On arriving at the river's mouth, I found everything bustle and confusion. Mr. Simonds confirmed the reports I had heard on my way down. 'The settlers are coming in thousands,' he said enthusiastically, 'in thousands.'
The words were to be verified sooner than I expected. That afternoon—it was the 18th of May—I was sitting with Duncan Hale on a bluff near the fort looking off seaward. Duncan was telling me of the school he had succeeded in forming during the winter.
'I have thirteen pupils,' he said; 'the exact number of worshippers Doctor Canfield had at his first service in Mr. Simonds' house. But we are both determined not to be discouraged. If these late reports that were brought in by the schooner yesterday are true——'
He stopped, shaded his eyes with his hand, and looked seaward. 'Look, Roger!' he cried.
The day was fine, the air thin and clear. Looking straight over the harbour and directly across the bay, I saw the wavy line of the distant coast beyond. My eye followed this southerly, till its irregularity shaded into the steady, even line of the sea. On this, between the distant low shore and the bold horn of land that made the westerly side of the harbour, delicately but firmly etched on the sky, I made out the shape of at least a dozen ships. Duncan looked more critically.
'They're coming,' he said.
'They're coming,' I repeated.
For a full half-hour, speaking only now and then, till the vessels already in sight had grown large, till numerous others had emerged to stand like specks on the firm, far, high line of the sea, we sat and looked eagerly down the wide, sparkling bay.
After a time Duncan rose. 'They're coming,' he said once more. 'Let us go.'
We hurried down from the bluff to the little trading post at Portland Point, the bearers of great tidings. Three hours later the headmost vessels were at the rude piers, and the people were swarming ashore.
It became evident at a glance that all classes were represented among the newcomers. The soft-handed and fine-faced Englishman of culture; ladies richly dressed, who bore themselves as proudly as at court, came ashore rubbing shoulders with the rough, plain farmer men and women from the hillside farms of Vermont. Some carried bundles in which were all their possessions. Some bore peddler-like packs on their backs. Others rolled barrels before them or dumped rough boxes ashore; many women bore crying infants swathed in shawls. There were a few, of both men and women, cripples; many were old and stooped. There were some armless sleeves, and now and then came men who limped, or whose foreheads were bandaged. These had been in arms.
Almost immediately after landing the people began to scatter about. Some of the younger and more spirited ran gaily up the slope toward the fort, where flew the old familiar flag. Some slowly made their way along the rough bush-hung paths, over rocks and through thickets, until they found spots high enough to afford an outlook upon the surrounding country. It was not difficult for me to understand the look of disappointment which I saw creep over many faces.
The surroundings of the harbour were not attractive. Wave-beaten, weed-covered rocks, with the tide surging in and out among them, were everywhere; high, bare cliffs, a single mill, a patch of brown marsh, a score or less shanty-like buildings, a few Indian wigwams, the fort, and behind these, huddled close, bare in some spots and wooded in others, the unbroken ranks of the hills stretched away into the sunset. Many looked long on these, then turned seaward to see the ships that had brought them, sweeping off on the ebb of the tide that had borne them in. The surroundings were forbidding, but the captains of the vessels, by their speedy departure, had made going back impossible.
That evening I was talking with Duncan Hale in his small but comfortable quarters.
'I'll have no lack of pupils now,' he said. 'Doctor Canfield has this afternoon selected a site for a church.'
'How many people have come?' I asked.
'Almost three thousand; and there are many more to follow during the summer. It is well your grant is secured. The whole river front will be taken before fall, I hear. A new province is likely to be formed here north of the bay also. Halifax will be too far away when it comes to arranging the details of grants for all these people. See,' he said, waving his hand toward the many tents the people were putting up, 'we've a city already.'
It was only a few days after the landing of the Loyalists at St. John, that I set off for Halifax on one of Mr. Simonds' lime-laden schooners. The weather proved remarkably fine, and on the third day after sailing we were discharging our cargo in Halifax, where I discovered much interest manifested in what had been taking place north of the bay.
