CHAPTER X.
BY PHAETON TO CANADA—NOTES OF A SEVEN HUNDRED MILES TRIP.
Where shall we begin to tell you about our very best journey? Perhaps the beginning is a good starting point, but we must make long leaps somewhere or the story will be as long as the journey. We have taken a great many phaeton trips—we think we will not say how many much longer—but we will say softly to you that two more will make twenty. They are never planned beforehand, so of course we did not know when we started off on the morning of July 8th that we were going to “skip to Canada.” When the daily letters began to appear with little pink stamps on them, some were so unkind as to doubt our veracity, and declare a solemn belief that we meant to go there all the time, for all we said we really did not know where we would go after we got to Fitchburg. If it was in our inner mind, the idea never found expression until we had that chance conversation at Burlington, a full week after we left home.
That week alone would have been a fair summer “outing.” The first one hundred miles was along a lovely, woodsy road, taking us through Winchendon, Fitzwilliam, Keene, Walpole, Bellows Falls and Chester to Ludlow. The gap between Chester and Ludlow would be a charming daily drive in midsummer. From Ludlow the fates led us over Mt. Holly to Rutland, where we have been so many times and then seemed to leave us entirely, unless the faint whisperings that we might go to Benson to make a wedding call beforehand, and then decide on some route north, was intended for a timely hint.
Whatever sent us or drew us there, we were glad we went, and once there talking it all over with friends, who knew how to avoid the worst of the clay roads, it seemed the most natural thing in the world to go right on to Burlington, spending Sunday so restfully at Middlebury. Had we doubted our course we should have been reassured, when we learned from the cousin whose aching head was cured by the sudden shock of our appearance, that we were just in season for the commencement exercises that would make of a mutual cousin a full-fledged M. D. The evening at the lovely Opera House was a pleasant incident.
Here again we came to a standstill, without a whispering, even. As we were “doing” Burlington the next day, with cousin number one for a guide (cousin number two took early flight for home, and missed the surprise we planned for him), visiting the hospital, Ethan Allen’s monument, and so on, we talked one minute of crossing Lake Champlain, and going to Au Sable Chasm, and the next of taking the boat to Plattsburg, then driving north. We did get so far as to think of the possibility of leaving Jerry at Rouse’s Point, and taking a little trip to Montreal and down the St. Lawrence to call on a friend who said to us at her wedding, “You must drive up to see me next summer.” But we did not think to explore the Canadian wilds with no other protector than Jerry; for we had strange ideas of that country. We went to the different boat-landings and made all sorts of inquiries; then returned to the hotel for dinner and decision on something.
The city was so full of M. D.’s and their friends that the washing of our phaeton had been neglected, and as the proprietor stood at the door when we drove to the hotel, we thought we would appeal to his authority in the matter. “Why,” he said, “are you driving yourselves; where are you going? Come right into the office and let me plan a trip for you.” We took our map and followed along, as he mentioned point after point in northern Vermont where we would find comfortable hotels; and he seemed to know so much of the country about that we asked finally how it would be driving in Canada? Would it be safe for us? “Safe! You can go just as well as not. You can drive after dark or any time—nicest people in the world—do anything for you.” Then he began again with a Canadian route via St. Armand, St. John, St. Cesaire, St. Hilaire, and we began to think the country was full of saints instead of sinners as we had fancied. We ran our finger along the map as he glibly spoke these strange-sounding names and found he was headed straight for Berthier, the very place we wanted to go to. We stopped him long enough to ask how far from St. Hilaire to Berthier.
“Berthier! Drive to Berthier! Why, bless me, your horse would die of old age before you got home!”
Evidently he had reached his limits. Berthier was beyond him. We, however, could see no obstacles on our map, and it was only “an inch and a half” farther (to be sure, our map was a very small one), and Jerry is young and strong—why not try it, any way?
We ordered Jerry sent round at three o’clock, and in the meantime we dined, and went with our helpful friend to the Custom House, as we could not drive into Canada without being “bonded.” Whatever sort of an operation this might be, we ascertained it could not be effected until we got to St. Albans.