“I wish to go with you. Do what I tell you, and I will pay you.”
The stolid boatman gave the command; the man at the bow paddled one way, while the man at the stern paddled another, and the canoe swung round upstream again.
Contents
The sun had gone down when Miss Sommerton put her foot once more on the landing.
“We will go and search for him,” said the boatman.
“Stay where you are,” she commanded, and disappeared swiftly up the path. Expecting to find him still at the falls, she faced the prospect of a good mile of rough walking in the gathering darkness without flinching. But at the brow of the hill, within hearing distance of the landing, she found the man of whom she was in search. In her agony of mind Miss Sommerton had expected to come upon him pacing moodily up and down before the falls, meditating on the ingratitude of womankind. She discovered him in a much less romantic attitude. He was lying at full length below a white birch-tree, with his camera-box under his head for a pillow. It was evident he had seen enough of the Shawenegan Falls for one day, and doubtless, because of the morning’s early rising, and the day’s long journey, had fallen soundly asleep. His soft felt hat lay on the ground beside him. Miss Sommerton looked at him for a moment, and thought bitterly of Mason’s additional perjury in swearing that he was an elderly man. True, his hair was tinged with grey at the temples, but there was nothing elderly about his appearance. Miss Sommerton saw that he was a handsome man, and wondered this had escaped her notice before, forgetting that she had scarcely deigned to look at him. She thought he had spoken to her with inexcusable bluntness at the falls, in refusing to destroy his plate; but she now remembered with compunction that he had made no allusion to his ownership of the boat for that day, while she had boasted that it was hers. She determined to return and send one of the boatmen up to awaken him, but at that moment Trenton suddenly opened his eyes, as a person often does when some one looks at him in his sleep. He sprang quickly to his feet, and put up his hand in bewilderment to remove his hat, but found it wasn’t there. Then he laughed uncomfortably, stooping to pick it up again.
“I—I—I wasn’t expecting visitors,” he stammered—
“Why did you not tell me,” she said, “that Mr. Mason had promised you the boat for the day?”
“Good gracious!” cried Trenton, “has Ed. Mason told you that?”
“I have not seen Mr. Mason,” she replied; “I found it out by catching an accidental remark made by one of the boatmen. I desire very humbly to apologise to you for my conduct.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter at all, I assure you.”
“What! My conduct doesn’t?”
“No, I didn’t mean quite that; but I—Of course, you did treat me rather abruptly; but then, you know, I saw how it was. You looked on me as an interloper, as it were, and I think you were quite justified, you know, in speaking as you did. I am a very poor hand at conversing with ladies, even at my best, and I am not at my best to-day. I had to get up too early, so there is no doubt what I said was said very awkwardly indeed. But it really doesn’t matter, you know—that is, it doesn’t matter about anything you said.”
“I think it matters very much—at least, it matters very much to me. I shall always regret having treated you as I did, and I hope you will forgive me for having done so.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Trenton, swinging his camera over his shoulder. “It is getting dark, Miss Sommerton; I think we should hurry down to the canoe.”
As they walked down the hill together, he continued—
“I wish you would let me give you a little lesson in photography, if you don’t mind.”
“I have very little interest in photography, especially amateur photography,” replied Miss Sommerton, with a partial return of her old reserve.
“Oh, I don’t wish to make an amateur photographer of you. You sketch very nicely, and—”
“How do you know that?” asked Miss Sommerton, turning quickly towards him: “you have never seen any of my sketches.”
“Ah, well,” stammered Trenton, “no—that is—you know—are not those water-colours in Mason’s house yours?”
“Mr. Mason has some of my sketches. I didn’t know you had seen them.”
“Well, as I was saying,” continued Trenton, “I have no desire to convert you to the beauties of amateur photography. I admit the results in many cases are very bad. I am afraid if you saw the pictures I take myself you would not be much in love with the art. But what I wish to say is in mitigation of my refusal to destroy the plate when you asked me to.”
“Oh, I beg you will not mention that, or refer to anything at all I have said to you. I assure you it pains me very much, and you know I have apologised once or twice already.”
“Oh, it isn’t that. The apology should come from me; but I thought I would like to explain why it is that I did not take your picture, as you thought I did.”
“Not take my picture? Why Isawyou take it. You admitted yourself you took it.”
“Well, you see, that is what I want to explain. I took your picture, and then again I didn’t take it. This is how it is with amateur photography. Your picture on the plate will be a mere shadow, a dim outline, nothing more. No one can tell who it is. You see, it is utterly impossible to take a dark object and one in pure white at the instantaneous snap. If the picture of the falls is at all correct, as I expect it will be, then your picture will be nothing but a shadow unrecognisable by any one.”
