CHAPTER VII

DIGBY DAYS

On the way back to Little Brook Amy had a good chance to talk with little Pierre about his hopes and ambitions. She found that he was extremely fond of reading, and it was almost impossible for him to get books such as a boy loves to read. About half a mile from Madame Bourque's, Pierre pointed out a small cottage which he said was his home.

"My mother will be there now," he said, "and I hope you will come in with me to see her. She does not speak so very good English," he added apologetically, "but she can understand it."

Though Madame Robichaud greeted Amy warmly and thanked her for her kindness to Pierre, there was something pathetic in her manner and appearance. She was a tall, thin woman, with a delicate, pale face that was made all the paler by her plain black gown and the _couvre-chef_ that covered her hair. Her husband, Pierre explained, was lost at sea when Pierre was five years old, and since that time she had supported them both wholly by her own labor.

Madame Robichaud showed Amy with great pride some drawings nailed to the wall that Pierre himself had made,--simple drawings of ships and houses that showed draughtsmanship rather than imagination. These suggested to Amy that Pierre had a talent that might be cultivated to greater advantage than his ambition for school-teaching.

She and Pierre parted reluctantly, and Madame Robichaud promised that the little boy should be at the hotel in the morning before Amy left Little Brook.

All the travellers slept soundly that night despite the huge feather-beds that Madame Bourque had provided, as she thought, for their comfort.

In the morning they wrote their names in her visitors' book, on whose pages were inscribed the names of a number of Americans, some of them fairly well known, who at one time or another had been guests at the Hotel Paris. Pierre arrived very soon after breakfast with a great bunch of hollyhocks or _passe-rose_ for Amy. He had evidently taken a great fancy to his new friend.

"She is more beautiful even than my school-teacher," he had said to Madame Bourque; a compliment which the latter repeated as of especial value, because hitherto Pierre had considered his teacher the model of womanly perfection.

"Martine," said Mrs. Redmond, before the carriage arrived, "have you written 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 letter to-day."

"I know it; I am ashamed of myself."

Martine's tone was penitent, but no one who knew Martine ever expected her to do promptly what she had promised. It was always a little easier to put off things to another day. Priscilla looked at her scornfully, as if to say "How fickle!"

When at last they were ready to start, all felt sad at parting with Madame Bourque and her family, for in two days they had come to seem almost like old friends. The two little Bourque girls, as the carriage drove off, looked with astonishment at the dollar bill that Mrs. Redmond had 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, and on saying good-bye at last he knew that the American lady would really send him the books that she had promised.

Their train to Digby was not the famous "Flying Bluenose," but a local that made no pretence of hurrying; it instead gave them ample opportunity to study the scenery from the windows.

When at last they reached Digby, they were warm and dust-covered, and glad enough, too, when they found carriages waiting for them at the station.

"It's nothing but a summer resort, this Digby that we have heard so much about," complained Martine, as they drove along the main street. "Just look at those boys in golf suits, and that crowd carrying shawls and wraps as if bound for a sailboat. Why, the town doesn't even look English. It makes me think of Blue Harbor in Maine, where we spent one summer."

"I noticed a great deal of Philadelphia accent while we were waiting for our trunks at the station."

"Oh, don't mention it," replied Martine; "Philadelphians flock everywhere, 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 help on 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 the others with a bundle of letters, which she gave to Priscilla to distribute while she went ahead with her mother to look at the rooms they had engaged. The hotel was like most small summer hotels, and in spite of their pleasant remembrance of Clare, Mrs. Redmond and the girls had to admit that it was more comfortable than the little French houses.

"'Pubnico!' why, of course;" here Amy stopped as she held the letter in her hand, turning it over once or twice as people will before opening a letter.

"Of course; don't hesitate to tell us that it's from Fritz. It would be very strange indeed if he had not written," cried Martine, mischievously.

"'Pubnico,'" said Priscilla, as if the word had just penetrated her brain; "why, there were two letters with that postmark, were there not?"

"Oh, no, only one," replied Amy, promptly, "and, as Martine surmises, it was from Fritz."

But while Amy was speaking Priscilla looked sharply at Martine, and Martine, 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 describes their dress and their houses and their great fat oxen, and speaks of the misfortunes 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 news to us, for his description reads just like a description of Clare."

"Only I'll warrant that he didn't find any Madame Bourque," and Priscilla smiled.

"No, nor an Yvonne," added Martine.

"Not to speak of Pierre," concluded Amy.

"My letter from home," said Priscilla, "mentions that this was the hottest week of the season. Just think, only yesterday we were half frozen driving home in the fog from Church Point."

After breakfast, on their second morning at Digby, Mrs. Redmond and the girls walked the whole length of the tree-lined main street. As Martine had surmised, they had indeed arrived at a regulation summer resort. The holiday spirit prevailed on all sides; every one was going somewhere, or had just been somewhere, on pleasure bent.

