The rector and his wife delayed their dinner half-an-hour, and then sat down, wondering what had become of Betsey. They had nearly finished when she whirled in, a tumultuous arrangement of white muslin and enthusiasm.
"Oh, auntie! Oh, Uncle Dionysius!" She involved first one and then the other in her manifold frills and puffings by way of embrace. "Congratulate me!--do!--Just think!"
"Sit down, Betsey, and calm yourself," remonstrated the rector, "and then, perhaps, it may be possible to think. Meanwhile you take our breath away. Have you had your dinner?"
"Well, no. But I don't care--or rather, I dare say Iwilltake just a morsel. What have you been having? Chickens? Well, I will take just a bone, and a good plateful of salad, and the rest of that melon. That's all I want. Such news! Only guess! But you would never think. Fact is, the squire--Squire Webb--has--what do you think?"
"Why!" cried Aunt Judy, "I saw you go for a drive with him?--Oh!--Indeed."
Mrs. Martha Herkimer, with her husband, travelling at their leisure in "Noo Hampshire," the country of her girlhood, was a happy woman. He was constantly with her, had few letters to write, and no men to talk business with. He seemed to have laid business aside, would read his newspaper beside her of a morning, and drive with her in the afternoon, to admire the scenery--"objects of interest," the American says, meaning everything the residents plume themselves upon, from the Falls of Niagara, should they possess them, to the new school-house at the Five-mile Cross Roads.
It felt like a renewal of the honeymoon, or those delightful "latter rains," spoken of in scripture, when the thirsty earth, long parched and chapped with drought, drinks in once more the life-restoring moisture, and clothes itself anew with grass and verdure. He told her one day that his house had suspended payment and he was bankrupt, but as they were travelling with every comfort, and there seemed no lack of money, she accepted it as one of the inscrutable phenomena of the commercial world, which she had long given up attempting to understand. Her Ralph, she told herself, could have done nothing wrong. He was fonder of money, and harder and keener about acquiring it, she feared, than was perhaps, perfectly right. Her father had been a preacher of the old Puritan school, ministering to villagers in a sequestered valley, and warning them against worldliness and the race for wealth, the world of wealth being an unknown country there about. If Ralph had lost some of his gatherings now, it might be for his greater good perhaps in other ways. She saw many around her who had failed, and yet lived comfortably and respected afterwards, and she would not be sorry if such were to be the fate of her own good man. It would wean him from the hurry and worry of business, and let him stay more at home than theretofore, to his own good, very probably, and assuredly to her greater happiness.
They travelled about, by road and rail, from one summer hotel to another--there are many of them in the White Mountains--climbing mountains, sailing on ponds, and honeymooning it delightfully all day long, and now they were arriving at Gorham by the evening train, meaning to ascend Mount Washington, already distinguished by his snow-tipped summit, on the morrow. It was a purple evening, with the eastward slopes of the valley reddening in the afterglow, while cool blue shadows stole out of hollows to the westward, forerunners of the twilight. The people on the platform stood in bright relief as the train drew up at the station, and Martha's eye took them all in as she alighted.
"What?" she cried, "General Considine!youhere?" She felt a bump between her shoulders from the wallet of Ralph close behind her, as though he stumbled. "Ralph!" and she turned round, but Ralph was gone--gone back for something left behind no doubt. "General," and she ran up to him and took his hand, while Considine looked disturbed, and said nothing.
"What have you been about, general? Nobody has seen you, nobody knew you were away; and one of your friends--you know who--is far from pleased, I can tell you. But say!--your arm in a sling? Oh, general, you have not been fighting, atyourtime of day, I do hope. When I was a girl we always said a Southern man must have been fighting if he was tied up any way. What have you been doing? A hunting accident?"
"Madam," Considine began, clearing his throat, and looking tall and sternly in the good woman's face, who was regarding him with such friendly eyes. He coughed again, his face softened, and showed signs of discomposure. How could he speak as he felt to this good soul about her own husband, and tell her he was a murderer? He would have liked to get away from her without saying anything; but she had mentioned "a friend," the friend to whom he was at that moment hastening back to apologize for, or at least to explain, his absence. He would like to know beforehand what the friend was saying, and for that, self-control and reticence, combined if necessary with invention, were needed. He coughed again. Martha's last words, "hunting accident," still hanging on his ear, came to his tongue-tip of itself.
"Yes. Hunting accident--gun accident, that is. Thought I was killed. Insensible. A gang of tramps found me, and robbed me--they wore my own clothes before my eyes, the rascals--and saved my life. And now that they have cashed the cheque they made me give them in payment of the treatment, they have discharged me cured. But what do the Miss Stanleys say?"
"Matildy was mighty huffy at first. 'You should have called to explain, or sent a note to apologize,' she said. But when you went on doing neither, she grew down hearted like,--took it to heart serious, I do believe, though she has never owned up as much to anybody. But, if once she makes sure you are in the land of the livin', see if you don't catch it, that's all. I guess I shouldn't like to be you, when you call to explain, unless you can make the narrative real thrillin'. But how was it, general? You must come up to the hotel with us and see Ralph--I don't see where that man's run to--and tell us all about them tramps. Do, now, general, like a dear."
"Impossible, Mrs. Herkimer. I go to Montreal by this very train. Good-bye."
Desdemona listening to the Moor is a parallel not now used for the first time. The "cultured" reader has met it before. But where to find a better? Matilda sat and listened with open-eyed attention while Considine told his story.
