Part 3 (1/2)
”It had a winder in the top of it, and silver handles,” says one.
”Well, I declare; and you could 'a looked right in?”
”If I'd been a mind to.”
”Who has died?” I ask.
”It's old woman Larue; she lived on Gilead Hill, mostly alone. It's better for her.”
”Had she any friends?”
”One darter. They're takin' her over Eden way, to bury her where she come from.”
”Was she a good woman?” The traveler is naturally curious to know what sort of people die in Nova Scotia.
”Well, good enough. Both her husbands is dead.”
The gossips continued talking of the burying. Poor old woman Larue!
It was mournful enough to encounter you for the only time in this world in this plight, and to have this glimpse of your wretched life on lonesome Gilead Hill. What pleasure, I wonder, had she in her life, and what pleasure have any of these hard-favored women in this doleful region? It is pitiful to think of it. Doubtless, however, the region isn't doleful, and the sentimental traveler would not have felt it so if he had not encountered this funereal flitting.
But the horses are in. We mount to our places; the big doors swing open.
”Stand away,” cries the driver.
The hostler lets go Kitty's bridle, the horses plunge forward, and we are off at a gallop, taking the opposite direction from that pursued by old woman Larue.
This last stage is eleven miles, through a pleasanter country, and we make it in a trifle over an hour, going at an exhilarating gait, that raises our spirits out of the Marshy Hope level. The perfection of travel is ten miles an hour, on top of a stagecoach; it is greater speed than forty by rail. It nurses one's pride to sit aloft, and rattle past the farmhouses, and give our dust to the cringing foot tramps. There is something royal in the swaying of the coach body, and an excitement in the patter of the horses' hoofs. And what an honor it must be to guide such a machine through a region of rustic admiration!
The sun has set when we come thundering down into the pretty Catholic village of Antigonish,--the most home-like place we have seen on the island. The twin stone towers of the unfinished cathedral loom up large in the fading light, and the bishop's palace on the hill--the home of the Bishop of Arichat--appears to be an imposing white barn with many staring windows. At Antigonish--with the emphasis on the last syllable--let the reader know there is a most comfortable inn, kept by a cheery landlady, where the stranger is served by the comely handmaidens, her daughters, and feels that he has reached a home at last. Here we wished to stay. Here we wished to end this weary pilgrimage. Could Baddeck be as attractive as this peaceful valley?
Should we find any inn on Cape Breton like this one?
”Never was on Cape Breton,” our driver had said; ”hope I never shall be. Heard enough about it. Taverns? You'll find 'em occupied.”
”Fleas?
”Wus.”
”But it is a lovely country?”
”I don't think it.”
Into what unknown dangers were we going? Why not stay here and be happy? It was a soft summer night. People were loitering in the street; the young beaux of the place going up and down with the belles, after the leisurely manner in youth and summer; perhaps they were students from St. Xavier College, or visiting gallants from Guysborough. They look into the post-office and the fancy store.
They stroll and take their little provincial pleasure and make love, for all we can see, as if Antigonish were a part of the world. How they must look down on Marshy Hope and Addington Forks and Tracadie!
What a charming place to live in is this!
But the stage goes on at eight o'clock. It will wait for no man.
There is no other stage till eight the next night, and we have no alternative but a night ride. We put aside all else except duty and Baddeck. This is strictly a pleasure-trip.
The stage establishment for the rest of the journey could hardly be called the finest on the continent. The wagon was drawn by two horses. It was a square box, covered with painted cloth. Within were two narrow seats, facing each other, affording no room for the legs of pa.s.sengers, and offering them no position but a strictly upright one. It was a most ingeniously uncomfortable box in which to put sleepy travelers for the night. The weather would be chilly before morning, and to sit upright on a narrow board all night, and s.h.i.+ver, is not cheerful. Of course, the reader says that this is no hards.h.i.+p to talk about. But the reader is mistaken. Anything is a hards.h.i.+p when it is unpleasantly what one does not desire or expect.