Amy in Acadia Part 21

They wish to go on the s.h.i.+p with Dr. Peter Brown, who is about going with a company of refugees to St. Johns River.

That they may be indulged with drawing the land's Government may allow them in that quarter and with the company that goes under the direction of Dr. Brown or such other company of refugees as may appear to your Memorialists more eligible.

That they may be indulged with the liberty of taking with each of them a man and woman servant and allowances of provisions, clothing, etc. as to your Excellency may seem meet.

That, should your Excellency graciously order six months advance upon their pensions to be paid previous to their sailing, it will be very thankfully received as indeed their circ.u.mstances are such as they cannot go with reasonable Comfort and Decency without it.

As your Memorialists sufferings have been very long and great--They humbly ask as many Favours and Indulgences as to your Excellency shall appear anyways reasonable and fit, and as in duty bound they will ever pray etc.

HESTER DANFORTH ANNE DUTTON

NEW YORK, _June 2, 1783_.'"

"I always think that an interesting letter," said Mrs. Airton, "because both of those ladies who signed it were brought up in the greatest luxury; their father had one of the large estates on the Hudson and their mother was of English birth and an heiress; but the family saved not a single shred of their fortune and it is rather touching to read behind the lines of this letter and to see that both these young women, for they were under thirty-five, had for some time been suffering for the necessities of life."

"'The fortune of war,'" commented Priscilla, in the very words that she had used on her first visit to Eunice.

"I hope," added Amy, "that they found life comfortable after they came here."

"Ah," said Mrs. Airton, shaking her head, "at first life here could hardly be called comfortable. Imagine twenty-five hundred people crowded into this little town, which had not rooms for one tenth the number.

Often a whole family had to content itself with one room, and delicately reared women and children had to spend at least a part of that first winter in tents. Several hundred, it is said, were herded together in the church. Of course, after a few months they began to distribute themselves through the country. Sometimes they had great trouble in taking possession of the land granted them, because it was already in the possession of the New Englanders who had settled on the farms of the Acadians twenty years before. Usually these pre-Loyalist settlers had a rightful t.i.tle to the land they claimed; then the refugees had to apply for other lands. Many of these refugees were professional men or merchants from New York City, and they found it hard in middle life to become farmers; but, as you say, my dear, it was the fortune of war, and in time they adapted themselves to the new conditions. In the course of a few years some went back to New York, others sailed over to St. John, where, from the beginning, city life prevailed, and those who stayed here in Nova Scotia seemed to be contented with their lot; although I for one feel very bitter when I think of all that my family in its various branches lost. I feel it the more because I'm able to do so little for my children, and they are reaching an age when a little money would mean so much."

"Ah, yes, mamma," interposed Eunice, "but if the money had stayed in the family after the Revolution it might all have been lost before this, and besides, Balfour and I do not care half as much for wealth as--" and here she stopped, for at this point Mrs. Gray interrupted her.

"Indeed, I think it a greater privilege to have grown up in Annapolis than to have lived in the finest city of the United States. Why, I can a.s.sure you, Mrs. Redmond," turning to the latter, "that few places of its size have had so many distinguished residents. When the fort was garrisoned, it was quite like an English town, and I've heard my grandmother speak of the parties that were given here when she was young; not to mention the Duke of Kent, who was here before her day, there have been such men in the garrison as Sir Colin Campbell, afterwards Lord Clyde, while Sir Fenwick Williams, the defender of Kars, was a native of the town, and surely no literary man in America has a wider reputation than Judge Haliburton, whose house was just down there beyond the hotel. I often think of the lines by Oliver Goldsmith, who lived here,--a grand-nephew, my dear," laying her hand on Amy's, "of the great English poet, who himself wrote 'The Rising Village,' describing Annapolis."

"Oh, can't you recite a part of it?" asked Amy. She had already discovered a vein of sentimentality in Mrs. Gray, and she was right in judging that the request would please her.

"I'm sorry to say," replied Mrs. Gray, "that my memory is not what it used to be, and the only lines I recall do not touch on the social so much as the natural charms of Annapolis."

"Oh, but please do say them." This time it was Priscilla, and Mrs. Gray began:--

"'Here the broad marsh extends its open plain, Until its limits touch the distant main; There verdant meads along the uplands spring, And grateful odours to the breezes fling.

Here crops of grain in rich luxuriance rise, And wave their golden riches to the skies; There smiling orchards interrupt the scene, Or gardens, bounded by some hedge of green; The farmer's cottage bosomed 'mong the trees, Whose spreading branches shelter from the breeze; The winding stream that turns the busy mill, Whose clacking echoes o'er the distant hill; The neat, white church, beside whose walls are spread, The gra.s.s-clad hillocks of the sacred dead.'"

"It sounds like 'The Deserted Village,'" said Priscilla, politely; "that was one of the poems that we studied at school last year; you recite this beautifully."

"Ah, well, I'm aware that the first Oliver Goldsmith's poem is greater poetry, but here in Annapolis people were very fond of Oliver the younger, and if ever you've time to read the whole poem, you will find that he thoroughly appreciated Acadia."

But all the hours of that pleasant afternoon were not spent in historical conversation. Priscilla and Eunice, arm in arm, wandered out in the pleasant orchard, and, swinging together in the hammock, talked about all kinds of things, more frivolous than serious, such as girls care to talk about. In appearance the two girls were not unlike, though Eunice was a little the taller, despite the fact that she was a few months younger; her eyes were the same gray-blue and her hair the same pale brown as Priscilla's; not quite fair enough to be called golden, and hardly dark enough to be called brown.

