CHAPTER VII
DIGBY DAYS
On the way back to Little Brook Amy had a good chance to talk withlittle Pierre about his hopes and ambitions. She found that he wasextremely fond of reading, and it was almost impossible for him to getbooks such as a boy loves to read. About half a mile from MadameBourque's, Pierre pointed out a small cottage which he said was hishome.
"My mother will be there now," he said, "and I hope you will come inwith me to see her. She does not speak so very good English," he addedapologetically, "but she can understand it."
Though Madame Robichaud greeted Amy warmly and thanked her for herkindness to Pierre, there was something pathetic in her manner andappearance. She was a tall, thin woman, with a delicate, pale face thatwas made all the paler by her plain black gown and the _couvre-chef_that covered her hair. Her husband, Pierre explained, was lost at seawhen Pierre was five years old, and since that time she had supportedthem both wholly by her own labor.
Madame Robichaud showed Amy with great pride some drawings nailed to thewall that Pierre himself had made,--simple drawings of ships and housesthat showed draughtsmanship rather than imagination. These suggested toAmy that Pierre had a talent that might be cultivated to greateradvantage than his ambition for school-teaching.
She and Pierre parted reluctantly, and Madame Robichaud promised thatthe little boy should be at the hotel in the morning before Amy leftLittle Brook.
All the travellers slept soundly that night despite the hugefeather-beds that Madame Bourque had provided, as she thought, for theircomfort.
In the morning they wrote their names in her visitors' book, on whosepages were inscribed the names of a number of Americans, some of themfairly well known, who at one time or another had been guests at theHotel Paris. Pierre arrived very soon after breakfast with a great bunchof hollyhocks or _passe-rose_ for Amy. He had evidently taken a greatfancy to his new friend.
"She is more beautiful even than my school-teacher," he had said toMadame Bourque; a compliment which the latter repeated as of especialvalue, because hitherto Pierre had considered his teacher the model ofwomanly perfection.
"Martine," said Mrs. Redmond, before the carriage arrived, "have youwritten to Yvonne?"
"Oh, no; I meant to, but now I'll wait till we reach Digby."
"I fear that Yvonne will be disappointed. She probably expected a letterto-day."
"I know it; I am ashamed of myself."
Martine's tone was penitent, but no one who knew Martine ever expectedher to do promptly what she had promised. It was always a little easierto put off things to another day. Priscilla looked at her scornfully, asif to say "How fickle!"
When at last they were ready to start, all felt sad at parting withMadame Bourque and her family, for in two days they had come to seemalmost like old friends. The two little Bourque girls, as the carriagedrove off, looked with astonishment at the dollar bill that Mrs. Redmondhad put in the hands of the elder to divide with her younger sister.
Pierre walked on a little way with Amy before she mounted her wheel, andon saying good-bye at last he knew that the American lady would reallysend him the books that she had promised.
Their train to Digby was not the famous "Flying Bluenose," but a localthat made no pretence of hurrying; it instead gave them ampleopportunity to study the scenery from the windows.
When at last they reached Digby, they were warm and dust-covered, andglad enough, too, when they found carriages waiting for them at thestation.
"It's nothing but a summer resort, this Digby that we have heard so muchabout," complained Martine, as they drove along the main street. "Justlook at those boys in golf suits, and that crowd carrying shawls andwraps as if bound for a sailboat. Why, the town doesn't even lookEnglish. It makes me think of Blue Harbor in Maine, where we spent onesummer."
"I noticed a great deal of Philadelphia accent while we were waiting forour trunks at the station."
"Oh, don't mention it," replied Martine; "Philadelphians flockeverywhere, and they are so cliquey that they just spoil a place for me,though I'll admit that they know a good thing when they see it."
"Be careful, Martine," cautioned Amy; "no more slang than you can helpon this trip."
"'On this trip!' If that isn't slang I'd like to know what is."
"No matter now; here's the hotel; mail first and rooms afterwards."
In an instant Amy had hurried to the hotel office, returning to theothers with a bundle of letters, which she gave to Priscilla todistribute while she went ahead with her mother to look at the roomsthey had engaged. The hotel was like most small summer hotels, and inspite of their pleasant remembrance of Clare, Mrs. Redmond and the girlshad to admit that it was more comfortable than the little French houses.
"'Pubnico!' why, of course;" here Amy stopped as she held the letter inher hand, turning it over once or twice as people will before opening aletter.
"Of course; don't hesitate to tell us that it's from Fritz. It would bevery strange indeed if he had not written," cried Martine,mischievously.