She had received him with some slight display of coolness, when he first appeared, but without question and comment. If the men cared no more than to forget their little plan of a lunch in the woods, of what consequence could it possibly be to them? They would know better than trouble him with their little female festivities again, that was all; and if he had been indifferent or rude, at least they knew better than make themselves absurd by showing offence. It was "good morning, Mr. Considine," when he appeared. "So sorry Penelope has gone out. However, she is only down at the farm, talking to Bruneau. She will be back presently." Considine had to say everything for himself, without the assistance which even pretending to call him to account would have given; while all the time he recognized how deeply he must have offended by the severity with which he was chilled and sat upon, as Miss Matilda went on most industriously with her embroidery.
"I failed to turn up at your pic-nic, Miss Matilda."
"Oh! It was no consequence. I dare say you would have found it dull if you had come. As it was, the day was so sultry we felt sure it would thunder, and did not go."
"But I really wished to go, Miss Matilda. I was most desirous---"
Matilda lifted her face to smile a sweet incredulous smile on the visitor, and then went on with her work.
"But it is so, Miss Matilda. I beg you will believe me. And do you suppose I would not have sent you word if it had been possible?"
"We were surprised at that, now I remember. But it was not a party. It was nothing. Pray do not mention it!"
"But I must, Miss Matilda. It was most important to me!"
Miss Matilda laid her work in her lap and looked up.
"I went to bed, Miss Matilda, intending to join your expedition. I got up next morning, still intending it, at six o'clock. You were not to start till eleven. I bathe every morning in the river. I went out in a boat, as usual--one of Podevin's boats. I plunged in and swam--just as I always do--when a rascal--I will not name him--took aim at me from the shore, and shot me in the shoulder. You see my arm is in a sling."
"Oh!" cried Matilda, half rising and dropping the work; "I did not notice your poor arm, Mr. Considine. Indeed I did not. Shot you in the arm? Did it hurt much? Shot--You? Pray tell me about it. Who was the person?"
"A person we both know. But you must not mention his name. Not that he deserves any consideration from honest folks, but for his wife's sake, who is a good woman, and would be horrified if she knew. It was Ralph Herkimer."
"Ralph Herkimer! But why?"
"He called on me with Jordan the night before, asking me to give up his uncle's money, which I hold in trust. You may have heard of the uncle's curious will, which tied up the money out of Ralph's reach. Ah! he knew the rascal. I could not give up the money. It would have been a breach of trust. And so, the very next morning, he fires at me while I am swimming in the river. Fired and struck me. I tried to regain the boat, but I could not. I was crippled of an arm, and I sank, and know no more."
"Mr. Considine!" and Matilda rose and came to the sofa where he sat, her cheek blanched, and betraying an interest which made him feel glad that he had suffered, to call it forth.
"And--well, Mr. Considine, what then?"
"The next thing I knew, I was barely conscious; but I was on dry land, feeling sick and stupid, and more dead than alive. A whole crowd of people were about me, shaking me, punching me, pulling me, bumping me, while I only wished they would let me alone, and let me die; for already I had gone through all the horrors of drowning, and this seemed like an after-death. And then I found myself among blankets, and some one--a witch she looked like--was forcing whisky down my throat, and fingering my wounded shoulder. I was drowsy and miserable, and, thinking I was already dead, I wondered if all this was for my sins. And then I slept, I suppose, for when I woke next it was dark or nearly so; and there was a jolting and rumbling which set my poor shoulder aching miserably; and I tried to sit up, but some one pushed me down again and bade me keep still. When I looked, the witch was perched upon my pillow, with the moonlight slanting through her grisly hair, and a long skinny arm pressing me down. She forced more whisky into my mouth, and then I slept."
"Oh! Mr. Considine. What an experience!"
"I woke again, and it was daylight, and the old hag seated on my pillow had fallen asleep. I sat up slowly and with difficulty, for I was stiff and sore. I was in a waggon under a tree. I tried to rise, but could find nothing save my blanket to dress in. The hag opened her eyes and looked at me, and grinned, and asked me what I wanted to do. I said,' to go home,' and then she laughed out, pointing to me, and reminding me I had no clothing; and at the sound of her voice there gathered round a whole crowd of swarthy vagabonds, grinning at me, and jeering, and when I looked at them, one rascal was wearing my coat, and another kicked up his heels and showed me my boots. A pimpled baby was rolled up in my nice clean shirt, and the captain of the gang pulling my watch out of his pocket, told me it was only five o'clock, and a heap too early for 'a swell cove' to think of rising. I was their prisoner, in short, though I must confess the old woman attended to my wounded shoulder very kindly; bathing it with cool water several times a day, and bandaging it as well as one of our surgeons could have done during the war. They kept me several days with them, in their journeyings and campings, travelling by all kinds of bye-ways and unfrequented places, and keeping me concealed whenever strangers came about the camp. They crossed the Lines, by-and-bye, and travelled into the States. I knew that by the nasal Yankee twang of the strangers' voices, though great care was taken that I should not get speech of them--and then, one day, the captain, the fellow, at least, who wore my watch, told me he thought I was strong enough to travel now, and if I would give them some money to buy me clothes, and pay for the care they had taken of me, I might go my ways. I was so helplessly in their power, that we did not haggle long about the price, though it was a pretty steep one. I wrote them a cheque, which they carried to a neighbouring bank, and so soon as my bankers had honoured it I was set at liberty. I put in a bad time, Miss Matilda, I promise you; but, if you will believe me, what vexed me most of all was to think how I had kept you waiting, and never been able to send a word of excuse. When I was drowning in the river, it was my very last thought, I remember, and when I came to myself it was my first."