"It is strange," Amy had said to her mother, after Eunice had first called on them, "that Eunice Airton reminds me of some one I have known; I cannot say just who, but it is one of those resemblances that worry one; you feel as if you must decide whom it is she resembles, yet try as I can I cannot think."

While the girls were in the orchard, Eunice pointed out to Priscilla the various additions that had been made to the house. Little ells and rooms had been added, some of them only one story high, and the original house, built by her Loyalist ancestor, was the very smallest part of the present dwelling.

"I thought it strange," said Priscilla, "when you said that this house was built just after the Revolution, that it should have been so large, but now I understand."

"Oh, there's been an ell added for nearly every generation. To tell you the truth," she concluded, "although my mother speaks so despondingly now, the family have seen better days, even in Annapolis. My grandfather Balfour was a very successful lawyer, and in spite of the Revolution"--here she smiled--"we might have been rich to-day if he had not sunk his money in unlucky speculation."

"Balfour?" queried Priscilla. "Where have I heard that name?"

"Oh, the name itself is not so very uncommon. There must be many of the name somewhere, although our family was the only one down here."

A little later the girls were looking over some of the old books on the bookshelves; they were chiefly history and poetry. There was Robertson's "Charles Fifth," a fine set of Pope's Complete Works, and Dodsley's "Miscellany," with the gilding on its calf binding not yet quite worn off. Priscilla looked at these books with less interest than Amy showed for them; she was not as ardent a lover of things ancient, although her respect for Eunice increased when the young girl told her that she had read nearly every book in the house.

"We have long winter evenings," she said, "and fewer amus.e.m.e.nts, I suppose, than you have in the cities; and really I would rather read than do anything else."

"But these books are so very old-fas.h.i.+oned, and Pope's poetry, don't you find it pretty dull? I didn't care so very much for 'The Rape of the Lock,' though some people call it amusing."

"I prefer Tennyson," replied Eunice, in a judicial tone, "but I feel there are certain things one must read some time, and mother says that I might as well read them now, while I have the books. Some time," and here she sighed, "we may have to break up our home, and that might mean packing away all our books; so it's well to 'make hay while the sun s.h.i.+nes,'" she concluded with a bright smile that was in marked contrast with the sigh of a moment before.

In the meantime Amy, in looking over some of the books, gave an exclamation of surprise; she had opened a large Bible, on the fly-leaf of which was written "Audrey Balfour, Her book."

"There is something very familiar in that name," she cried, "Audrey Balfour, and yet for the moment I can't recall any one to whom it belongs."

"It's a family name," said Eunice, "and I've always wished that it had been given to me, for there has always been an Audrey in the family for each generation until now."

At last supper was announced, and if any of the party had lacked appet.i.te, the sight of the long table, with its delicate china and old-fas.h.i.+oned silver and gla.s.s, would have been an inspiration. The silver spoons, to be sure, were very, very thin, and the cups and saucers were not without cracks, and here and there showed other imperfections; but these things only emphasized the fact that silver and china were really old; and the large silver dish, heaped with great strawberries, was of a style that Mrs. Redmond said would make it almost worth its weight in gold to a collector.

"I am so sorry," said Mrs. Airton, politely, "that Miss Martine is not with you. I have seen her pa.s.sing two or three times, and she is a particularly attractive girl."

"She is indeed very attractive," responded Mrs. Redmond, "and on this account we regret her occasional wilfulness; she had planned a ride to the Bay Sh.o.r.e and we could not induce her to give it up. But she wished me to thank you for her invitation, and she said that if she possibly could, she would be here in time for tea; but it seems now as if she has been unable to carry out this part of her plan."

"Oh, if she really goes to the sh.o.r.e," interposed Mrs. Gray, "I am sure she will hardly be back in Annapolis before dark. It's a long ride, and I only hope she doesn't find the road too hard."

"Martine is a good horsewoman; her father told us that we might trust her on any horse, and had I not known this, I should have hesitated to let her go."

"She did not go alone, I hope," said Mrs. Airton, anxiously.

"Oh, no; she consented rather reluctantly to an escort, and from the stable they sent a Mr. Frazer, an elderly man, who promised to look after her."

"Mr. Frazer!" Eunice laughed as she uttered the name. "Well, if he's on his own horse and if Miss Martine keeps beside him, she'll certainly have a slow, safe ride."

CHAPTER XII

IN THE FOG

In the meantime, where was Martine? When Mr. Frazer and his staid sorrel steed appeared in front of the hotel, Martine had smiled inwardly.

"His horse certainly looks safe, and the man himself,--well, he may be a good guide, as they say, and perhaps he can tell me about everything we see in pa.s.sing; but if he proves a bore, as I am perfectly sure he will, I'll contrive some way to rid myself of his company."

It was a perfect afternoon for a ride, mild and windless, with just enough sun to relieve the landscape of the monotony by creating artistic effects of light and shade. Martine was in great spirits, for, like most persons from the inland cities, she loved the sea even more deeply than those who dwell beside it.

"The Annapolis basin is tame," she had said the day before. "I am tired of the still, blue water and the red mud and the marshes and the meadows, and I long for a breath of the real ocean."