Part 66 (2/2)
All the Acadiens saw him there as they approached,--all but Rose.
She only raised her eyes from her prayer-book to fix them on the sky.
She alone of the women seemed to be so wholly absorbed in a religious fervor that she did not know where she was going nor what she was doing.
Some of the Acadiens looked doubtfully at Vesper. Since the death of her husband, whose treachery towards her had in some way been discovered, she had been regarded more than ever as a saint,--as one set apart for prayer and meditation almost as much as if she had been consecrated to them. Would she give up her saintly life for marriage with the Englishman?
Would she do it? Surely this holy hour was the wrong time to ask her, and they waited breathlessly until they reached the gates where the procession was to break up. There she discovered Vesper. In the face of all the congregation he had stepped up and was holding out his hand to her.
She did not hesitate an instant. She did not even seem to be surprised.
An expression of joyful surrender sprang to her face; in silent, solemn ecstasy she took her lover's hand, and, throwing her arm around the neck of her recovered child, she started with them on the long road down the Bay.
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”THROWING HER ARM AROUND THE NECK OF HER RECOVERED CHILD.”]
All this happened a few years ago, but the story is yet going on. If you come from Boston to-day, and take your wheel or carriage at Yarmouth,--for the strong winds blow one up and not down the Bay,--you will, after pa.s.sing through Salmon River, Cheticamp, Meteghan, Saulnierville, and other places, come to the swinging sign of the Sleeping Water Inn.
There, if you stop, you will be taken good care of by Claudine and Mirabelle Marie,--who is really a vastly improved woman.
Perhaps among all the two hundred thousand Acadiens scattered throughout the Maritime Provinces of Canada there is not a more interesting inn than that of Sleeping Water. They will give you good meals and keep your room tidy, and they will also show you--if you are really interested in the Acadien French--a pretty cottage in the form of a horseshoe that was moved bodily away from the wicked Sleeping Water River and placed in a flat green field by the sh.o.r.e. To it, you will be informed, comes every year a family from Boston, consisting of an Englishman and his wife, his mother and two children. They will describe the family to you, or perhaps, if it is summer-time, you may see the Englishman himself, riding a tall bay horse and looking affectionately at a beautiful lad who accompanies him on a glossy black steed rejoicing in the name of Toochune.
The Englishman is a man of wealth and many schemes. He has organized a company for the planting and cultivation of trees along the sh.o.r.e of the charming, but certainly wind-swept Bay. He also is busy now surveying the coast for the carrying out of his long-cherished plan of an electric railway running along the sh.o.r.e.
He will yet have it, the Acadiens say, but in the meantime he amuses himself by viewing the land and interviewing the people, and when he is weary he rides home to the cottage where his pale, fragile mother is looking eagerly for her adopted, idolized grandchild Narcisse, and where his wife sits by the window and waits for him.
As she waits she often smiles and gazes down at her lap where lies a tiny creature,--a little girl whose eyes and mouth are her own, but whose hair is the hair of Vesper.
Perhaps you will go to Sleeping Water by the train. If so, do not look out for the red coat which always used to be the distinguis.h.i.+ng mark of this place, and do not mention Emmanuel's name to the woman who keeps the station, nor to her husband, for they were very fond of him, and if you speak of the red-jacketed mail-man they will turn aside to hide their tears.
Nannichette and her husband have come out of the woods and live by the sh.o.r.e. Mirabelle Marie has persuaded the former to go to ma.s.s with her.
The Indian in secret delight says nothing, but occasionally he utters a happy grunt.
Bidiane and her husband live in Weymouth. Their _menage_ is small and unambitious as yet, in order that they may do great things in the future, Bidiane says. She is absolutely charming when she ties a handkerchief on her head and sweeps out her rooms; and sometimes she cooks.
Often at such times she scampers across a yard that separates her from her husband's office, and, after looking in his window to make sure that he is alone, she flies in, startles and half suffocates him by throwing her arms around his neck and stuffing in his mouth or his pocket some new and delectable dainty known only to herself and the cook-book.
She is very happy, and turns with delight from her winter visits to Halifax, where, however, she manages to enjoy herself hugely, to her summer on the Bay, when she can enjoy the most congenial society in the world to her and to her husband,--that of Vesper Nimmo and his wife Rose.
THE END.
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