I found my mother particularly happy over having received a letter from my brother, who had joined the King's troops before my father's death. We had not heard from him for almost two years. He had learned of our flight to Nova Scotia from an officer who had returned to New York from Halifax.
My sisters were overjoyed when I told them that our new house would be ready for us—I had left the building of it largely to David Elton—on our arrival. They were very anxious to be off; and off we soon were. After an uneventful voyage we reached the St. John in safety.
During the two weeks of my absence many changes had taken place. There were scores of new buildings in process of erection. Everybody seemed happy and hopeful. The look of disappointment I had formerly seen on so many faces had completely disappeared. Duncan Hale was happy in the promise of a large new school building; Doctor Canfield already had the foundation of a Church well under way. Back on the hill slopes there were already numerous little gaps in the green of the forest. Vessels from New England were bringing in new Loyalists almost daily.
These invariably told the same sad stories of reckless cruelty. The end of the war and the declaration of peace had roused many to barbarities unheard of during the conflict. On the way up the river to my farm with my mother and sisters, I talked with an old man on the deck of the little schooner.
'The mobs,' he said, 'were bad enough at the beginning of the war, but weeks after peace was declared soldiers were found wreaking vengeance on our helpless people. I saw my own son, whose only crime was that he had fought for the King, tarred and feathered. As I sailed out of the harbour of Charleston—it is true, every word of it, as God is above me—I saw on looking backward the bodies of twenty-four Loyalists swinging from a row of gibbets on a single wharf. And there, too,'—his voice broke and tears came freely then, covering his face as if to hide the awful scene, he sobbed out, 'there, too, I had a son.'
No one spoke. I recalled the narrow escape of Duncan Hale, and could believe it all.
'They say General Washington was opposed to these cruelties,' the old man added after a time, raising his head.
He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a paper. 'Here is a copy of part of a letter written by him. It fell into the hands of one of our officers. The hand and signature were Washington's, so there can be no mistake. Read this, young man,' he said, thrusting the paper toward me. I opened it and read:—
'BOSTON,March31, 1776.
'DEAR SIR,—All those who took upon themselves the style and title of Loyalists have shipped themselves off. One or two have done what a great number ought to have done long ago, committed suicide. By all accounts there never existed a more miserable set of beings than these wretched creatures now are.'
'It may be,' the old man said, as I returned the paper to him, 'that Washington was opposed to the scourging and hanging of our people, but that's his opinion of the Loyalists, anyway.'
Without further remark he rose, turned, and walked away. Though no one spoke—it had become a fixed rule among us to treat the war and those who had wronged us with silent disdain—I saw by the faces about me that there had been a violent stirring up of deep and bitter thoughts.'
We follow one current only of the times out of which the United States grew into strength and greatness. The siege of Boston was far advanced when General Gage wrote home, 'The rebels are shown not to be the disorderly rabble too many have supposed.' Not all at once did Washington bring into relief the finer qualities of his people. The struggle when it began covered a vast region, and chaos brooded over many districts. In the first division of men natural passion broke out in acts of violence. There was even a time of terror, and numbers were driven into the struggle who had little living interest in the things at stake. Gradually the true issues appeared, and the work of reconstruction went forward under different forms to the changes we now see.
It was wearing toward evening when the little schooner drew in toward shore, directly opposite a clearing in the middle of which stood a small log house. 'There is our home, mother,' I said, 'and there is David Elton waiting for us at the foot of the path by the river.'
My mother did not speak—she looked in silence. But a glance told me that she was seeing, not the little house of logs before us on the slope, but a fine, old colonial mansion with fluted Corinthian corners, with two spreading lindens in front, and wide, rich meadows about it.
In a short time all our possessions had been put ashore. Then the schooner, bearing others to their grants further up the river, swung away, and we turned to go up the path to our new but humble home.
'I did the best I could, madam,' David was explaining to my mother, a little later. 'It's hardly a place for fine ladies like you my wife was telling me, but with good lan' and plenty of lumber you needn't live here long.'