In spite of her professed prejudice against Philadelphians, Martine almost 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 the top 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 glad to have you join us, you and your friends." And she glanced dubiously at Priscilla's mourning dress and serious face.

"Thank you, but I can't make plans just now. There are four in our party; the other two have walked ahead. We arrived only on Saturday, and yesterday was so rainy that we stayed indoors until evening, when we all went to church. Until we really have our bearings I don't think that I can make any plans. But you must come to see us. There, I haven't introduced you to Priscilla; you must excuse me. Priscilla, the Rose of Plymouth, let me introduce you to Peggy Pratt from the quiet city of Philadelphia."

"You are the same old Martine," cried Peggy, as they turned away, while Priscilla, reddening, added as the two walked on, "Oh, Martine, how silly you can be!"

Amy was delighted with everything that they saw in the course of that morning walk, from the beautiful view of the Basin, surrounded by hills that looked mountains, to the little fish-houses, the quintessence of neatness, in front of which quantities of cod were drying. As to the Basin, 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 Fundy that they call 'The Gut' is like the passage where Hobson tried to sink the Merrimac."

"It isn't such a very little passage; somebody told me that it is nearly a mile wide; it was there that the ships of De Monts entered the Basin in 1604, when they discovered Acadia," Mrs. Redmond added.

"Sixteen hundred and four!" cried Martine. "Oh, dear, we're going backwards in our history. It was seventeen hundred and something when the Acadians were expelled, and I shall never be able to remember earlier dates."

"At present we may put dates aside. For a day or two we can merely enjoy ourselves."

"I hope we are coming to some English history," said Priscilla; "I am tired of the French. I always supposed Nova Scotia was a British province, but this whole week we have heard very little about the English."

"I tell you what we'll do, Priscilla," cried Amy; "while mamma and Martine sit here to make a sketch of something or other, you and I can set out in search of some English history. Undoubtedly there's an historic house or two to discover. That's the kind of thing I never let escape me."

At first it seemed as if Amy's search would be unsuccessful. One person after another whom she asked said that there were no historic houses in Digby.

"There's an old shop over across the way," one added, "the frame of which, 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 been reshingled and reclapboarded and repainted, so that it retained hardly a vestige of antiquity in its appearance. To compensate Amy for her disappointment, the obliging native made a suggestion that in the end proved valuable.

"What you ought to do is to see Mrs. Sally Tatem; her house isn't much to look at, but it's old enough, and she knows more about the history of Digby than any one else here."

"Where does she live?"

"Oh, just a little way up that street and round the next corner and up the hill and you will see a little cottage at the end of the lane; just knock 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 and up the hill," and at "the end of the lane" they saw a small white cottage almost covered with vines. Amy's knock brought to the door a little old lady with silvery hair and a tiny ruffled cap, wearing a gray gown and, most important of all, a pleasant smile. The hesitation that Amy had felt in explaining the object of their visit disappeared under the 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 looking about, and she was quick to recognize that the two chairs were Chippendale.

"They were brought by my grandfather," said Mrs. Tatem, noting the direction of Amy's glance. "He was a captain in the Queen's Rangers; you know many Americans were on the King's side in the Revolution."

A look of surprise crossed Priscilla's face, but she did not venture to raise a question.

"Yes," responded Amy, "I know about the Loyalists."

"Well, my grandfather was a farmer in Westchester County, rich and prosperous, but he would not take arms against the King. A friend and neighbor of his was tarred and feathered, and he was in some danger himself. So he went into the war, and when it was over he couldn't stay in New York. With other Loyalists he came down here. Of course it was very hard for him to have all his property taken away, but his wife was brave 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 to the story." And as she said this the old lady smiled.

"We have no bitterness now. I ought not to have said 'Yankees.' I have many friends in the States, but it was hard for my mother and aunts to have to grow up in the wilderness. I used to hear my aunt talk. She was an older daughter."

"But how did they live here in those days?"

"Oh, the King gave a large grant of land and provisions for three years and some building material. Many who came to settle would not stay, and it was harder for those who did remain. There was no church even, for a long time, until good Mr. Viets came; he did everything for the white settlers, 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 know that my grandfather had two, but when he died he left them their freedom in his will. Out at the Joggins' there are still living many descendants of these slaves, and of the Black Pioneers, a regiment of Blacks that fought 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 probably did not seem romantic to the first settlers here; but perhaps it's just as well that our lot was cast in this healthy climate. I hear there's a great deal of sickness in New York, and it's a great big city where people care only for money. I'm sorry our young people go off so much to the States; they could all make a comfortable living if they would only stay at home."

Amy could not refrain from admiring the china and all the daintiness of the little house, plain and unpretending though it was. But the most interesting thing of all was the old lady with her charming manner and fund of history.

"I've heard my mother say," she remarked before they went, "that the first name of Digby was Conway, and it was only after Admiral Digby had been here that it was named in his honor."

