
"I'm so glad the young lady's safe," he cried, "though indeed I thought
she'd wait for me; but the sorrel led me a long chase, and when I got
back to the farm she wasn't there. But I never thought of her going to
the Bay Shore with the fog rolling in so thick, and when I found she
wasn't at the house, I went back again to the farm, thinking she'd taken
a wrong turn somewhere. At last I met some one who had seen her driving
with Balfour; then I knew she was safe. So I must apologize again for
the behavior of my sorrel, though it was all the fault of the bees."
Martine forgave the sorrel as readily as she forgave Mr. Frazer, for her
adventure had ended so pleasantly that there was no occasion for blaming
any one.