"Oh! Mr. Considine. How very nice of you to say so. But don't! It is really too dreadful. It is horrible. I never did hear anything so frightful. And you say that Ralph Herkimer did this abominable deed? Are you sure you are not mistaken? Or it may have been an accident."
"Not a bit of it. I saw him as plain as I see you, and it was no accident. I saw him shoulder his gun to fire again, while I was struggling in the water, in case I had succeeded in gaining my boat."
"You will have him taken up, Mr. Considine? It seems wrong--and dangerous to leave such a person at large."
"I would if it were not for his wife. But you know how she would suffer. She never would be able to show face again. No! For her sake I mean to let the thing pass; and you must promise me, Miss Matilda, you will never mention it."
"How noble of you! Mr. Considine. I shall never be able to look at the ruffian again. And his son is here constantly. But we must put a stop to that. It will vex poor Muriel, I fear, but she will see the reason of the thing. You will allow me to explain to Muriel? There they go; passed the window this very minute. The assassin!"
"Nay! Miss Matilda. Let me intercede for the lad. There is no harm in my young friend Gerald. A fine manly youngster--his mother's son, every inch of him. No, no, my little Muriel--forgive the freedom--must know least of all. Young love! Miss Matilda. It is a charming sight to see. So full, and so trusting--so all-in-all, and yet so delicate and dainty. So fleeting, sometimes. Always so fragile and so irreparable if it gets a bruise. So hopeless to try and bring back its early lustre if once it grows dim. So--but--I'm a maundering old fogey, I suppose. Forgive an old bachelor's drivel, Miss Matilda."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Considine. I sympa--I agree with--it's all so true! There's nothing like youth in all the world, and--love--but, there now! These are things which middle-aged people have no business with----"
"But surely, Miss Matilda. We--they--the middle-aged--have business with that? If our hearts have remained unwithered by the world--if there should still be a germ of life at the core, though hidden by the rind which time brings for a protection, like the scales on a hyacinth root in a gardener's drawer, do you not think it allowable and even fitting, that when warmth gets at them, and moisture, they may sprout forth worthily, even if out of season, each after its kind? Do you suppose a sound heart can ever grow incapable of love. Miss Matilda? Will love ever die?"
"Ah!" and Matilda looked upward. "My own feeling. So true! So comforting! Love never dies. The poets say so. Beyond the grave are we not assured that still and for ever we shall love? But yet--but yet--I fear sometimes that it shows a grovellingness in myself, that I do not cherish the thought more eagerly--as we grow older should our affections not take a higher flight? I long so for more warmth, and regret my coldness and frivolity; but I feel going to church so little helpful."
"You are lonely. Miss Matilda. Aspiring after unseen goodness is a high and abstract flight. It needs companionship. I, too, know what it means. But a man in the world is little able to withdraw his thoughts from worldliness, and I am alone. With help--a good woman's help--Matilda! May I say it? as I have long felt it?--with yours----"
He took her hand and held it, looking in her face.
She did not seem to hear him at first, her eyes were far away. And then she grew to feel the intentness of his gaze, and drew away her hands to hold before her face, where a blush was rising; for the look spoke more of a human than immortal love, and it confused her.
"We will be friends," she said.
"But friendship will not be enough for me, Matilda. You must be my wife."
Matilda was white now. She leaned back in the sofa, and her head fell forward. It seemed to Considine that she would faint, and he had risen to ring, when she recovered self-control, and looked up in his face.
Being a lady of an earlier generation, when fainting was occasionally practised as a climax to emotion, and brides sometimes wept at the altar on biddingadieuto the associations of their youth, allowance must be made for Matilda by young women of the modern and robuster school, who can ratify an engagement for life with the same outward composure as one for the next valse. The modes of emotional expression and disguise are as much a question of date as the fashions in hair-dressing. Matilda was no more a lackadaisical fool than you are, my good madam; nor are you, I do believe, one whit more hard or heartless than she, whom I take to have been a good and affectionate woman.
Penelope came in from the farm not long after, and there was much to tell her. Considine was persuaded to remain for dinner, and went away in the evening a happy man.
The hyacinths were getting their chance at last, and he promised himself that with care and shelter they would sprout yet, and bloom in the autumn, as fragrantly and gay as with other fortune they might have done in spring.
There was a lacrosse match at Montreal that September, the Indians of Brautford against the Indians of Caughnawaga, at which that section of the community interested in sport, and now returned from the regattas of the coast, mustered strong. The Lacrosse Club, the getters-up of the exhibition, were there in a body, the school boys were all there, and the betting men, as well as those who are willing to go anywhere on a fine day on any pretext, and the ladies, who like to see what is the excitement which draws the latter class--the butterfly class--together.
"See how the Caughnawagas have got the ball, and are carrying it on, and on. There--there! They will win. Almost at the goal. But, ah! That little fellow! He seems only a boy. How he breaks through them--See! He has got it away--caught it on his lacrosse--throws it back over his shoulder--away back past them all. Not a Caughnawaga near it. And now Brautford has got it. They strike it again and again. Won! By Jove! Brautford has won. Who would have thought it?"
It was Randolph Jordan who spoke, springing on his chair and waving his hat in the general tumult of applause, and the cheering for "Little Brautford," who now rejoined his comrades amidst the loud plaudits in which they all shared, but which were especially for him who had earned the victory. They had won the first game.