'This is all right; this is good enough for anybody to live a whole life in,' broke in Caroline, as she looked about the walls of wood, and up to the ceiling of bark. 'This is all fine. And, mother, just see the magnificent view from this door. Isn't it grand? The river, the hills, the woods!'
That night we slept soundly and well. The next day, with prayers over, I climbed with a Union Jack to the top of a tall tree, flung it out to the breeze, then came down and began—as all the thousands of Loyalists began—the long, hard fight with the wilderness.
Several years had slipped away since the day of our arrival at our new home on the St. John, when, one day, I was standing watching the mail boat making her way slowly up the river.
Wonderful changes had taken place in the years since our coming. On both sides of the river, far as the eye could range from the door of our home, running from the water's edge away up into the dark, green timber, stretched the smooth, fertile fields. The log houses had given place to stately frame buildings. The request for a new province north of the bay, to be called New Brunswick, in spite of strong opposition from Halifax, had been granted by the Imperial Government and a governor sent out.
As the vessel drew toward the shore where I stood, I was surprised to make out the figure of Duncan Hale on her deck. I had not expected him. 'I came,' he was explaining a little later, 'to tell you that the new governor—Colonel Carleton—is to visit you. He has been overworked attending to the details of numerous grants, and wishes a holiday and fishing trip—a general rest before the elections and the meeting of the House.'
'The elections,' I said. 'What elections?'
'Didn't you hear there was to be an Assembly for the province, chosen by the people, in addition to the Council appointed by the King?'
'No,' I said. 'Are we to have representatives—a parliament?'
'That is part of the new constitution granted by the King. It is the intention of the Imperial Government to make New Brunswick one of the freest countries in the world.'
We were walking up the green slope from the river to the house. Duncan broke off. 'What a herd of cattle,' he said, 'and such magnificent fields!—and the house! Roger, is it possible that this is your house? I had heard of it, but had no idea it was so fine.'
Duncan was greeted with warm cordiality by my mother and my sisters, now both young women. But it was difficult for me to long refrain from telling the news I had heard. 'Mother, think of this—the new governor—Colonel Carleton—is coming up to see us, and to go hunting and fishing.'
'The new governor!'
'Yes, the governor. He'll be here to-morrow or next day.'
Elizabeth clapped her hands gleefully.
'The governor!' she exclaimed; 'a soldier, a fine gentleman just from England, like those in books.'
From my own farm a little later I wandered with Duncan to where David Elton worked in his field.
'Better off?' David said in answer to Duncan's question; 'of course I'm better off than I ever could have been in New England. I'll confess I thought it hard to be driven away as I was; but the lan' was poor an' rocky there. There was no prospect. There I had twenty acres; here I've two hundred. Then look at my stock, my lumber property, my marsh, my frame house here. He knows,' he said, pointing to me, 'the kin' of shanty I was living in, and would have died in, yonder. This is a better country. The war was the best thing that ever happened us. Let them have their rocky, poverty-stricken lan'; and to think of them now passin' laws that we'll be hanged "without benefit of clergy;" them are the words, aren't they? if we dare to go back. Go back,—back there!' He gave a loud, shrill laugh.
'I wouldn't go back if they made me president; an' I'd rather'—this dropping his voice to a reverent pitch—'I'd rather see any child in my family under the ground than under the new American flag. That,' he said, pointing to a Union Jack that flew from the top of a staff on his largest barn, 'that's the flag for me.'
I saw the colour come up into Duncan's old face. 'Well said,' he exclaimed; 'well and nobly spoken.' Then turning to me as we walked away, 'Are there many like that on the river?'
'We're all like that,' I said. 'Why shouldn't we be? David is just one of thousands.'
'It will be a right loyal representative you'll be sending to the new parliament from here then, won't it? Who is likely to be chosen?'
But my mind was on preparations for the coming of the governor. 'Wouldn't it be well to have the people gathered here to give the governor a reception when he lands?'
''Twould be capital, capital,' Duncan assented eagerly. 'He's not coming officially, but he'd be immensely pleased. Isn't the time too short, though?' he added.
'David would go for Father Bourg and the Indians—they're only a few miles up—I could see the French at Sainte Ann's; the people about here will come in swarms—at a word. It can be done,' I said.
