Part 38 (1/2)

In the first place, Rose a Charlitte had given up the inn. Shortly after the Englishman had gone away, her uncle had died, and had left her, not a great fortune, but a very snug little sum of money--and with a part of it she had built herself a cottage on the banks of Sleeping Water River, where she now lived with Celina, her former servant, who had, in her devotion to her mistress, taken a vow never to marry unless Rose herself should choose a husband. This there seemed little likelihood of her doing. She had apparently forsworn marriage when she rejected the Englishman. All the Bay knew that he had been violently in love with her, all the Bay knew that she had sent him away, but none knew the reason for it. She had apparently loved him,--she had certainly never loved any other man. It was suspected that Agapit LeNoir was in the secret, but he would not discuss the Englishman with any one, and, gentle and sweet as Rose was, there were very few who cared to broach the subject to her.

Another change had been the coming to Sleeping Water of a family from up the Bay. They kept the inn now, and they were _proteges_ of the Englishman, and relatives of a young girl that he and his mother had taken away--away across the ocean to France some four years before--because she was a badly brought up child, who did not love her native tongue nor her father's people.

It had been a wonderful thing that had happened to these Watercrows in the coming of the Englishman to the Bay. His mission had been to search for the heirs of Etex LeNoir, who had been murdered by his great-grandfather at the time of the terrible expulsion, and he had found a direct one in the person of this naughty little Bidiane.

She had been a great trouble to him at first, it was said, but, under his wise government, she had soon sobered down; and she had also brought him luck, as much luck as a pot of gold, for, directly after he had discovered her he--who had not been a rich young man, but one largely dependent on his mother--had fallen heir to a large fortune, left to him by a distant relative. This relative had been a great-aunt, who had heard of his romantic and dutiful journey to Acadie, and, being touched by it, and feeling a.s.sured that he was a worthy young man, she had immediately made a will, leaving him all that she possessed, and had then died.

He had sought to atone for the sins of his forefathers, and had reaped a rich reward.

A good deal of the Englishman's money had been bestowed on these Watercrows. With kindly tolerance, he had indulged a whim of theirs to go to Boston when they were obliged to leave their heavily mortgaged farm. It was said that they had expected to make vast sums of money there. The Englishman knew that they could not do so, but that they might cease the repinings and see for themselves what a great city really was for poor people, he had allowed them to make a short stay in one.

The result had been that they were horrified; yes, absolutely horrified,--this family transported from the wide, beautiful Bay,--at the narrowness of the streets in the large city of Boston, at the rush of people, the race for work, the general crowding and pus.h.i.+ng, the oppression of the poor, the tiny rooms in which they were obliged to live, and the foul air which fairly suffocated them.

They had begged the Englishman to let them come back to the Bay, even if they lived only in a shanty. They could not endure that terrible city.

He generously had given them the Sleeping Water Inn that he had bought when Rose a Charlitte had left it, and there they had tried to keep a hotel, with but indifferent success, until Claudine, the widow of Isidore Kessy, had come to a.s.sist them.

The Acadiens in Sleeping Water, with their keen social instincts, and sympathetically curious habit of looking over, and under, and into, and across every subject of interest to them, were never tired of discussing Vesper Nimmo and his affairs. He had still with him the little Narcisse who had run from the Bay five years before, and, although the Englishman himself never wrote to Rose a Charlitte, there came every week to the Bay a letter addressed to her in the handwriting of the young Bidiane LeNoir, who, according to the instructions of the Englishman, gave Rose a full and minute account of every occurrence in her child's life. In this way she was kept from feeling lonely.

These letters were said to be delectable, yes, quite delectable. Celina said so, and she ought to know.

The white-headed, red-coated mail-driver, who never flagged in his admiration for Vesper, was just now talking about him. Twice a day during the long five years had Emmanuel de la Rive flashed over the long road to the station. Twice a day had this descendant of the old French n.o.bleman courteously taken off his hat to the woman who kept the station, and then, placing it on his knee, had sat down to discuss calmly and impartially the news of the day with her, in the ten minutes that he allowed himself before the train arrived. He in the village, she at the station, could most agreeably keep the ball of gossip rolling, so that on its way up and down the Bay it might not make too long a tarrying at Sleeping Water.

On this particular July morning he was on his favorite subject. ”Has it happened to come to your ears,” he said in his shrill, musical voice to Madame Theriault, who, as of old, was rocking a cradle with her foot, and spinning with her hands, ”that there is talk of a great scheme that the Englishman has in mind for having cars that will run along the sh.o.r.es of the Bay, without a locomotive?”

”Yes, I have heard.”

”It would be a great thing for the Bay, as we are far from these stations in the woods.”

”It is my belief that he will some day return, and Rose will then marry him,” said the woman, who, true to the traditions of her s.e.x, took a more lively interest in the affairs of the heart than in those connected with means of transportation.

”It is evident that she does not wish to marry now,” he said, modestly.

”She lives like a nun. It is incredible; she is young, yet she thinks only of good works.”

”At least, her heart is not broken.”

”Hearts do not break when one has plenty of money,” said Madame Theriault, wisely.

”If it were not for the child, I daresay that she would become a holy woman. Did you hear that the family with typhoid fever can at last leave her house?”

”Yes, long ago,--ages.”

”I heard only this morning,” he said, dejectedly, then he brightened, ”but it was told to me that it is suspected that the young Bidiane LeNoir will come back to the Bay this summer.”

”Indeed,--can that be so?”

”It is quite true, I think. I had it from the blacksmith, whose wife Perside heard it from Celina.”

”Who had it from Rose--_eh bonn! eh bonn! eh bonn!_” (_Eh bien!_--well, well, well). ”The young girl is now old enough to marry. Possibly the Englishman will marry her.”