Randolph occupied a chair in front of the grand stand, and beside him sat Adéline Rouget, dressed in cardinal red and white, tolerably conspicuous, and not objecting to be looked at; but still better pleased with the evident admiration in Randolph's eyes, and the devoted attention he was paying her, than with anything else. They were old friends, those two, now. Their friendship dated from the night of their first tobogganing together, when Randolph had discovered to his surprise that mademoiselle was "really a jolly girl, and with no nonsense in her." They had many another tobogganing after that first, and many a jolly waltz, and found that they suited each other to a nicety. Both were fairly good looking, and always well got up, and each felt the presence of the other was a credit and setoff to one's self in the eyes of the world to which both belonged. It is a strong point in a friendship when one is sure that it looks well. A friend of the other sex, with whom one groups badly, may be a delightful companion at home or in the country; but what pleasure can there be in being seen in society dancing with a guy? A certain share of the ridicule will fall on one's self. It must always show one at a disadvantage, and if it is a dance, how can even the finest figure and get-up look well, if awkwardly held or turned round, or rumpled as to flounces, and so forth?--or hung upon, or stood away from, as if people were marionettes?
These two young people realized that they looked well together. Their friends had told them so frequently; therefore it was indubitable, even if they had not known it themselves. Their relations had also told them that they should marry, and as each found the other extremely "jolly" and companionable, and saw in a joint establishment an indefinite prolongation of the gaieties of the past six months, they were nothing loth. People said they were engaged, and they supposed so themselves; in fact, they must have been, for in their conversations that was taken for granted. They were not of a "spoony" disposition, as they said themselves, however, and found many other things to talk about more interesting than an analysis of their affections; and nothing but opposition applied to their head-strong tempers could have fanned their easy-going preference into an appearance of genuine strength. That stimulus was now afforded by the lady's papa, in a way both sudden and unexpected.
Randolph had resumed his seat beside his companion, and plied the fan for her, while she managed the parasol, so as to make a small tent, from under which they could scan their neighbours while greatly sheltered themselves. There was a tap on Randolph's shoulder, accompanied by "Pairmit me, sair."
Randolph looked round. "Mr. Rouget! Good morning, sir. I did not think we should have had the happiness to see you here--believed you were in New York. When did you arrive in Montreal?" His hand was held out while he spoke, expectant of being shaken, but it remained untouched. This might have been an oversight, though Mr. Rouget was scrupulously particular in such matters, as a rule; but on the present occasion he seemed resolved there should be no mistake. The extended hand not having been withdrawn when the speaker ceased, he drew himself up to the top notch of his stature--it was French stature, and not excessive--placing his hands behind his back with a look of lowering majesty and indignation, which made him as overhanging and colossal, if also as stagy, as was possible.
"Sair! Pairmit me to pass you."
Randolph drew half a step aside, and backward; it was all he could do, owing to his companion's close proximity.
"I vish to speak to mademoiselle, my daughtaire."
"Adéline is here, sir;" showing with his left hand how the parent might place himself on her other side.
"Mademoiselle Rouget vill dispense vit your presence, sair," with severe dignity; and he stepped, not as ushered by Randolph's left hand, but in the direction of his right, the consequence being that his foot caught between the legs of Randolph's chair, and he found himself prostrated on the turf.
"Mon Dieu!" cried Adéline, rising and taking refuge with one of her friends, a few chairs off, under the impression that a brawl in public was imminent, and screening herself from all share in it with her parasol, while she continued to watch the scene through the fringes.
"Sac-r-r-ré," growled the father, passing from dignity into fury. Dignity cannot possibly survive a trip up with a chair leg, and there is no refuge from the ridicule of the thing but in anger.
"You vould dare knock me down?Coquin!" as he regained his feet, grasping his cane, and gnawing his white moustache between his teeth.
"Pardon me, Mr. Rouget," said Professor Hammerstone, coming forward and dusting a blade of grass with his handkerchief from the angry gentleman's sleeve. "I hope you have not hurt yourself. I was standing by, and you must forgive my saying that our young friend here is really not to blame for this little accident. It is all the fault of those foolish chairs. I have bruised my own shins with them. The club would have done better to provide benches. Jordan is as innocent of thecontretempsas I am."
Rouget bowed--what else could he do?--and thanked Professor Hammerstone, who at least had done him the kindness of giving him a cue to modulate back naturally into the ordinary manner of civilized men; but he scowled at Randolph, who, in the bewilderment caused by Rouget's unexpected address--they had parted last as any expectant father and son-in-law might, three weeks before--had nearly laughed at his sudden downfall.
"I vill rekvest you to valk aside vit me one instant, sair. Dis vay."
Randolph followed, and presently they were out of the crowd, pacing the grass in silence. Rouget cleared his throat, pushed out his chest, and strove to be grand once more.
"It surprises me, Mistaire Jordan, to observe you in ze society of Mademoiselle Rouget. I demand zat you do not intrude yourself again."
"Not speak to my promised wife, Mr. Rouget? I do not understand."
"Understand zen, sair, zat mademoiselle is no more promessed to you. You mus be fol to expect it. Ze son of your fazer mus know so much. He has vat you call 'chiselled' and 'gouged' me of my money, and my shares, and land. He has----"
"Mr. Rouget! Is it the part of a gentleman to speak of my father in such terms to me? I did not think you would have done it. I know nothing of business transactions between you and my father. I presume both are men of the world. It would be impertinent in me to inquire into your affairs. But you yourself have sanctioned my pretensions to Adéline's hand, and our engagement."
