If all the year were playing holiday,
To sport would he as tedious as to work;
But when they seldom come they wish'd-for come.
--_Shakespeare_
From the moment the Canadian Pacific R'y train leaves Ottawa in the
early morning, the interested traveller can easily feast his eyes on the
modest little villages and rival towns, a whole succession of which
greet him from the capital to Montreal and thence to Quebec city. These
juvenile country towns at once thrust the idea of repose upon the city
folks who may chance to visit them. The best of these boast of, at most,
a dozen wealthy, respectable residents, a village street of antagonistic
merchants, a post office, an established inn, a mayor, a doctor, the
minister, and the priest, bad roads and spare sidewalks. One would never
suspect any of these villages to be guilty of any romance whatever,
everybody seems to have attained the summit of human ambition, and life
flows on in an uninterrupted serenity that is fatal to the nervous
system of our enterprising city geniuses. Yet, there have been wonderful
things done among these rural scenes. There are volumes whose title
pages unfold nothing of the mysterious tales that are hidden and bound
up within them.
We must cross the broad green fields and enter the old-fashioned houses,
we must repair to the white-washed church on Sunday and kneel in the
high-backed pews, we must talk over our tumblers to the fat proprietor
of the solitary hotel, if we want to gather the interesting details that
characterize the village. They are the same "yesterday, and to-day and
forever." Nothing new happens, and the old traditions never grow stale.
Between the cities of Montreal and Quebec, on the south shore of the
River St. Lawrence, among what are familiarly known as the "townships,"
sleeps a little French village of the stamp I have just described. Rows
of white-washed houses of the same pattern are to be seen here and there
in the only street it boasts of, and scattered through the broad open
fields are other residences of more or less importance. All the long
summer days the sun glares down so hotly upon the dried straggling
fences and the dusty village road, that scarcely a living creature
animates the scene. The residents close their doors, and leave down the
folds of green paper that deck each small window of their houses, and
abandon the world to sundry pedestrians, who are forced by cruel
necessity into the scorched street an occasional bare-footed urchin on
his way to the grocery shop with a deformed pitcher to be filled with
molasses, or a spare woman or two gabbling at the counters or doors of
the miserable shops that follow one another in dingy succession through
the street. But one is not to judge the place from this cheerless
picture, by no means, for, apart from the neighborhood I have described,
this is one of the prettiest villages in the Townships. It loses its
charms only on the spot where man has interfered with Nature's plans, in
trying to provide accommodations for the settlers. The trees have been
cut down, and the fresh, green forest converted into a dry, dusty
street, cheered all through the hot afternoon by the dreary chirp of a
grasshopper, or the buzz of countless millions of healthy flies that
swarm around the very doors and surroundings of provision depots.
Outside of this, in any direction one chooses to go, the scenery is
attractive and beautiful; the trees are tall and thick and abundant,
meeting overhead, and enclosing cool, shady avenues, which seem to wind
in an endless stretch through the forest shades. Birds twitter and carol
sweetly as they flit unseen from twig to twig of the tall waving elms,
and one would be apt to forget the existence of human beings, were it
not for an occasional interruption of this peaceful monotony, in the way
of a cozy cottage, whose gables peep through the foliage, the lowing of
cattle, or the sweet, clear song of some village maid, as she saunters
through the broad rich fields, with her pail held towards the impatient
cows, and her large plaited straw bonnet thrown recklessly on the back
of her head, or being twisted by its safe strings on the fingers of the
idle hand. Amidst such enchanting scenery one forgets the dusty village,
one loses the hum and buzz in the comforting notes that Nature warbles
to herself. Everything is so cool and refreshing and quiet. The weariest
heart sighs from actual relief when transported to a paradise like
this--and no wonder.
Many, many miles from the village, by the "Elm Road," is one of the
prettiest and most delightful and loneliest spots that nestle on the
bosom of the earth. An almost oppressive silence reigns in the woods,
and nothing seems to stir visibly. You can hear the wind playing its
softest melody through the tops of the great trees, but the leaves
farther down only sway noiselessly in a graceful silence. It might be
too lonely, only for the variety and perfection that Nature displays at
every step and turn ferns and mosses, and little woodland flowers which
never bud outside the shady forest, greet one at every instant, and a
feeling so peaceful and composed steals over the soul that the place
becomes hallowed to those who have yielded to its powerful influence.