"'Pubnico,'" said Priscilla, as if the word had just penetrated herbrain; "why, there were two letters with that postmark, were there not?"
"Oh, no, only one," replied Amy, promptly, "and, as Martine surmises, itwas from Fritz."
But while Amy was speaking Priscilla looked sharply at Martine, andMartine, as if uncomfortable under her gaze, suddenly left the room.
After dinner, as they all sat on the piazza, "Amy," said Mrs. Redmond,"you haven't told us yet how Fritz is enjoying his journey."
"Oh, he thinks he has found the only French in Nova Scotia. He describestheir dress and their houses and their great fat oxen, and speaks of themisfortunes of the exiled Acadians as if he were an original discoverer.How foolish he will feel when he finds that what he has seen is old newsto us, for his description reads just like a description of Clare."
"Only I'll warrant that he didn't find any Madame Bourque," andPriscilla smiled.
"No, nor an Yvonne," added Martine.
"Not to speak of Pierre," concluded Amy.
"My letter from home," said Priscilla, "mentions that this was thehottest week of the season. Just think, only yesterday we were halffrozen driving home in the fog from Church Point."
After breakfast, on their second morning at Digby, Mrs. Redmond and thegirls walked the whole length of the tree-lined main street. As Martinehad surmised, they had indeed arrived at a regulation summer resort. Theholiday spirit prevailed on all sides; every one was going somewhere, orhad just been somewhere, on pleasure bent.
In spite of her professed prejudice against Philadelphians, Martinealmost fell into the arms of a former schoolmate from the Quaker City,who rushed out to greet her from the garden of a small hotel near thetop of the hill.
"Isn't the view fine, and the air just perfect? I'm so glad you're here;there's something to do every hour of the day, and we shall be so gladto have you join us, you and your friends." And she glanced dubiously atPriscilla's mourning dress and serious face.
"Thank you, but I can't make plans just now. There are four in ourparty; the other two have walked ahead. We arrived only on Saturday, andyesterday was so rainy that we stayed indoors until evening, when we allwent to church. Until we really have our bearings I don't think that Ican make any plans. But you must come to see us. There, I haven'tintroduced you to Priscilla; you must excuse me. Priscilla, the Rose ofPlymouth, let me introduce you to Peggy Pratt from the quiet city ofPhiladelphia."
"You are the same old Martine," cried Peggy, as they turned away, whilePriscilla, reddening, added as the two walked on, "Oh, Martine, howsilly you can be!"
Amy was delighted with everything that they saw in the course of thatmorning walk, from the beautiful view of the Basin, surrounded by hillsthat looked mountains, to the little fish-houses, the quintessence ofneatness, in front of which quantities of cod were drying. As to theBasin, when she said she felt as though she had seen it before, Mrs.Redmond reminded her that it
resembled closely the harbor of Santiago,with which she was familiar through pictures.
"Ah, yes," rejoined Amy, "and that little opening into the Bay of Fundythat they call 'The Gut' is like the passage where Hobson tried to sinkthe Merrimac."
"It isn't such a very little passage; somebody told me that it is nearlya mile wide; it was there that the ships of De Monts entered the Basinin 1604, when they discovered Acadia," Mrs. Redmond added.
"Sixteen hundred and four!" cried Martine. "Oh, dear, we're goingbackwards in our history. It was seventeen hundred and something whenthe Acadians were expelled, and I shall never be able to rememberearlier dates."
"At present we may put dates aside. For a day or two we can merely enjoyourselves."
"I hope we are coming to some English history," said Priscilla; "I amtired of the French. I always supposed Nova Scotia was a Britishprovince, but this whole week we have heard very little about theEnglish."
"I tell you what we'll do, Priscilla," cried Amy; "while mamma andMartine sit here to make a sketch of something or other, you and I canset out in search of some English history. Undoubtedly there's anhistoric house or two to discover. That's the kind of thing I never letescape me."
At first it seemed as if Amy's search would be unsuccessful. One personafter another whom she asked said that there were no historic houses inDigby.
"There's an old shop over across the way," one added, "the frame ofwhich, they say, was brought out from England; I'll point it out to you,though it doesn't look very old."
This last statement was true enough, for the old house had beenreshingled and reclapboarded and repainted, so that it retained hardly avestige of antiquity in its appearance. To compensate Amy for herdisappointment, the obliging native made a suggestion that in the endproved valuable.
"What you ought to do is to see Mrs. Sally Tatem; her house isn't muchto look at, but it's old enough, and she knows more about the history ofDigby than any one else here."
"Where does she live?"
