A Cry in the Wilderness. Mary E. Waller
air—I can't see much difference 'twixt good air most anywheres. Take it, now, up in New England, up north where I was raised, you can't get better nowheres. Thet comes drorrin' through the mountains and acrosst the Lake, an' it can't be beat."
I made no reply for I feared he would ask me if I knew "New England up north".
He turned to look at me, evidently surprised at my short silence. He saw that I was being jolted about on the broad back seat, owing to the uneven road.
"Sho! If I did n't have the trunk, I 'd put you here on the front seat 'longside of me to kinder steady you."
"How far is it to the Seigniory of Lamoral, Mr.—?" I ventured to ask, hoping for a flood of information about the Seigniory and its occupants.
"Call me Cale," he said shortly; "thet 's short fer Caleb, an' what all the Canucks know me by. Mis' Macleod, she ain't but jest come to it; she balked consider'ble at fust, but it rolls off'n her tongue now without any Scotch burr, I can tell you! You was askin' 'bout the Seigniory of Lamoral—I dunno jest what to say. The way we 're proceedin' now it's 'bout an hour from here, but with some hosses it might take a half, an' by boat you can make it as long as you 're a mind ter."
"It's a large place?"
"Thet depends on whether you 're talkin' 'bout the old manor or the Seigniory; one I can show you in ten minutes, t' other in about three days." He turned and looked at me again with his small keen gray eyes.
"Where was you raised?" He spoke carelessly enough; but I knew my own. He was simulating indifference, and I put him off the track at once.
"I was born in New York City."
"Great place—New York."
He chirrupped to the colts, and we drove for the next fifteen minutes without further conversation.
The boat, owing to heavy freight, was an hour late in leaving Montreal, and two hours longer than its usual time, in discharging it at a dozen hamlets and villages along the St. Lawrence. In consequence, it was sunset when we left the landing-place, and the twilight was deepening to-night, as we turned away from the river road and drove a short distance inland. Once Caleb drew rein to light a lantern, and summon Pete from the back of the coach to sit beside him and hold it.
It grew rapidly dark. Leaning from the open upper half of the coach door, I could just see between the trees along the roadside, a sheet of water.
"Hola!" Cale shouted suddenly with the full power of his lungs. "Hola—hola!"
It was echoed by Pete's shrill prolonged "Ho—la-a-a-a-a!"
"Ho-la! Ho!" came the answer from somewhere across the water. Cale turned and looked over his shoulder.
"Thet 's the ferry. We ferry over a piece here; it's the back water of a crick thet makes in from the river 'long here, fer 'bout two mile." He turned into a narrow lane, dark under the trees, and drove to the water's edge.
By the flare of the lantern I could see a broad raft, rigged with a windlass, slowly moving towards us over the darkening waters. Another lantern of steady gleam lighted the face of the ferryman. It took but a few minutes to reach the bank; the horses went on to the boards with many a snort and much stamping of impatient hoofs. Pete took his place at their heads.
"Marche!"
We moved slowly away towards the other bank. There was no moon; the night air was crisp with coming frost; an owl hooted somewhere in the woods.
We were soon on the road again, as ever beneath trees. It seemed to me as if we were turning to the river again. I asked Cale about it.
"You 've hit it 'bout right, in the dark too. We foller back a quarter of a mile, an' then we 're there."
That quarter of a mile seemed long to me.
"Here we are," said Cale, at last.
I looked out. I could see the long low outlines of a house showing dimly white through the trees, for there were trees everywhere. A flaring light, as from a wood fire, illumined one window.
We drew up at a broad flight of low steps. A door into a lighted passageway was opened. I saw there were at least four people in it; one, a woman in a white cap, came out on the upper step.
"Have you brought Miss Farrell, Cale?" she said.
"Yes, Mis' Macleod, fetched her right along; but the boat was good three hours late.—Pete, open the door; I 'll hold the hosses."
I went up the steps, not knowing what to say, for the mere inflection of her voice, the gentle address, the prefix "Miss" to my name, told me intuitively that I was with gentle people, and my service with them was to be other than I fancied.
II
"I hope you will soon feel at home in the old manor." With these words I was made welcome. Mrs. Macleod led the way into the house.
"Jamie," she said to a young man, or youth, I could not tell which, "this is Miss Farrell. My son," she added, turning to me.
"Call me Marcia," I said to her. She smiled as if pleased.
"You will be feeling very tired after your long journey—and I 'm thinking jolly hungry after coming up in the old boat; that was mother's doings."
"Now, Jamie—!" she spoke in smiling protest.
O Jamie, Jamie Macleod! Your thin bright eager face was in itself a welcome to the old manor of Lamoral.
"I 'm not tired, but I confess to having a good appetite; this Canada air would make an angel long for manna," I said laughing.
"Wouldn't it though—oh, it's great!" he responded joyfully. "Angélique, here, will help you out in that direction—she's our cook; Angélique, come here." He gave his command in French.
The short thickset French Canadian of the black-eyed-Susan type, came forward, with outstretched hand, from the back of the passageway; there was good friendship in her hearty grip.
"And Marie will take charge of you till supper time," said Mrs. Macleod, smiling; "Jamie is apt to run the house at times because he can speak with the servants in their own tongue."
"Now, mother!" It was Jamie's turn to protest.
Mrs. Macleod spoke to the little maid, who was beaming on me, in halting French.
"Do you speak French?" she asked me.
"No, I can read it, that 's all."
"Oh, well, with that you can soon understand and speak it; my Scotch tongue is too old to be learning new tricks; fortunately I understand it a little. Marie will take you to your room."
Marie looked on me with an encouraging smile, and led the way up stairs through a wide passageway, down three steps into another long corridor, and opened a door at the end. She lighted two candles and, after some pantomime concerning water, left me, closing the door behind her.
And this was my room. I looked around; it took immediate possession of me in spirit—a new experience for me and a wholly pleasing one.
There were two windows in one end; the walls were sloping. I concluded it must be in the gable end of some addition to the main building. The walls were whitewashed; the floor was neatly laid with a woven rag carpet of peculiar design and delicate coloring; the cottage bedroom set was painted dark green. There was a plain deal writing table with writing pad and inkstand, and a dressing table on which stood two white china candlesticks. Counterpane, chair cushions, and window hangings were of beautiful old chintz still gay with faded paroquets and vines, trees, trellises, roses and numerous humming-birds, on a background of faded crocus yellow.
There was a knock at the door. On