"Have ze bounty to speake of Mademoiselle Rouget by her proper title--Mademoiselle Rouget de La Hache-young sair! Ze promesse or contract is now forfeit, as you should know, by zechicaneof--ofmonsieur voire père," with a shrug and a low bow. "I mus rekvest you vill not again intrude yourself on ze presence of mademoiselle my daughtaire, who is on ze point to make a retraite at ze Convent of ze Sacred Heart, and von day may have ze blessedness to becomeréligieuse. Mademoiselle Rouget vill not be at home to you in future." And thereupon the little gentleman executed his very finest bow, exhibiting both rows of his perfectly-fitting false teeth from ear to ear, and turned away. He was surprised, a minute later, on turning his head, to observe that Randolph, at a yard or two of distance, was pursuing the same course as himself towards where his daughter was sitting.
"Mistaire Jordan! I protest! Have I not defended you from coming in presence of my daughtaire? Vould you drawesclandreon mademoiselle beforetout le monde?"
"I must return Mademoiselle Rouget's fan, sir."
Rouget held forth his hand ready to become the bearer; but, disregarding the motion, Randolph only quickened his pace, Rouget following as quickly as he dared without appearing to run a race.
Randolph arrived first, and presented the fan, saying, "I shall pass your garden gate ten minutes before seven," and withdrew in time to make way for Rouget, who presented his arm with a ceremonious bow, and led his daughter from the ground.
Their walk homeward could not have been a happy one. When Randolph met Adéline, at ten minutes before seven, her face was flushed and her eyes swollen.
"Adéline! have you consented to be made a nun, then?"
"Not if I know it! Not if my Randolphe ees true."
"Are you game to run away, Adéline? It would be a sin to cut off all that splendid hair. My mother is at Long Branch. Shall we go to her? I have money enough to take us down."
"Long Branch! It vould be divine! my Randolphe. Ze saison ees not yet there passed. I vill go. But--for ze toilettes? And so many are demanded zere. But yes! I do see ze vay. I vill send ze robes tocette chèreMlle. Petitôt, and she vill forvard by express."
"The very thing! I hate the bother of women's trunks. Besides, we could not get them out of the house. You can stroll in to Mlle. Petitôt after dinner and explain. She will do anything to oblige a friend. And then your maid can bundle the things over the wall, from the one garden to the other, and Mlle. Petitôt will do the rest. Our train leaves at half-past eleven to-night. I shall be at the corner with a cab at eleven sharp. Be sure and bring as little baggage as you can; nothing but what I can carry on the run from here to the corner, for you know we might be chased, and then it would be convent, sure--a hand-bag is the best thing."
"There is the dinner bell.Au revoir. I shall be ready at eleven."
Amelia Jordan was surprised rather than pleased, three days after, when the cards of her "children" were brought up to her with her morning tea. They had arrived late overnight, she was told, too late to disturb her, and they hoped to see her at breakfast about ten.
"Oh, you imprudent children!" she cried an hour later, meeting them in a broad verandah overlooking the sea. "You impetuous, inconsiderate, absurd pair of children. And to come to Long Branch, of all places. Do you know how much a day it costs to live here? And what about gowns, Adéline? You can scarcely come down to breakfast, even once, in that travelling suit, and assuredly you must not be seen in it again after half-past eleven."
"We came to you, mother, because we had no one else," said Randolph. "Adéline has run away, without a single thing, unless Mlle. Petitôt should send her some clothes, and that depends on the maid's being able to throw them over the garden wall."
"You pair of babies! Adéline, the very wisest thing that you can do is to go right back home again."
"They'd stick her into a convent, mother. Her father told me himself he meant to. Besides, she'syourdaughter now as much as his. We stopped over in New York yesterday and got married."
"Good gracious! I never heard anything so preposterous. And how do you propose to live?"
"We mean to live withyou, mother, to comfort your failing years like dutiful children?"
"Well, now, that really is kind of you, I must say. The sooner I get back to my quiet little house at St. Euphrase, then, the better. I cannot afford to support a family of three at Long Branch. It costs a great deal too much for the mere living, not to speak of the dressing. Again, at St. Euphrase, I can make you young people work for your board, as, of course, being honest, you would like. Randolph shall dig the garden and Adéline shall milk the cows. That will save me two servants' wages."
"Mais, madame," whimpered Adéline, "Randolphe has me promessed to come to Long Branch for to see ze gaieties."
"My child, you have no clothes to appear in. You will have to look at the gaieties from your bedroom window, and even your meals will have to be brought you. Are you aware that three new gowns every day is the smallest number in which any self-respecting woman can appear at Long Branch? You need not smile, it is no laughing matter. You will compromise me hopelessly if you come downstairs, and, I may add, that any things Mlle. Petitôt may send you will not help you here. Tailor-made gowns arede rigueur, and above all, they must be indubitably new, and worn for the very first time. I would recommend a bilious attack, my dear; keep your room. And, after all, a fictitious attack of bile is better than the real thing. I will arrange for our going back to Canada, and with that view, perhaps, I had better begin by writing your mother. She will be anxious to know what has become of you, and I dare say I shall be able to make your peace now, more easily than later."
"Ah!Chère madame, do not write. Zey vill send me to zecouvent. I know so vell. And never to come out again. And zere I shall be made make zegrande rétraitefor always for marrying me vidout consent. And it will be sotriste, havepitié, ma mere."