Three days later the shore of the river in front of our home was lined for a full half-mile with a strangely mixed crowd of expectant people. The governor's vessel was in full view on the river—and coming slowly up. Father Bourg was there with a group of Indians; there were many French from Sainte Ann's; the Loyalists were present from the surrounding country in hundreds.
As the governor stepped ashore, a mighty cheer went up that seemed to set the very bed of the river quivering. The people saw in this representative, the King they loved, and for whom they had sacrificed. After a loyal address, a reply, and much good humour on all sides, the people dispersed.
With the governor had come Colonel Francklin and Doctor Canfield. They had tents and provisions sufficient for two weeks in the woods, and it was arranged that Duncan Hale, myself and two Indian guides should accompany them across the country by portage some twenty miles into the very heart of the forest, to a trout stream that ran at a sharp angle to the river, emptying into it some ten miles below. Our plan was to strike the stream about thirty miles from its mouth, and fish down to the main St. John. But not all plans are carried out.
We reached the stream in safety, and I sent the team back to the settlement. It was late June, and the whole forest seemed to throb with life. The governor was delighted. He was a lover of the woods, and insisted upon taking long rambles back from the stream, following the winding, logging roads. It was owing to one of these rambles that our original plan was not carried out.
It was our fourth day in the woods. We were camped some five miles below the point where we had reached the stream. A little after noon, the governor, having fished for some time, left us, and wandered into the forest. The middle of the afternoon, then evening, then dusk came—and passed,—and he did not return.
'I cautioned him,' I heard Colonel Francklin say to Doctor Canfield; 'telling him the woods were deceptive, also that there were many beasts of prey.'
He had scarcely spoken, when down over the forest, low but clear, came a long, wailing sound as of a spirit in distress. Instantly I saw Emile and Louis, our Indian guides, who bore the French baptismal names given them by Father Bourg, start, and hastily make the sign of the cross before their foreheads. A great fear overspread their faces; they trembled and went pale. And then there flashed into my mind the tales I had heard from the old inhabitants on the river, of the dread Loup-garou, or Indian devil as many called it. The low, clear, sound; its paralysing effect on the Indians; the time of day—just as evening was shading into night—the rise and fall of the long, fear-filling, distant wail; all these were exactly as described to me more than once by Father Bourg and others who knew the remoter woods of the province.
In the silence that followed the long-drawn cry, a feeling of chill fear crept over me. The Loup-garou, was the one wild beast of all the woods that unnerved the Indian. For him it was more evil spirit than beast. It went, according to the belief, through the tree tops like lightning: it seemed to come and go on the wind; from it there was no escape; the giant moose, the bear, the deer, in one case a farmer and his team of oxen far in the woods—I had heard the story told and retold on the river—all had been fallen upon and eaten in a single hour.
The memory of these tales was far from comforting. The governor was lost in the woods. Colonel Francklin, Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale were as ignorant of the forest as children. The Indians, my only hope, stood terrified. What was I to do?
At that moment, distant at first, then swelling louder and nearer, down through the trees now swaying in the gentle evening breeze, clear, weird, paralysing, there came again, the long-drawn, dreadful sound. There was no mistaking it; it was the Loup-garou.
Both Indians dropped on their knees, and turned their faces up to the stars. The sound came at intervals seven times; then it grew faint in the east, and we heard it no more.
Far into the night we fired off guns, shouted and kept torches burning on tree tops. But the governor did not come. Had the fierce Loup-garou, that dread, strange blend of panther, wolf, and devil, fallen upon him?
A keen feeling of responsibility pressed heavily upon me. In a sense the governor was my guest. He had come to this particular part of the forest at my suggestion. I knew what it would mean in Britain, I understood the derision that would be provoked in the United States, I felt how our new province would suffer, when it went abroad that our first governor had been eaten by a strange, half-devil fiend of the forest. And yet what was to be done?
The next day Emile and Louis were silent, morose and fearful; they could not be induced to go more than a few rods from the tent. They spent most of the time praying. All our efforts to trace out and bring back our distinguished fellow-sportsman proved unavailing.