"Oh, just a little way up that street and round the next corner and upthe hill and you will see a little cottage at the end of the lane; justknock at the door, and if she's at home she'll be very obliging."
So Amy and Priscilla went "up the street and round the next corner andup the hill," and at "the end of the lane" they saw a small whitecottage almost covered with vines. Amy's knock brought to the door alittle old lady with silvery hair and a tiny ruffled cap, wearing a graygown and, most important of all, a pleasant smile. The hesitation thatAmy had felt in explaining the object of their visit disappeared underthe old lady's greeting.
"Dear child, come right in; I'll tell you all the Digby history I know;but it isn't so very much."
As Amy sat down in the little sitting-room, she could not help lookingabout, and she was quick to recognize that the two chairs wereChippendale.
"They were brought by my grandfather," said Mrs. Tatem, noting thedirection of Amy's glance. "He was a captain in the Queen's Rangers; youknow many Americans were on the King's side in the Revolution."
A look of surprise crossed Priscilla's face, but she did not venture toraise a question.
"Yes," responded Amy, "I know about the Loyalists."
"Well, my grandfather was a farmer in Westchester County, rich andprosperous, but he would not take arms against the King. A friend andneighbor of his was tarred and feathered, and he was in some dangerhimself. So he went into the war, and when it was over he couldn't stayin New York. With other Loyalists he came down here. Of course it wasvery hard for him to have all his property taken away, but his wife wasbrave and she was willing to suffer."
"Who sent them away?" asked Priscilla, eagerly.
"Why, the Yankees,--the Americans, I mean," said Mrs. Tatem.
"The Patriots," whispered Priscilla.
"Yes, yes," interposed Amy.
"But," continued Priscilla, "I didn't know that there were two sides tothe story." And as she said this the old lady smiled.
"We have no bitterness now. I ought not to have said 'Yankees.' I havemany friends in the States, but it was hard for my mother and aunts tohave to grow up in the wilderness. I used to hear my aunt talk. She wasan older daughter."
"But how did they live here in those days?"
"Oh, the King gave a large grant of land and provisions for three yearsand some building material. Many who came to settle would not stay, andit was harder for those who did remain. There was no church even, for along time, until good Mr. Viets came; he did everything for the whitesettlers, and even held a school for the Blacks."
"The Blacks?"
"Oh, yes; you see many people brought their slaves with them."
"Southerners?"
"No, New Yorkers. Many Northern people had slaves in those days. I knowthat my grandfather had two, but when he died he left them their freedomin his will. Out at the Joggins' there are still living many descendantsof these slaves, and of the Black Pioneers, a regiment of Blacks thatfought on the English side in the war."
"What you've told us is almost as romantic as the French Revolution,"said Priscilla.
"Maybe so," replied the old lady, hesitatingly, "though things probablydid not seem romantic to the first settlers here; but perhaps it's justas well that our lot was cast in this healthy climate. I hear there's agreat deal of sickness in New York, and it's a great big city wherepeople care only for money. I'm sorry our young people go off so much tothe States; they could all make a comfortable living if they would onlystay at home."
Amy could not refrain from admiring the china and all the daintiness ofthe little house, plain and unpretending though it was. But the mostinteresting thing of all was the old lady with her charming manner andfund of history.
"I've heard my mother say," she remarked before they went, "that thefirst name of Digby was Conway, and it was only after Admiral Digby hadbeen here that it was named in his honor."
"Why didn't the French settle Digby?" asked Priscilla; "they seem to beeverywhere else in Nova Scotia."
"Probably because there are no marshes; they were attracted by the dykelands at Annapolis and Grand Pre."
The girls bade good-bye to Mrs. Tatem with real regret. Before shereturned to the hotel Amy wandered by herself in a little old churchyardwhere lay many of the first settlers, and as she looked at theweather-beaten stones she saw that many of those who lay buried therewere natives of New York or its neighborhood; closing her eyes for amoment to shut out the present, she pictured to herself what life in thewilderness must have been to these refugees who had suffered everythingin a losing cause.
That afternoon Martine's friend, Peggy, from Philadelphia, invited themall to join a sailing party; though at first disinclined to go, Amy atlast accepted the invitation. It was a delightful afternoon, with windand sea in their favor, and the charm of the surrounding scenery wasincreased by a delicate mist that hovered over the North Mountain, as areminder of the Bay of Fundy outside.