"My dear child, you may trust me. I have no intention of giving you up, all the archbishops in Lower Canada shall not deprive my boy of his wife. Now, be sensible, for once! Go back to your room, and I will do my best for you."
And poor Adéline, like a naughty child, went upstairs to her room.
That day Amelia had a long letter to write. She liked letter-writing, for she imagined she had a talent for affairs, and this is what she wrote:
"Long Branch.
"My Dear Madame Rouget,
"I have been so startled this morning by the totally undreamt of appearance of your daughter in company with my boy Randolph. They informed me that they stopped over at New York and were married, and have now come on here to favour me with a visit during their honeymoon. I am powerless, therefore, to separate them, as otherwise I would. I hasten to inform you of this, judging from my own feelings that you will be thankful to learn that your daughter, on her disappearance, has fallen into good hands. At the same time, permit me to assure you, dear Madame Rouget, that this--I scarcely know how to express my feelings on the subject--this elopement is none of my devising. I neither instigated, assisted, nor approve it. The children are of different faiths, and I fear poor Adéline has no fortune, and no prospect of ever having any. She has come here claiming my maternal care, and, actually, she has not a gown fit to appear at breakfast in. I have recommended her to keep her room, and, if you are the reasonable person I have believed you, I shall see that she stays there till she has received her mother's forgiveness for this very foolish step. Indeed, it is superabundantly foolish, and you may assure M. Rouget, from me, that I deplore it far more than he possibly can. To think that my cherished son should have married a French woman, and withoutdot. It is mortifying. When there are differences of religion there ought to be compensation. M. Rouget will reply that it is owing to Randolph's father that his daughter is not suitably dowered. Perhaps so; I shall not express an opinion; but, for myself, I feel untrammelled by such a consideration. When I was married myself, my dearest father saw that I did not go to my husband penniless. He availed himself of our admirable Lower Canada law, and I wasséparée des biens. I have my own income, which no one can touch, and my own house at St. Euphrase, bought with my own money. If La Hache--what is left of it--were settled on your daughter in the same way, it might prove a blessing some day.
"And this brings me to my purpose in writing you. Dear Madame Rouget, had we not better make a virtue of necessity and accept an accomplished fact? It would be better, surely, to have our children properly married in a church than merely for them to have been buckled together by a Yankee magistrate. My boy insists that M. Rouget shall assure him on this point before he returns to Canada. His wife, as he calls her, being under legal age, if any difficulty is made, he threatens to continue living in this country, which I am sure you would regret as much as I shall. As to their plans, the young people can live with me till some employment is found for Randolph. The Minister of Drainage and Irrigation should be able to find him something.
"As to their religion, they have already settled that question for themselves, having adopted civil marriage. Had Randolph's suit progressed, as was at one time contemplated, it is probable that, as he is no bigot, he might have acquiesced in any wishes of hisfiancéeor her family; but now they have forbidden the match, and yet it has taken place. I will not consent to any disrespect being now shown to our venerable Church of England, and, indeed, I have never been able to understand how one section of the Catholic Church can claim superiority over another. No doubt when the present difficulty shall have been arranged, the young couple, who appear devotedly attached to each other, will grow into each other's views, and both be of the same communion. Meanwhile, I am aware that in your church there are difficulties connected with mixed marriages; but his grace the archbishop, as I have been informed, holds discretionary power to grant a dispensation for sufficient reason. I am confident his grace will see such reasons in the present case, as otherwise our hapless children will be condemned to remain in this most undevout republic, and may become the prey of no one knows what pernicious sect.
"Assuring you of my entire sympathy, and begging that you will not defer your reply, for in truth the hotel bills at Lone Branch for a party of three are enough to make one shudder, believe me,
"Dear Madame Rouget,
"Yours in parallel tribulation,
"Amelia Jordan."
"Now!" cried the lady, throwing down her pen; "I defy them to pretend thatwewanted their alliance!" Then she read the letter over, frowning at it critically the while.
"It is an impertinent letter--or insolent, rather; but what is one to do? If one shows a tittle of respect they take it as their due, and become so hoity-toity one can do nothing with them."
The letter duly reached its destination, and was fumed and growled over by magnates both of Church and State. Nothing could be done, however, and, therefore, like prudent people, they yielded--yielded, too, with a very tolerable grace; and Amelia returned to St. Euphrase triumphant, leading her children in her suite, and with a vastly heightened opinion of her own cleverness.
The lacrosse match proceeded all the same, though M. Rouget had withdrawn the patronage of his presence. The interest felt in the second game was greater than that in the first. Every one with money to stake was on thequi vive; the chances were considered even now, whereas in the first innings, every one believed in Caughnawaga, and odds had to be given to tempt the few down-hearted Upper Canadians to back Brautford. The second game ended like the first, to the general surprise, and again Brautford's success was largely due to the clever stripling, who, bounding about the field as nimbly as the ball itself, was always where he was most wanted, and calmly did the best thing to do at the time. "Who is the little one?" was asked on every hand; but no one was ready with an answer other than the obvious one, "Injun, like the rest," till a squaw--one of the many who circulated among the crowd, brown as horse chestnuts, with little beads of eyes and broad flat faces, arrayed in moccasins and blankets, yellow, red, and blue, selling bark and bead work--vouchsafed the laconic information, "name Paul."