When afternoon came, I made a proposal. 'You remain here,' I said, addressing Colonel Francklin, Doctor Canfield and Duncan Hale, 'and I will go up the stream and call out the portage for assistance. Father Bourg and David Elton both know the woods. I shall get them to organise searching parties, so that we may scour the country. The governor must be found.'
'Very well,' Colonel Francklin said; then, after some further consulting, I was off.
On my arrival on the river, I first told Father Bourg of the governor being lost; then I referred to the strange sound, and to the action of Emile and Louis, and ended by saying I supposed we could look for no help from the Indians in the search. But the man who had won the Indians from Washington seven years before, who had kept them faithful to the King ever since, had power still.
'Wait,' he said.
He called the chiefs about him. He explained the situation of the governor, and commanded the Indians to go and find him. 'As for the Loup-garou,'—raising his voice and speaking with great energy, 'in the name of the Great Spirit I pronounce a curse upon him until the governor be found, and do now declare that during all the search he shall be powerless to hurt you.'
A great shout rose from the Indians. Then I hurried away.
Two days later there were fully three thousand men in the woods. The news of what had happened had run far up and far down the great river. The King's representative was lost in the woods, the wail of the Loup-garou had been heard. The whole province was stirred to unity in a common hope, and in a common fear. The hearts of French, of Indians, of Loyalists, of old and new inhabitants beat as one from the beginning of the great search.
On the fifth day after leaving the stream I was back again at our tent. I first met Duncan Hale. He was pale and anxious-looking. 'There is no word yet,' he said.
I sank down from exhaustion and disappointment. 'But the Indians are out,' I gasped—'and the French—everybody—men, even women.'
'The Indians!'
'The Indians,' I repeated. 'Father Bourg——'
But I could say no more.
It was three weeks later. There were fully five thousand people on the river in boats or canoes, and about our home. The great search was over; the governor had been found.
The honour of finding him had fallen upon two Indians and myself, who, on the tenth day of the search, had somewhat unexpectedly come upon him sitting on a knoll eating winter-green berries and fern-bulbs.
He was somewhat reduced in flesh and strength; but as the season was late June, and the weather had been dry and warm, he had not suffered materially. We conveyed him to the stream, where a large and comfortable canoe was secured; in this he had been safely brought down the stream, then up the river to our home; and now, three days after this, the morning of the day had arrived when the whole St. John was to give expression to its feelings of joy and gratitude over the finding of the governor, in a grand and loyal celebration of the event.
Before entering upon the search, Father Bourg had sent out to all parts of the province swift runners to call the Indians to the St. John. It so happened, that the day before that set for the celebration, many of the tribes from the remoter sections had just arrived. From the far Restigouche and Madawaska; from the Miramichi and the Richibucto; from the sandy reaches and pine-studded bluffs that jutted far into the broad Grand Lake; from Shediac, from the beautiful Kennebecassis and the still Neripeis; from Mispec and Lepreau; from Passamaquoddy and Bocabec, even from the Penobscot and the surrounding country far over the American line—from every corner of the land to which the news had run as on the wings of the wind—there came the Indians, expectant, anxious, interested, in swarms like bees that seek a new hive, in flocks like birds that fly north in spring.
Nor were the Indians all. The city had sent up its councillors, its merchants, its shipowners, its fine ladies who had graced courts in Britain or old colonial Boston, its handsome men, cold, dignified, and English in tone and manner. The French were also there from the Jemseg and Sainte Anne's; 'old inhabitants' of the river who had long since successfully striven to wipe off the stain of their treasonable correspondence with Washington and the government of Massachusetts; several 'refugees,' now anxious to show the loyalty they had smothered during the war for the sake of self; honest men who had foolishly been deluded into following Jonathan Eddy to an attack on old Fort Cumberland in '76—all these, as well as Loyalists of '83, in countless numbers, of all classes and conditions, were there on that great day in July.