For some reason this sail around Digby reminded Amy of some of herexcursions in Marblehead Harbor, especially of a certain day on the"Balloon," and this in spite of the fact that the "Mary Jane" in no waycompared in equipment with Philip's yacht. No picture of Marbleheadcould of course be complete unless Fritz were in it, and almost to herannoyance Amy now found Fritz occupying a large corner of her mind.Nevertheless, she was interested in all that was going on around her,and once or twice lent a hand to the skipper, when a sudden change ofwind occasioned a quick shifting of the sails. Then the Bluenose skippercomplimented the Yankee girl on her skill in handling the ropes, andMartine and Priscilla and Peggy expressed their astonishment that sheshould know so much about a boat.
For almost the first time since their departure from Boston Priscillawas now in good spirits; she had overcome her original homesickness, andher letters from Plymouth had been so cheerful that she was almost readyto find enjoyment in the new scenes and faces. Between her and Martinethere was less intimacy than between her and Amy. Mrs. Redmond was sorryto
see that, for some reason, Priscilla lacked confidence in Martine.This was to be accounted for, perhaps, by the fact that the two girlswere so unlike in temperament and education. Though reserved in speech,Priscilla was uncompromisingly accurate in statement; Martine, on theother hand, while apparently unreserved, occasionally lacked frankness.No one could accuse her of being untruthful, and yet her exaggerationsand her occasional concealments were a constant annoyance to the literalPriscilla.
On the second day of their stay at Digby, Martine had written a longletter to Yvonne, and at the same time had sent her a roll of new music,which she had happened to find in a Digby shop.
"If I knew just how long we should be here, I really think I would sendfor Yvonne to spend a week with us."
"We shall not be here a week," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "and I am afraidthat Yvonne would rather handicap us if we tried to have her travelfarther."
On their last morning at Digby, Amy and Martine had a parting walkaround the wharf. The wharf had been a source of much amusement toMartine, and she had sketched it at high tide when it looked just likeany other wharf, and at low tide when it rose high above the water, itssides covered with seaweed and barnacles. Indeed the vagaries of the Bayof Fundy tides were an endless amusement to the party, exposing, as theydid, long, long stretches of reddish mud, and apparently casting up allkinds of craft high and dry on the land.
"Now, around by the fish-houses," cried Martine; "how I shall miss thecod which we meet here at every turn! Fish flakes, in my mind, willalways be the emblem of Digby. Priscilla says that she has seen more onCape Cod, but I can hardly believe her. It's strange that no one hasgiven us a Digby chicken since we came here. Any one would suppose thatthe Digby chicken is the only fish that grows here; yet really and trulywe haven't seen one, have we, since our arrival? For it's the cod that'severywhere, and it's funny to think that they send so much codfish tothe West Indies. People there must be thirsty enough without having codsent to tantalize them."
On their way back to the hotel they did an errand in a corner shop. Theclerk addressed them in rather broken English, and in answer to Amy'squestion said that he was a descendant of an Acadian exile. He told themone or two anecdotes, and when he had to turn to other customers Amywaited until they were served, hoping to hear more from him.
"That negro," he explained, as a tall Black went out of the shop, "is adescendant of one of the slaves of the Revolution."
"Was that other man a negro, too, who went out with him?"
"Oh, no, he's an Indian from the Bear River Reservation. If you go thatway, you must be sure to visit it."
"I hope that we are going there, for I hear that Bear River is abeautiful place. Though I am not particularly anxious to see the Micmacon his native heath, it certainly is interesting to have metrepresentatives of the four race elements in this little shop," saidAmy, as they turned away.
"Four race elements?" asked Martine, not quite understanding her.
"Yes, of Nova Scotia Loyalists, Acadians, Indians, and negroes. To besure Pre-Loyalists would be more representative than negroes--but theformer did not settle Digby."
"Let's go up on Cannon Hill for a last look. Your mother just loves it.We have made some fine sketches of those crooked apple-trees and thatold house."
"And the cannon? They are certainly unlike any others you will comeacross."
"I have photographed the cannon," replied Martine, with dignity, "and ifI had time, I might sketch them."
"I love it here," cried Martine, as they stood on the hill. "One getssuch a splendid view of the entrance to the Basin,--I can't bring myselfto say Gut. When I stand here, I just close my eyes, and then fancy howthese steep shores must have looked to the Frenchmen, Champlain and theothers, who came sailing in through the passage that June morning solong ago. Then when I open my eyes I can actually see them outthere--and if I were a poet, like you, Amy, I would write somethingworth while."
"I a poet! what nonsense! What put that into your head?"
"As if I didn't know all about you, Miss Amy Redmond," and Martinequoted a line or two of verse that brought the color to Amy's cheeks.
"That isn't poetry," she said with a smile. "But you are in a mood thatshows me we ought to go home."