The third game was longer and more obstinately contested than either of its predecessors. Caughnawaga braced itself for a supreme effort, under the reproaches of its backers and the taunts of the very squaws. The best of five were to take the stakes. If Brautford won this third, the match was over, and Caughnawaga "knocked into a cocked hat." The players fought their most strenuous on either side, with tight set teeth and wicked-looking eyes, which boded ill for joint or limb which should happen within the swing of a lacrosse. Caughnawaga was desperate, following up its capture of the ball with a compact rush, and interposing their wiry bodies recklessly between it and the uplifted sticks of the other side. Rushing and scuffling, they had carried it nearly to their goal, another lick, and the game were won; when, in front, there leaped the redoubtable Paul, scooped it up on his netting, and threw it back over their heads.
It was done in a moment, while yet the rush and impetus were unstemmed; an instant later and he was stumbled upon and run down by his eager opponents, trampled on and stunned, before they could stay themselves in their rush. They tripped over him and fell in a heap, while the Brautford men caught the ball in the undefended middle and had little opposition in carrying it to the other goal.
"Brautford! Hurrah for Brautford!" The Caughnawaga's heard the shout while they were still disentangling and picking themselves up, a defeated band. They picked themselves up and slunk away like cats, that, raiding a dairy, are suddenly drenched and discomfited by an ambushed milker. Only Paul was left on the ground, stunned and unable to rise.
His comrades were the first to miss him; and they, perhaps, were reminded of him by their backers in the crowd, for triumph is a self-engrossing passion, and glory so sweet a sugar-stick, that, while sucking it, we are not too likely to go in search of the comrade to whom the most of it is due.
"Where is the young 'un?" was questioned in the crowd. "Where is Paul?" and the crowd turned to the now deserted portion of the field where he had last been seen. He was there still. A squaw in a red blanket was beside him; she had raised his head and was chafing his temples. Another squaw--a young one, this--was seen fetching water to pour on him. But now the crowd was interested, they had gathered round him, and soon carried him into the refreshment tent, where whisky, the sporting man's nostrum, was used to restore him.
The notable Indians on the ground, the elders who did not join in youthful sports, had gathered to look at the youth who had done so well, and who might yet, for anything they could know, come forth one day, a champion of their race. For who can tell what fancies may be cherished by the red man? The white does not sympathize with them, and therefore he puts them away, behind his impenetrable stolidity of bearing, which might conceal so much, but more frequently and with equal success hides nothing at all. They were once possessors of the land, in so far, at least, as being there, for they shared it with the beasts. Traditions of the physical prowess of their fathers are handed down among them, and who can tell but, in their dreams, they may look forward to a hero like those of old to arise and vindicate their place among the whites.
Our old friend, Paul, of long ago, was a leading figure among these elders, and one of evident consideration. A tall man, grown fleshy from ease and lack of exercise, the violent exercises of his youth, with his straight black hair threaded plentifully with white--a "respectable" Indian, one seemingly well to do. The token of his respectability was likewise that which deprived him of every vestige of dignity or grace, to wit, a suit of rusty black clothes. It is the queer tribute of respect which men of other races pay to our European civilization. They cast away their native braveries and picturesqueness of apparel, and accept the clothing of the white man taken at its baldest and worst. An Indian, a Japanese, or a negro, goes into full dress by putting on a chimney-pot hat and black raiment, resembling that worn by undertakers' mutes, never well-fitting, never well cared for, and harmonizing vilely with his dusky skin, while his own natural instincts can arrange combinations so suitable and becoming.
Paul stepped forward to where the lad lay, and surveyed the shapely limbs. He was conscious now, but still dull and stupid, and not averse to being a centre of interest. Paul laid his hand on his brow, and felt his chest, and thought he was as fine a man of his years as he ever beheld. The squaw in the red blanket looked up at him, while she continued to chafe the boy's hands, and seemed greatly moved; but it would have been unworthy of a "respectable" Indian of Paul's standing, to take notice of a squaw on a public occasion like the present. He moved away, and out of the throng in time, preparing to smoke a pipe in quiet. The squaw in the red blanket followed him, and when she had got him well out of notice, that his lordly superiority might not be ruffled by the familiarity in public, she laid her hand on his arm, and said, "Paul."
Paul turned his sleepy eyes that way, but it was only a squaw, a strange squaw. He had nothing to say.
"Your son!" said the squaw, touching his arm again. He stopped at that, and she pointed over her shoulder with her thumb to the crowd they had come from.
"Mine?"
"Yours, Paul."
"Who are you?"
"His mother--Fidèle--Your squaw."
"My son? Where born?"
"Brautford. You bade me go to Brautford."
"Ouff." It would have been undignified for a man like Paul to say more. It meant all he had to say, too, very likely. For, doubtless, language which is never uttered ceases to be given birth to in the mind. He turned, however, with Fidèle, and both walked back to the tent.
The lad was better now. Refreshment was going on, the people seeing him able to dispense with their care, had turned their attention to sustaining themselves. He got up and joined his mother coming in, and they went out again to a quiet place, followed by Paul, that his parental feelings might be gratified with an interview, without compromising his dignity by an exhibition before the world.
It seemed an unnecessary precaution. Paul's feelings, if he had any, were under far too good control to lead him into impropriety. He sat down with them on a deserted bench, however, questioned them both, and finally accepted his son and his long absent spouse to his heart; that is to say, he bade them follow him to Lachine, and then conducted them across the river, and to his home in Caughnawaga.