As I stood on the high platform that had been erected in front of the house that the governor might more conveniently address the great throng, and looked out upon it all, my heart swelled with feelings of pride and satisfaction. Far above and below me, slipping between the rich meadows, I could follow the winding, glittering line of the river. The hills, rising belt on belt beyond, were throbbing with the warmth and life of the magnificent mid-summer day. The air was warm and sweet with clover bloom. The sun shone brilliantly and yet not oppressively. The fields of grain, just beginning to show full green heads; the wild gaiety of the flower-decked pastures and gardens; the neat, white homes; the slow moving flocks and herds on the hillsides near and far; the black mass of people in front; the hundreds of schooners and thousands of canoes on the river, winding and passing, bowing and saluting like figures in a dance, all gaily and variously decorated, made up a picture that would be difficult to surpass.
The forenoon of the day was spent in sports—in rowing, running, wrestling, shooting, and jumping—in all of which the Indians took prominent part. During all this part of the celebration, the governor moved among the people as an ordinary citizen. Dressed as an English gentleman, he moved easily and happily among the people. Now it was the French with whom he talked, now the farmer Loyalists; now he congratulated warmly a crew of Indians as they stepped from the winning canoe in the race; now he was relating part of his strange adventure in the woods to a group of interested and courtly ladies in the garden. Everywhere, in everything, he was the fine gentleman, the master of the art of manners, the representative of the finest traditions in both colony and kingdom; and it was not to be wondered at that the hearts of many Loyalists swelled larger that day, as they thought of the transplanting to the St. John, of a finer culture, directly from the homeland.
But the proceedings of the morning were to be quite overshadowed by the events of the afternoon. A vessel from St. John had brought up the governor's magnificent uniform. He was arrayed in this—no longer the citizen, but now the representative of the King—when in the afternoon, surrounded by his entire council and many distinguished Loyalists, he appeared upon the raised platform from which he was to speak. By the governor's special request, my mother and sisters, Father Bourg, Pierre Tomah (the Indian chief), I and the two Indians who had accompanied me at the fortunate ending of our great search in the forest, were taken to the platform. Then when the mighty cheer with which he was received had died in the throats of the mass of people that filled the field from the house to the river, the governor spoke.
'Subjects of the King,' he began, 'my friends and fellow-citizens, it is with feelings of just pride and thankfulness that I stand before you to-day. In the name of your King, whose representative I am, I bring you greeting.' A wave of applause swept the crowd. The people pressed closer; canoes on the river hurried shoreward.
The speaker went on—
'For many of you, around the name of King, there cluster, I am sure, associations that cannot but bring memories of your past—a past as noble as it is unparalleled in the history of the world.
'My friends and fellow-citizens, I am not unacquainted with what you have done and suffered; of your zeal and unflinching courage, of your devotion to your flag, your country, and your King; of your loyalty and sacrifices; of your honour and perseverance; of what you have done south of the line, nay, of what you have done here;—of these things I might say much, but I feel it is quite unnecessary that I should speak of them. Further, it is a task to which I am unequal. Again, your deeds are their own vindication; your acts are their own eulogy. You left a country rich and beautiful for one that seemed poor and forbidding. No sword was lifted up to drive you hence; driven only by the fire of your loyalty you came; this is your defence. What more is necessary?'
Passing then from the Loyalists, he commended the French for their refusal to assist the rebels; thanked the Indians for the fulfilment of all their treaty obligations; and declared forgiveness to all who, on the river, had been misguided into rebellion. Then, in a few words, he closed.
'And now, my friends and fellow-citizens, as I look abroad upon this magnificent river before me; as I behold these fields and flocks; as I look into your faces and read there your past, I read a future also. You are happy now; it is the King's good pleasure that you shall be happier still. In that distressed land to the south of us, though cannon no longer boom, and though the sword is sheathed, a great war still wages—the war of faction and political turmoil that must always exist where men are unscrupulous and where measures are unjust. Here peace shall flourish. If you will permit me a glimpse into the future years, I see rising a nation, new, pure-blooded, loyal, strong, the happiest land on earth.'
A wave of applause surged over the crowd and swept off to the canoes on the river.
