CHAPTER V.
AGAPIT, THE ACADIEN.
"The music of our life is keyed To moods that sweep athwart the soul; The strain will oft in gladness roll, Or die in sobs and tears at need; But sad or gay, 'tis ever true That, e'en as flowers from light take hue, The key is of our mood the deed."
AMINTA. CORNELIUS O'BRIEN, _Archbishop of Halifax_.
After Mrs. Rose a Charlitte left Vesper she passed through the kitchen,and, ascending an open stairway leading to regions above, was soon atthe door of the highest room in the house.
Away up there, sitting at a large table drawn up to the window whichcommanded an extensive view of the Bay, sat a sturdy, black-haired youngman. As Mrs. Rose entered the room she glanced about approvingly--forshe was a model housekeeper--at the neatly arranged books and papers ontables and shelves, and then said, regretfully, and in French, "There isanother of them."
"Of them,--of whom?" said the young man, peevishly, and in the samelanguage.
"Of the foolish ones who write," continued Mrs. Rose, with gentlemischief; "who waste much time in scribbling."
"There are people whose brains are continually stewing overcooking-stoves," said the young man, scornfully; "they are incapable ofrising higher."
"La, la, Agapit," she said, good-naturedly. "Do not be angry with thycousin. I came to warn thee lest thou shouldst talk freely to him andafterward be sorry."
The young man threw his pen on the table, pushed back his chair, and,springing to his feet, began to pace excitedly up and down the room,gesticulating eagerly as he talked.
"When fine weather comes," he exclaimed, "strangers flock to the Bay. Weare glad to see them,--all but these abominable idiots. Therefore whenthey arrive let the frost come, let us have hail, wind, and snow todrive them home, that we may enjoy peace."
"But unfortunately in June we have fine weather," said Mrs. Rose.
"I will insult him," said her black-haired cousin, wildly. "I will drivehim from the house," and he stood on tiptoe and glared in her face.
"No, no; thou wilt do nothing of the sort, Agapit."
"I will," he said, distractedly. "I will, I will, I will."
"Agapit," said the young woman, firmly, "if it were not for thestrangers I should have only crusts for my child, not good bread andbutter, therefore calm thyself. Thou must be civil to this stranger."
"I will not," he said, sullenly.
Mrs. Rose a Charlitte's temper gave way. "Pack up thy clothes," shesaid, angrily; "there is no living with thee,--thou art so disagreeable.Take thy old trash, thy papers so old and dusty, and leave my house.Thou wilt make me starve,--my child will not be educated. Go,--I castthee off."
Agapit became calm as he contemplated her wrathful, beautiful face."Thou art like all women," he said, composedly, "a little excitable attimes. I am a man, therefore I understand thee," and pushing back hiscoat he stuck his thumbs in the armholes and majestically resumed hiswalk about the room.
"Come now, cease thy crying," he went on, uneasily, after a time, whenRose, who had thrown herself into a chair and had covered her face withher hands, did not look at him. "I shall not leave thee, Rose."
"He is very distinguished," she sobbed, "very polite, and his fingernails are as white as thy bedspread. He is quite a gentleman; why doeshe write for those wicked journals?"
"Thou hast been talking to him, Rose," said her cousin, suspiciously,stopping short and fixing her with a fiery glance; "with thy usualinnocence thou hast told him all that thou dost know and ever wiltknow."
Rose shuddered, and withdrew her hands from her eyes. "I told himnothing, not a word."
"Thou didst not tell him of thy wish to educate thy boy, of thy twohundred dollars in the bank, of thy husband, who teased thy stepmothertill she married thee to him, nor of me, for example?" and his voicerose excitedly.
His cousin was quite composed now. "I told him nothing," she repeated,firmly.
"If thou didst do so," he continued, threateningly, "it will all comeout in a newspaper,--'Melting Innocence of an Acadien Landlady. SheTells a Reporter in Five Minutes the Story of Her Life.'"
"It will not appear," said Mrs. Rose, hastily. "He is a worthy youngman, and handsome, too. There is not on the Bay a handsomer young man. Iwill ask him to write nothing, and he will listen to me."