Thérèse had ruled there as mistress from the day Fidèle had gone away. That was so long ago now, that it had never occurred to her that her sister would return, and the Père Théophile, a wise ruler, who, while his flock did their duty according to what he considered their lights, and were duly submissive, did not unnecessarily fret them with abstract questions of affinity, ignored any irregularity, collected the church dues from them, and christened the children. There were but two of these, and girls both, to the intense disappointment and mortification of Paul. Imagine his satisfaction, then, to find himself in possession of a well-grown son of fifteen years--well-grown, and such a player at lacrosse. Was it not he alone, and not the Brautford band in general, who had beaten the Caughnawagas? And now he would be of the Caughnawagas himself, and Paul would make much money, in bets and otherwise, out of his son's fine play.
He received, then, his new-found family into his home and established them there with honour. Young Paul, with the privileges of a "buck," lolled about the place, eating, sleeping, smoking all day long, like his father. Fidèle sat by the hearth in her blanket and smoked her pipe, while the household drudgery, now doubled by the addition to the household, trebled by the presence of a squaw claiming to be first wife, criticizing, ordering, and doing no work, fell on Thérèse and her girls--to cut and carry wood, draw water, dig potatoes, cook, and share the leavings, after the more considered members had eaten their fill. It was hard lines.
The village was speedily aware of the accession to its inhabitants. That same evening the crest-fallen lacrosse players were told that old Paul had recognized young Paul as his son, and brought him away from the Brautford band to themselves; and all the bucks in the Reservation came to welcome the certain winner of games, and congratulate his father. The middle-aged squaws recollected Fidèle, and came to praise her son, squatting round the hearth in their blankets with lighted pipes, while poor Thérèse, deposed from her motherhood of the house, stole out to the garden-patch to dig and bewail her fate.
It cannot be supposed that the relations of the two squaws could be cordial when they found themselves alone together. Their being sisters made it none the less intolerable to be, or to have been, supplanted. Thérèse felt injured now, and Fidèle remembered the wrongs and the jealousy of fifteen years. It was not many days before they came to blows, scolding, screaming, scratching, and pulling handfuls of each other's hair, till a crowd of squaws had gathered from the surrounding cabins; when Paul, the lord and master, appeared upon the scene, and, in the grand heroic manner of the wilderness and its uncontaminated sons, took down his cudgel from the wall, and belabouring them both with soundness and impartiality, commanded them to desist. Was it not shocking, dear lady? Yet, it was only one of those shocking things which have been going on from the foundation of the world--which are going on still, in Egypt, Russia, and elsewhere. The strong use a stick to the weak, and order, of a sort, is maintained. We know better, and have changed all that, and we go on improving, though it may still be a question how it is going to answer in the end. It is the weakest and the shrillest voiced, with us, who rule. The burly and the peaceable stop their ears, and yield to escape the din. By-and-bye we shall have all the ignorant to make our laws and instruct us. Shall we be better off, I wonder? When every one is master, who will serve? When all become commissioned officers, who will be left to fill the ranks?
There was worse yet in store for Thérèse, however. Fidèle must needs go to mass in that well-watched community. In Brant she could please herself, but in Caughnawaga there were ladies of the convent to be pleased, who were so bountiful. Fidèle's re-appearance came thus officially before the Père Théophile. Scandal must be prevented, Paul could not be permitted the luxury of two wives at once, however capable he might be of keeping them both in order. More, it was the newcomer, in this case, who was the lawful wife. Thérèse must go, and he laid his injunction on Paul accordingly. Paul was submissive; one squaw was enough to mind his comfort, and it mattered not which, though, if anything, the boy's mother would suit the best. He obeyed with promptitude, and after administering a parting beating, he turned the three forlorn ones out of doors.
When a turkey comes to grief, through sickness or accident, the rest of the flock are apt to set upon it and peck it to death. It is a Spartan regimen, and encourages the others to keep well. The spirit prevailing in Caughnawaga was in so much Spartan or turkey-ish--it is a spirit not unknown at times in more cultured circles. Nobody dreamed of coming forward out of natural kindness; and, as a matter of duty, there was too much of the improper in the whole story, for any one brazenly to claim praise from the ladies of the convent for sheltering homeless ones such as these. It seemed irreverent, even, to suppose it could be a Christian duty to succour them.
The outcasts walked down the village street, hiding their faces in their blankets, bruised and ashamed. No one spoke to them or pitied them. The squaws, their daily companions, sitting at their doors, sewing, smoking, idling, looked steadily at them as they went by; some with a wooden stolidity which showed no sign of recognition, some with a spiteful and vindictive leer. Thérèse had been better off than many of them, but who would change places with her now?
The dusk was falling, and the nights were growing chilly now; there might be frost before morning. The gleam of firelight, the twinkle of lamps, shone through cabin windows and from open doors, but no one bade them enter. There was heavy dew in the air, the herbage was soaked with moisture, and therefore they would not turn aside into the bush, to drench themselves among the dripping leaves, and be chilled to the bone with hoar frost, perchance, ere morning. They went forward to the river-side, and out upon the pier, where the water swept smoothly by, murmuring monotonously in a sombre passionless sough, black as their own desolate misery, still and undemonstrative as themselves.
They huddled themselves together under the lee of some bales and boxes, their chins upon their knees within their blankets, and there they crouched and shivered, all through the livelong night, sleeping at times or drowsing, but always motionless, with the sound of the mighty river in their ears, promising nothing, regretting nothing, yet consoling in its changeless continuance--a life, and one in harmony with their own, a seeming sympathy, when all the world beside had cast them off.