"Why didn't the French settle Digby?" asked Priscilla; "they seem to be everywhere else in Nova Scotia."

"Probably because there are no marshes; they were attracted by the dyke lands at Annapolis and Grand Pre."

The girls bade good-bye to Mrs. Tatem with real regret. Before she returned to the hotel Amy wandered by herself in a little old churchyard where lay many of the first settlers, and as she looked at the weather-beaten stones she saw that many of those who lay buried there were natives of New York or its neighborhood; closing her eyes for a moment to shut out the present, she pictured to herself what life in the wilderness must have been to these refugees who had suffered everything in a losing cause.

That afternoon Martine's friend, Peggy, from Philadelphia, invited them all to join a sailing party; though at first disinclined to go, Amy at last accepted the invitation. It was a delightful afternoon, with wind and sea in their favor, and the charm of the surrounding scenery was increased by a delicate mist that hovered over the North Mountain, as a reminder of the Bay of Fundy outside.

For some reason this sail around Digby reminded Amy of some of her excursions in Marblehead Harbor, especially of a certain day on the "Balloon," and this in spite of the fact that the "Mary Jane" in no way compared in equipment with Philip's yacht. No picture of Marblehead could of course be complete unless Fritz were in it, and almost to her annoyance 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 of wind occasioned a quick shifting of the sails. Then the Bluenose skipper complimented the Yankee girl on her skill in handling the ropes, and Martine and Priscilla and Peggy expressed their astonishment that she should know so much about a boat.

For almost the first time since their departure from Boston Priscilla was now in good spirits; she had overcome her original homesickness, and her letters from Plymouth had been so cheerful that she was almost ready to find enjoyment in the new scenes and faces. Between her and Martine there was less intimacy than between her and Amy. Mrs. Redmond was sorry to see that, for some reason, Priscilla lacked confidence in Martine. This was to be accounted for, perhaps, by the fact that the two girls were so unlike in temperament and education. Though reserved in speech, Priscilla was uncompromisingly accurate in statement; Martine, on the other hand, while apparently unreserved, occasionally lacked frankness. No one could accuse her of being untruthful, and yet her exaggerations and her occasional concealments were a constant annoyance to the literal Priscilla.

On the second day of their stay at Digby, Martine had written a long letter 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 send for Yvonne to spend a week with us."

"We shall not be here a week," rejoined Mrs. Redmond, "and I am afraid that Yvonne would rather handicap us if we tried to have her travel farther."

On their last morning at Digby, Amy and Martine had a parting walk around the wharf. The wharf had been a source of much amusement to Martine, and she had sketched it at high tide when it looked just like any other wharf, and at low tide when it rose high above the water, its sides covered with seaweed and barnacles. Indeed the vagaries of the Bay of Fundy tides were an endless amusement to the party, exposing, as they did, long, long stretches of reddish mud, and apparently casting up all kinds of craft high and dry on the land.

"Now, around by the fish-houses," cried Martine; "how I shall miss the cod which we meet here at every turn! Fish flakes, in my mind, will always be the emblem of Digby. Priscilla says that she has seen more on Cape Cod, but I can hardly believe her. It's strange that no one has given us a Digby chicken since we came here. Any one would suppose that the Digby chicken is the only fish that grows here; yet really and truly we haven't seen one, have we, since our arrival? For it's the cod that's everywhere, and it's funny to think that they send so much codfish to the West Indies. People there must be thirsty enough without having cod sent to tantalize them."

On their way back to the hotel they did an errand in a corner shop. The clerk addressed them in rather broken English, and in answer to Amy's question said that he was a descendant of an Acadian exile. He told them one or two anecdotes, and when he had to turn to other customers Amy waited until they were served, hoping to hear more from him.

"That negro," he explained, as a tall Black went out of the shop, "is a descendant 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 that way, you must be sure to visit it."

"I hope that we are going there, for I hear that Bear River is a beautiful place. Though I am not particularly anxious to see the Micmac on his native heath, it certainly is interesting to have met representatives of the four race elements in this little shop," said Amy, as they turned away.

"Four race elements?" asked Martine, not quite understanding her.

"Yes, of Nova Scotia Loyalists, Acadians, Indians, and negroes. To be sure Pre-Loyalists would be more representative than negroes--but the former 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 that old house."

"And the cannon? They are certainly unlike any others you will come across."

"I have photographed the cannon," replied Martine, with dignity, "and if I had time, I might sketch them."

"I love it here," cried Martine, as they stood on the hill. "One gets such a splendid view of the entrance to the Basin,--I can't bring myself to say Gut. When I stand here, I just close my eyes, and then fancy how these steep shores must have looked to the Frenchmen, Champlain and the others, who came sailing in through the passage that June morning so long ago. Then when I open my eyes I can actually see them out there--and if I were a poet, like you, Amy, I would write something worth 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 Martine quoted 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 that shows me we ought to go home."