'I wouldn't go back'—it was the loud, shrill voice of David Elton from the crowd that came up above the babel—'I wouldn't go back if they made me president. Look at my farm an' herd o' cattle, an'——' But the rest was lost in the ringing proposal, 'Three cheers for the governor!' It came from a score of throats at once. The cheer, like the applause, ran far out on the river over the swaying canoes.
But the governor had not done yet.
'Here in this magnificent valley'—he swung his hand all about—'here men, by the will of God and the King, shall for ever be free, free to worship as they will, free to govern as they choose, free in all things. See to it, my friends, that you prove not only worthy of your great past but worthy also of your great future.'
He turned and sat down.
Then, as when a volcano opens and pours out its lava and is relieved, the mighty throng burst into 'God Save the King.' Everybody sang. And this also helped in the laying of the foundations of a new province, of a new nation.
The next day, after the governor had departed for St. John, I was talking with Duncan Hale, who had remained. 'What a fine thing it was that the governor got lost?' Duncan said.
'Yes,' I said, 'it drew out the people's sympathy, binding them together, and showing them the governor in a new light.'
'But it did more than that.' Duncan was smiling. 'Didn't you know that last night the governor met a number of the leading people of the river, and that, after explaining to them that you had really saved his life by finding him in the woods, the people unanimously agreed to nominate and elect you their representative in the new Assembly of the province? Didn't you know that?'
'No,' I said. 'I don't believe it.'
'They did it though. You'll find out when the time comes in the fall. And that was not the only matter arranged last night.' I saw a look of mischievous interest grow on the old schoolmaster's face.
'What more, Duncan?' I said. 'Go on.'
'Did you see that tall, fine-looking young Englishman—the governor's secretary—who took the long walk through the meadows and by the river with Caroline in the evening?'
'Well?' I said.
'Well, you heard the governor make a prediction about this country; I am going to make a prediction about that young man and Caroline. They'll be married!' He came near and laid his hand on my arm. 'Do you know,' he said, 'that there is only a single life,—a man of seventy-four,—between that young man and a dukedom?'
I laughed heartily. Soon I was calling at the top of my voice, 'Caroline! Caroline!'
*****
In the late fall of the same year I was sitting one evening, with my mother and sisters, around an open fire. The elections were over—the report from the farthest parish had come in.
A great happiness sat on my mother's face. 'To think,' she said, 'that you were really elected, Roger, and at the head of the poll too.' I did not answer. Something about the room and the way we were seated had suggested to me another occasion, another evening, when, the day after the fight at Lexington, over eight years ago, in deep sorrow, we had gathered in the library of our former home at Cambridge, to make plans for the future. But I recalled my thoughts.
'Yes, mother,' I said, 'there is no doubt of it. I have been elected. Things have not turned out so badly for us after all. Indeed, I do not know a single one of our acquaintances who is not happier than before the war. Doctor Canfield's new church is quite magnificent, Duncan Hale's school is fast becoming a college; as for the farmers about, well—I don't think there is much danger of any of them wanting to go back to be buried "without benefit of clergy." What is it David Elton says? Oh, yes—"I wouldn't go back if they'd make me president." Poor David, the way he did storm and rage the day they put him in the mine with me. True, they were hard days those for both of us.'
'But the mine led to the parliament,' my mother said, smiling.
'Yes,' I said, 'there is no doubt but the war was a blessing to us. We were the real victors in the conflict. We are happier than we ever could have been without it.' As I said this, I looked very hard at Caroline. 'Aren't we, Carrie?' I said. The crimson mounted to her cheeks, and I was preparing to defend myself, when she was forced to join the rest of us in a merry laugh.
'Everything had its part to play—the war—the mine—and last of all even the Loup-garou,' I said, and we all laughed again.
'And just to think, mother,' Elizabeth put in a little later, 'a member of parliament in the family already, and'—her face was beaming with mischief and delight—'and a possible duchess also!'
THE END.
UNWIN BROTHERS, LIMITED, THE GRESHAM PRESS, WOKING AND LONDON.