"Oh, thou false one," cried the young man, half in vexation, half inperplexity. "I wish that thou wert a child,--I would shake thee till thyteeth chattered!"
Mrs. Rose ran from the room. "He is a pig, an imbecile, and he terrifiesme so that I tell what is not true. What will Father Duvair say to me? Iwill rise at six to-morrow, and go to confession."
Vesper went early to bed that night, and slept soundly until early thenext morning, when he opened his eyes to a vision of hazy green fields,a wide sheet of tremulous water, and a quiet, damp road, bordered bysilent houses. He sprang from his bed, and went to the open window. Thesun was just coming from behind a bank of clouds. He watched the Baylighting up under its rays, the green fields brightening, the moistureevaporating; then hastily throwing on his clothes, he went down-stairs,unlatched the front door, and hurried across the road into a hay-field,where the newly cut grass, dripping with moisture, wet his slippered butstockingless feet.
Down by the rocks he saw a small bathing-house. He slipped off hisclothes, and, clad only in a thin bathing-suit, stood shivering for aninstant at the edge of the water. "It will be frightfully cold," hemuttered. "Dare I--yes, I do," and he plunged boldly into thedeliciously salt waves, and swam to and fro, until he was glowing fromhead to foot.
As he was hurrying up to the inn, a few minutes later, he saw, comingdown the road, a small two-wheeled cart, in which was seated Mrs. Rose aCharlitte. She was driving a white pony, and she sat demure, charming,with an air of penitence about her, and wearing the mourning garb ofAcadien women,--a plain black dress, a black shawl, and a black silkhandkerchief, drawn hood-wise over her flaxen mop of hair and tied underher chin.
The young man surveyed her approvingly. She seemed to belong naturallyto the cool, sweet dampness of the morning, and he guessed correctlythat she had been to early mass in the white church whose steeple hecould see in the distance. He was amused with the shy, embarrassed "_Bonjour_" (good morning) that she gave him as she passed, and murmuring,"The shadow of _The Evening News_ is still upon her," he went to hisroom, and made his toilet for breakfast.
An hour later, a loud bell rang through the house, and Vesper, in makinghis way to the dining-room, met a reserved, sulky-faced young man in thehall, who bowed coolly and stepped aside for him to pass.
"H'm, Agapit LeNoir," reflected Vesper, darting a critical glance athim. "The Acadien who was to unbosom himself to me. He does not look asif he would enjoy the process," and he took his seat at the table, whereMrs. Rose a Charlitte, grown strangely quiet, served his breakfast in analmost unbroken silence.
Vesper thoughtfully poured some of the thick yellow cream on hisporridge, and enjoyably dallied over it, but when his landlady wouldhave set before him a dish of smoking hot potatoes and beefsteak, hesaid, "I do not care for anything further."
Rose a Charlitte drew back in undisguised concern. "But you have eatennothing. Agapit has taken twice as much as this."
"That is the young man I met just now?"
"Yes, he is my cousin; very kind to me. His parents are dead, and he wasbrought up by my stepmother. He is so clever, so clever! It is trulystrange what he knows. His uncle, who was a priest, left him manypapers, and all day, when Agapit does not work, he sits and writes orreads. Some day he will be a learned man--"
Rose paused abruptly. In her regret at the stranger's want of appetiteshe was forgetting that she had resolved to have no further conversationwith him, and in sudden confusion she made the excuse that she wished tosee her child, and melted away like a snowflake,
in the direction of thekitchen, where Vesper had just heard Narcisse's sweet voice askingpermission to talk to the Englishman from Boston.
The young American wandered out to the stable. Two Acadiens were there,asking Agapit for the loan of a set of harness. At Vesper's approachthey continued their conversation in French, although he had distinctlyheard them speaking excellent English before he joined them.
These men were employing an almost new language to him. This was not theFrench of _L'Evangeline_, of Doctor Arseneau, nor of Rose a Charlitte.Nor was it _patois_ such as he had heard in France, and which would havebeen unintelligible to him. This must be the true Acadien dialect, andhe listened with pleasure to the softening and sweetening of somesyllables and the sharpening and ruining of others. They were saying_ung houmme_, for a man. This was not unmusical; neither was_persounne_, for nobody; but the _ang_ sound so freely interspersingtheir sentences was detestable; as was also the reckless introduction ofEnglish phrases, such as "all right," "you bet," "how queer," "tooproud," "funny," "steam-cars," and many others.