All at once, one can perceive traces of habitation, a neat enclosure of
rustic boughs borders the avenue, and the grass on either side is even
and trim, then comes a large rustic gate leading into a gravel walk,
having here and there, under some shady oak, a garden chair or lounge,
and a little table all of the same picturesque rustic wood, then comes a
gorgeous _parterre_ of flowers, which load the air with their rich and
heavy perfumes, and directly behind this is a low broad stone dwelling
that one might have expected to turn upon from the very first. Great
thick vines of Virginia creepers climb the sides and front of the house.
Green and yellow canaries in cages hanging from the verandah, send the
octaves of their warblings far back into the woods. It is as fair a
picture as ever an artist longed to produce on canvas, one of those
dwelling-places which seem to us suggestive of and consistent with
nothing else but exquisite peace, comfort and happiness, and though we
have no reason for imagining it to be a depository of perfect
contentment, we yet repel any idea that might suggest itself to us of
empty cupboards inside those walls, of a scolding wife in those cozy
rooms, or of washing days in that picturesque little kitchen.
The mind naturally harbors only ideas of that lazy sort of comfort that
of necessity comes from such surroundings as these. This is "Sleepy
Cottage," of which all the villagers spoke in enthusiastic terms, and
indeed, it must be said, "Sleepy Cottage" would have done credit to
towns and cities of more popular fame than the humble little village of
the Eastern Townships. Were it anywhere else it could open its beautiful
gates to an appreciative public, while here it slept quietly away almost
without interruption. At present its only occupants were an aged
gentleman and a girl of about nineteen summers, a maid servant and the
old gardener, "Carlo," the Maltese cat, and the birds.
The story, as well as it is known, was that Monsieur and Madame de
Maistre had come from old France fifteen years ago and settled at
"Sleepy Cottage", that Josephine, their little four-year-old daughter,
had been kept in almost total seclusion all her life under the tuition
of a French governess whom they got no one knew where, and that the
first glance the villagers had of her was at the funeral of Madame de
Maistre, which took place when Josephine was in her sixteenth year. Her
extraordinary beauty and dignity had so impressed the simple villagers
at that time that they never forgot it, and though they had seen her but
very seldom in the three subsequent years, the memory of her sweet face
never left them yet.
One cool summer evening, a number of the old male residents of the
village had gathered around the broad steps of the "Traveller's Inn,"
and were disposing of themselves on the inverted soap boxes and low
wooden stools that adorned the front of the public door, as best they
could, one or two paring, with studied attention, ends of thick sticks,
with which they had provided themselves before sitting down, others
resting their elbows on their knees, and holding the capacious bowls of
their black stumpy pipes in their big brawny hands, others again drawing
figures in the light dust that covered the space between the impromptu
seats and the sidewalk, and all chatting in a friendly sort of way,
alike on the latest and the oldest items of interest. Just now, they
were discussing the mystery of the young girl's seclusion at Sleepy
Cottage when they were suddenly interrupted by a crowd of five young
fellows who had crossed, unperceived, the fields leading from the depot,
and now sought admission to the "Traveller's Inn."
The men near the door, as they rose in silence to make the passage free,
looked at each other in mute wonder, and threw enquiring glances after
the figures of the strangers as they crossed the threshold of the inn.
They were five tall, well built, good looking young men, with all the
traits of city life about them. Had a whole army of soldiers invaded the
"Traveller's Inn" at this moment it could scarcely surprise the
spectators more than did the appearance of these young fellows.
They enquired of the thunderstruck proprietor whether he had rooms to
accommodate them for a few days, and he had just nerve enough to tell
them that if they could manage with three rooms, that many were at their
service.
Appearing quite satisfied with this arrangement, they had supper
ordered.
It was not in immediate readiness, so while the life was being hurried
out of the maid in the kitchen, the new-comers went outside and fell in
with the crowd at the door step.
One of the new arrivals, the most striking looking of all, and with whom
we will have to deal more particularly afterwards, addressed the
reserved sages on behalf of all the rest.
"I suppose we surprised you this evening," said he, laughing, and
throwing one leg over a vacant soap box, just as any of the natives
would have done, "but our being here surprises ourselves as much as it
does you. We come from the McGill College in Montreal, and we are going
far into the depths of your forest here to look for a few week's sport."
