Rose A Charlitte Part 20

"But I am not the Bay," said Mrs. Nimmo, with attempted playfulness; "I am Boston."

A shadow crossed Rose's face. "Yes, madame, I know. I might have told you, but I did not think; and you are delicate,--you would not ask."

"No, I am not delicate," said Mrs. Nimmo, honestly. "I am inclined to be curious, or interested in other people, we will say,--I think you are very kind to be making matrimonial plans for other young women, and not to think of yourself."

"Madame?"

"You do not know that long word. It means pertaining to marriage."

"Ah! marriage, I understand that. But, lately, I resolve not to marry,"

and Rose turned her deep blue eyes, in which there was not a trace of craft or deceit, on her nervously apprehensive interlocutor, while Vesper murmured in the window above, "She is absolutely guileless, my mother; cast out of your mind that vague and formless suspicion."

Mrs. Nimmo, however, preferred to keep the suspicion, and not only to keep it, but to foster the stealthy creeping thing until it had taken on the rudiments of organized reflection.

"Some young people do not care for marriage," she said, after a long pause. "My son never has."

"May the Lord forgive you for that," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed her son, piously. Then he listened for Rose's response, which was given with deep respect and humility. "He is devoted to you, madame. It is pleasant to see a son thus."

"He is a dear boy, and it would kill me if he were to leave me. I am glad that you appreciate him, and that he has found this place so interesting. We shall hate to leave here."

"Must you go soon, madame?"

"Pretty soon, I think; as soon as my son finishes this quest of his. You know it is very quiet here. You like it because it is your home, but we, of course, are accustomed to a different life."

"I know that, madame," said Rose, sadly, "and it will seem yet more quiet when we do not see you. I dread the long days."

"I daresay we may come back sometime. My son likes to revisit favorite spots, and the strong air of the Bay certainly agrees wonderfully with him. He is sleeping like a baby this morning. I must go now and see if he is up. Thank you for speaking so frankly to me about yourself. Do you know, I believe you agree with me,"--and Mrs. Nimmo leaned confidentially towards her,--"that it is a perfectly wicked thing for a widow to marry again," and she tripped away, folding about her the white shawl she always wore.

Rose gazed after her retreating form with a face that was, for a time, wholly mystified.

By degrees, her expression became clearer. "Good heavens! she understands," muttered Vesper; "now let us see if there will be any resentment."

There was none. A vivid, agonized blush overspread Rose's cheeks. She let the last remnant of food slip to the expectant hens from her two hands, that suddenly went out in a gesture of acute distress; but the glance that she bestowed on Mrs. Nimmo, who was just vanis.h.i.+ng around the corner of the house, was one of saintly magnanimity, with not a trace of pride or rebellion in it.

Vesper shrugged his shoulders and left the window. "Strange that the best of women will worry each other," and philosophically proceeding with his toilet, he shortly after went down-stairs.

After a breakfast that was not scanty, as his breakfasts had been before his illness, but one that was comprehensive and eaten with good appet.i.te, he made his way to the parlor, where his mother was sitting among a number of vivacious Acadiens.

Rose, slim and elegant in a new black gown, and having on her head a small straw hat, with a dotted veil drawn neatly over her pink cheeks and ma.s.s of light hair, was receiving other young men and women who were arriving, while Agapit, burly, and almost handsome in his Sunday suit of black serge, was bustling about, and, immediately pouncing upon Vesper, introduced him to each member of the party.

The young American did not care to talk. He returned to the doorway, and, loitering there, amused himself by comparing the Acadiens who had remained at home with those who had gone out into the world.

The latter were dressed more gaily; they had more a.s.surance, and, in nearly every case, less charm of manner than the former. There was Rose's aunt,--white-haired Madame Pitre. She was like a sweet and demure little owl in her hood-like handkerchief and plain gown. Amandine, her daughter who had never left the Bay, was a second little owl; but the sisters Diane and Lucie, factory girls from Worcester, were overdressed birds of paradise, in their rustling silk blouses, big plumed hats, and self-conscious manners.

"Here, at last, is the wagon," cried Agapit, running to the door, as a huge, six-seated vehicle, drawn by four horses, appeared. He made haste to a.s.sist his friends and relatives into it, then, darting to Vesper, who stood on the veranda, exclaimed, "The most honorable seat beside me is for madame, your mother."

"Do you care to go?" asked Vesper, addressing her.

"I should like to go to the picnic, but could you not drive me?"

"But certainly he can," exclaimed Agapit. "Toochune is in the stable.

Possibly this big wagon would be noisy for madame. I will go and harness."

"You will do nothing of the kind," said Vesper, laying a detaining hand on his shoulder. "You go on. We will follow."

Agapit nodded gaily, and sprang to the box, while Rose bent her flushed face over Narcisse, who set up a sudden wail of despair. "He is coming, my child. Thou knowest he does not break his promises."

Narcisse raised his fist as if to strike her; he was in a fury at being restrained, and, although ordinarily a shy child, he was at present utterly regardless of the strangers about him.

"Stop, stop, Agapit!" cried Diane; "he will cast himself over the wheel!"

Agapit pulled up the horses, and Vesper, hearing the disturbance, and knowing the cause, came sauntering after the wagon, with a broad smile on his face.

He became grave, however, when he saw Rose's pained expression. "I think it better not to yield," she said, in a low voice. "Calm thyself, Narcisse, thou shalt not get out."

"I will," gasped the child. "You are a bad mother. The Englishman may run away if I leave him. You know he is going."

"Let me have him for a minute," said Vesper. "I will talk to him," and, reaching out his arms, he took the child from the blacksmith, who swung him over the side of the wagon.

"Come get a drink of water," said the young American, good-humoredly.

"Your little face is as red as a turkey-c.o.c.k's."

Narcisse pressed his hot forehead to Vesper's cheek, and meekly allowed himself to be carried into the house.

"Now don't be a baby," said Vesper, putting him on the kitchen sink, and holding a gla.s.s of water to his lips; "I am coming after you in half an hour."

"Will you not run away?"

"No," said Vesper, "I will not."

Narcisse gave him a searching look. "I believe you; but my mother once said to me that I should have a ball, and she did not give it."

"What is it that the Englishman has done to the child?" whispered Madame Pitre to her neighbor, when Vesper brought back the quiet and composed Narcisse and handed him to his mother. "It is like magic."

"It is rather that the child needs a father," replied the young Acadienne addressed. "Rose should marry."

"I wish the Englishman was poor," muttered Madame Pitre, "and also Acadien; but he does not think of Rose, and Acadiens do not marry out of their race."

Vesper watched them out of sight, and then he found that Agapit had spoken truly when he said that all the Bay was going to the picnic.

Celina's mother, a brown-faced, vigorous old woman who was to take charge of the inn for the day, was the only person to be seen, and he therefore went himself to the stable and harnessed Toochune to the dog-cart.

Celina's mother admiringly watched the dog-cart joining the procession of bicycles, buggies, two-wheeled carts, and big family wagons going down the Bay, and fancied that its occupants must be extremely happy.

Mrs. Nimmo, however, was not happy, and nothing distracted her attention from her own teasing thoughts. She listened abstractedly to the merry chatter of French in the air, and gazed disconsolately at the gloriously sunny Bay, where a few distant schooner sails stood up sharp against the sky like the white wings of birds.

At last she sighed heavily, and said, in a plaintive voice, "Vesper, are you not getting tired of Sleeping Water?"

He flicked his whip at a fly that was torturing Toochune, then said, calmly, "No, I am not."