Their conversation for some time left the stable, then it returned alongthe line of discussion of a glossy black horse that stood in one of thestalls.
"_Ce cheval est de bounne harage_" (this horse is well-bred), said oneof the Acadiens, admiringly, and Vesper's thoughts ran back to a word inthe Latin grammar of his boyhood. _Hara_, a pen or stable. _De bonnerace_, a modern Frenchman would be likely to say. Probably these menwere speaking the language brought by their ancestors to Acadie; withoutdoubt they were. On this Bay would be presented to him the curiousspectacle of the descendants of a number of people lifted bodily out ofFrance, and preserving in their adopted country the tongue that had beenlost to the motherland. In France the language had drifted. Here theAcadiens were using the same syllables that had hung on the lips ofkings, courtiers, poets, and wits of three and four hundred years ago.
With keen interest, for he had a passion for the study of languages, hecarefully analyzed each sentence that he heard, until, fearing that hisattitude might seem impertinent to the Acadiens, he strolled away.
His feet naturally turned in the direction of the corner, the mostlively spot in Sleeping Water. In the blacksmith's shop a short, stoutyoung Acadien with light hair, blue eyes, and a dirty face and arms, wasstriking the red-hot tip of a pickax with ringing blows. He noddedcivilly enough to Vesper when he joined the knot of men who stood aboutthe wide door watching him, but no one else spoke to him.
A farmer was waiting to have a pair of cream white oxen shod, astable-keeper, from another part of _la ville francaise_, wasimpatiently chafing and fretting over the amount of time required tomend his sulky wheel, and conversing with him were two well-dressedyoung men, who appeared to be Acadiens from abroad spending theirholidays at home.
Vesper's arrival had the effect of dispersing the little group. Thestable-man moved away to his sulky, as if he preferred the vicinity ofhis roan horse, who gazed at him so benevolently, to that of Vesper, whosurveyed him so indifferently. The farmer entered the shop and sat downon a box in a dark corner, while the Acadien young men, after coldglances at the newcomer, moved away to the post-office.
After a time Vesper remembered that he must have some Canadian stamps,and followed them. Outside the shop five or six teams were lined up.They were on their way to the wharf below, and were loaded with more ofthe enormous trees that he had seen the day before. Probably theirsturdy strength, hoarded through long years in Acadien forests, would bedevoted to the support of some warehouse or mansion in his nativePuritan city, whose founders had called so loudly for the destruction ofthe French.
Vesper cast a regretful glance in the direction of the trees, andentered the little shop, whose well-stocked shelves were full of rollsof cotton and flannel, and boxes of groceries, confectionery, andstationery. The drivers of the ox-teams were inside, doing theirshopping. They were somewhat rougher in appearance than the inhabitantsof Sleeping Water, and were louder and noisier in their conversation.Vesper saw a young Acadien whisper a few words to one of them, and theteamster in return scowled fiercely at him, and muttered something about"a goddam Yankee."
The young American stared coolly at him, and, going up to the counter,purchased his stamps from a fat man in shirt-sleeves, who served himwith exquisite and distant courtesy. Then, leaving the shop, he shruggedhis shoulders, and went back the way he had come, murmuring, in amusedcuriosity, "I must solve this mystery of _The Evening News_. My friendAgapit is infecting all who come within the circle of his influence."
He walked on past the inn, staring with interest at the houses borderingthe road. A few were very small, a few very old. He could mark thetransition of a family in some cases from their larval state in a low,gray, caterpillar-like house of one story to a gay-winged butterfly homeof two or three stories. However, on the whole, the dwellings werenearly all of the same size,--there were no sharp distinctions betweenrich and poor. He saw no peasants, no pampered landlords. These Acadiensall seemed to be small farmers, and all were on an equality.
The creaking of an approaching team caught his attention. It was drawnby a pair of magnificent red oxen, groomed as carefully as if they hadbeen horses, and beside them walked an old man, who was holding anejaculatory conversation with them in English; for the Acadiens of theBay Saint-Mary always address their oxen and horses as if they belongedto the English race.