The group of listeners appeared a little more reconciled to the
intrusion by this explanation of it, and after a few moments of awkward
silence, old Joe Bentley, who was near the speaker, said:
"Welcome, gentlemen! Ye're welcome to the village, and good sport ye can
promise yerselves if ye'll go the right way about it."
"Then we must hope," put in a second of the students, "that some of you
who know will not be above giving us a word of advice."
"The Lord forbid," ejaculated old Bentley in a most serious tone. "And
the very best spot in the country is the spot we were talkin' of as ye
came along. It's out by the 'Sleepy Cottage.' If ye can get that strange
Frenchman to leave you through his grounds, ye never had such shooton'
an' fishin as there is a couple of miles up on the other side of them."
"Who is the strange Frenchman?" asked the first speaker, as he felt in
his vest pocket for a match to light his cigar.
"He'm. Give us an easier one than that to answer," said Martin Doyle, a
crude, suspecting farmer, who smoked sullenly on the end of a bench.
"How is dacent people, who lived here all their lives, to know who them
invaders is that comes in on people with their quare notions and ways,
never showing the daylight to the child God gave 'em till she's a fine
young woman on their hands, and never spakin' a word to other folk, as
if honest men wasn't their betters any day."
The new-comers smiled from one to another. It is so consistent with the
character of these country people to guard against and suspect, rather
than trust unknown people who come among them wrapped in a mystery of
any sort.
"This is strange," said another student in a tone calculated to elicit
all the information about the "invader," that the rustics were willing
to give.
"Well," said Joe Bentley, in a more christian-like tone, "people has no
business talkin' only of what they know, but we all know that some
fourteen or fifteeen years ago, this man that lives in Sleepy Cottage
now, kem here with his wife and baby, and took up living in the country.
Off and on since that day we've seen the old man himself around the
village, but Madame kept close enough from that day till the day of her
death which happened about three years ago, when she was buried in the
graveyard over, and that was when we first saw the girl ever since the
day they brought her a tiny thing in their arms from off the cars. Dan
Sloan, and some more of the fellows that goes shooting and fishin'
through the grounds, says they saw her a little girl growing up, with a
pinched-nosed, starved looking mamselle for a governess, hawking her
around them grounds an snatchin' her off if they came within a mile of
her."
Here the farmer removed his pipe and gave a long whiff of smoke, then
replacing it in his mouth, he continued "We were all jest talkin' of him
as ye came along, an' if ye wan't sport ye'll have to ask the old
fellow, to let ye through his grounds, and then mebbe ye'll know more
about him than we do ourselves."
The young city fellows did not at all dislike the idea of the adventure
that was in store for them. They were summoned to supper shortly after
old Joe Bentley had finished his narrative, and resolving to enlist the
good wishes of the villagers at any cost they deposited a round sum of
money on the battered counter of the humble "bar," to "treat the crowd,"
they said as they passed under the low doorway into the dining-room.
It was rather a noisy meal, and Sarah's best attempt at ham and eggs,
vanished in the most practical appreciation, that five young college
students can show when hungry. They discussed the recent topic of Sleepy
Cottage over their cold apple pie and strawberries and cream, and they
all decided that it was the most romantic thing in the world, that they
should be just brought to the gates of the prison wherein pined a maiden
fair, through the cruelty of an unmerciful father. They manufactured
quite a novel out of the details, and laid themselves out with a will to
unravel the plot, or die in the attempt.
"I'd bet my bottom dollar," said one student, as he drained his glass of
lager beer, "that ye Prince of Hearts," will be the one to see this,
"Lady fair," the first.
"We don't dispute it," joined in the rest, "he's the devil for working
his way into the favor of women."
Here they all looked at him who had addressed the villagers first, and
accused him of outdoing their grandest attempts in the siege of hearts.
They called him "_Bijou_" and whether it was his name or not, he
appeared quite satisfied with it. He seemed to be a little superior to
the rest, judging by the deference and courtesy they showed him above
what existed among themselves, and he, amiable and pleasant always,
laughed good-naturedly at their words of praise, and little insinuations
of assumed jealousy. They had come down to this quiet village on a
"jamboree," and we all know more or less what students mean by that. It
would be both unnecessary and uninteresting however to give an account
in detail of these young fellows' adventures during their sojourn in the
country; that part alone which affects the rest of our story, is the one
we will dwell upon.