"I wonder whether this worthy man in homespun has been informed that Iam a kind of leper," reflected Vesper, as he uttered a somewhat guarded"_Bon jour_."
"_Bon jour_," said the old man, delightedly, and he halted andadmonished his companions to do the same.
"_Il fait beau_" (it is a fine day), pursued Vesper, cautiously.
"_Oui, mais je crais qu'il va mouiller_" (yes, but I think it is goingto rain), said the Acadien, with gentle affability; then he went on,apologetically, and in English, "I do not speak the good French."
"It is the best of French," said Vesper, "for it is old."
"And you," continued the old man, not to be outdone in courtesy, "youspeak like the sisters of St. Joseph who once called at my house. Theirwords were like round pebbles dropping from their mouths."
Vesper smoothed his mustache, and glanced kindly at his aged companion,who proceeded to ask him whether he was staying at the inn. "Ah, it is agood inn," he went on, "and Rose a Charlitte is _tres-smart,tres-smart_. Perhaps you do not understand my English," he added, whenVesper did not reply to him.
"On the contrary, I find that you speak admirably."
"You are kind," said the old man, shaking his head, "but my Englishlangwidge is spiled since my daughter went to Bostons, for I talk to noone. She married an Irish boy; he is a nusser."
"An usher,--in a theatre?"
"No, sir, in a cross-spittal. He nusses sick people, and gets twodollars a day."
"Oh, indeed."
"Do you come from Bostons?" asked the old man.
"Yes, I do."
"And do you know my daughter?"
"What is her name?"
The Acadien reflected for some time, then said it was MacCraw, whereuponVesper assured him that he had never had the pleasure of meeting her.
"Is your trade an easy one?" asked the old man, wistfully.
"No; very hard."
"You are then a farmer."
"No; I wish I were. My trade is taking care of my health."
The Acadien examined him from head to foot. "Your face is beautifullerthan a woman's, but you are poorly built."
Vesper drew up his straight and slender figure. He was not surprisedthat it did not come up to the Acadien's standard of manly beauty.
"Let us shake hands lest we never meet again," said the old man, sogently, so kindly, and with so much benevolence, that Vesper responded,warmly, "I hope to see you some other time."
"Perhaps you will call. We are but poor, yet if it would please you--"
"I shall be most happy. Where do you live?"
"Near the low down bro
ok, way off there. Demand Antoine a Joe Rimbaut,"and, smiling and nodding farewell, the old man moved on.
"A good heart," said Vesper, looking after him.
"Caw, caw," said a solemn voice at his elbow.
He turned around. One of the blackest of crows sat on a garden fencethat surrounded a neat pink cottage. The cottage was itself smothered inlilacs, whose fragrant blossoms were in their prime, although the Bostonlilacs had long since faded and died.
"Do not be afraid, sir," said a woman in the inevitable handkerchief,who jumped up from a flower bed that she was weeding, "he is quitetame."
"_Un corbeau apprivoise_" (a tame crow), said Vesper, lifting his cap.
"_Un corbeau prive_, we say," she replied, shyly. "You speak the goodFrench, like the priests out of France."
She was not a very young woman, nor was she very pretty, but she wasdelightfully modest and retiring in her manner, and Vesper, leaningagainst the fence, assured her that he feared the Acadiens were lackingin a proper appreciation of their ability to speak their own language.
After a time he looked over the fields behind her cottage, and asked thename of a church crowning a hill in the distance.
"It is the Saulnierville church," she replied, "but you must not walk sofar. You will stay to dinner?"
While Vesper was politely declining her invitation, a Frenchman with along, pointed nose, and bright, sharp eyes, came around the corner ofthe house.
"He is my husband," said the woman. "Edouard, this gentleman speaks thegood French."
The Acadien warmly seconded the invitation of his wife that Vespershould stay to dinner, but he escaped from them with smiling thanks anda promise to come another day.
"They never saw me before, and they asked me to stay to dinner. That istrue hospitality,--they have not been infected. I will make my way backto the inn, and interview that sulky beggar."
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