“But they do take pictures with the cataract as a background, do they not? I am sure I have seen photos of groups taken at Niagara Falls; in fact, I have seen groups being posed in public for that purpose, and very silly they looked, I must say. I presume that is one of the things that has prejudiced me so much against the camera.”
“Those pictures, Miss Sommerton, are not genuine; they are not at all what they pretend to be. The prints that you have seen are the results of the manipulation of two separate plates, one of the plates containing the group or the person photographed, and the other an instantaneous picture of the falls. If you look closely at one of those pictures you will see a little halo of light or dark around the person photographed. That, to an experienced photographer, shows the double printing. In fact, it is double dealing all round. The deluded victim of the camera imagines that the pictures he gets of the falls, with himself in the foreground, is really a picture of the falls taken at the time he is being photographed. Whereas, in the picture actually taken of him, the falls themselves are hopelessly over-exposed, and do not appear at all on the plate. So with the instantaneous picture I took; there will really be nothing of you on that plate that you would recognise as yourself. That was why I refused to destroy it.”
“I am afraid,” said Miss Sommerton, sadly, “you are trying to make my punishment harder and harder. I believe in reality you are very cruel. You know how badly I feel about the whole matter, and now even the one little point that apparently gave me any excuse is taken away by your scientific explanation.”
“Candidly, Miss Sommerton, I am more of a culprit than you imagine, and I suppose it is the tortures of a guilty conscience that caused me to make this explanation. I shall now confess without reserve. As you sat there with your head in your hand looking at the falls, I deliberately and with malice aforethought took a timed picture, which, if developed, will reveal you exactly as you sat, and which will not show the falls at all.”
Miss Sommerton walked in silence beside him, and he could not tell just how angry she might be. Finally he said, “I shall destroy that plate, if you order me to.”
Miss Sommerton made no reply, until they were nearly at the canoe. Then she looked up at him with a smile, and said, “I think it a pity to destroy any pictures you have had such trouble to obtain.”
“Thank you, Miss Sommerton,” said the artist. He helped her into the canoe in the gathering dusk, and then sat down himself. But neither of them saw the look of anxiety on the face of the elder boatman. He knew the River St. Maurice.
Contents
From the words the elder boatman rapidly addressed to the younger, it was evident to Mr. Trenton that the half-breed was anxious to pass the rapids before it became very much darker.
The landing is at the edge of comparatively still water. At the bottom of the falls the river turns an acute angle and flows to the west. At the landing it turns with equal abruptness, and flows south.
The short westward section of the river from the falls to the point where they landed is a wild, turbulent rapid, in which no boat can live for a moment. From the Point downwards, although the water is covered with foam, only one dangerous place has to be passed. Toward that spot the stalwart half-breeds bent all their energy in forcing the canoe down with the current. The canoe shot over the darkening rapid with the speed of an arrow. If but one or two persons had been in it, the chances are the passage would have been made in safety. As it was one wrong turn of the paddle by the younger half-breed did the mischief. The bottom barely touched a sharp-pointed hidden rock, and in an instant the canoe was slit open as with a knife.
As he sat there Trenton felt the cold water rise around him with a quickness that prevented his doing anything, even if he had known what to do.
“Sit still!” cried the elder boatman; and then to the younger he shouted sharply, “The shore!”
They were almost under the hanging trees when the four found themselves in the water. Trenton grasped an overhanging branch with one hand, and with the other caught Miss Sommerton by the arm. For a moment it was doubtful whether the branch would hold. The current was very swift, and it threw each of them against the rock bank, and bent the branch down into the water.
“Catch hold of me!” cried Trenton. “Catch hold of my coat; I need both hands.”
Miss Sommerton, who had acted with commendable bravery throughout, did as she was directed. Trenton, with his released hand, worked himself slowly up the branch, hand over hand, and finally catching a sapling that grew close to the water’s edge, with a firm hold, reached down and helped Miss Sommerton on the bank. Then he slowly drew himself up to a safe position and looked around for any signs of the boatmen. He shouted loudly, but there was no answer.
“Are they drowned, do you think?” asked Miss Sommerton, anxiously.
“No, I don’t suppose they are; I don’t think youcoulddrown a half-breed. They have done their best to drown us, and as we have escaped I see no reason why they should drown.”
“Oh, it’s all my fault! all my fault!” wailed Miss Sommerton.
“It is, indeed,” answered Trenton, briefly.
She tried to straighten herself up, but, too wet and chilled and limp to be heroic, she sank on a rock and began to cry.
“Please don’t do that,” said the artist, softly. “Of course I shouldn’t have agreed with you. I beg pardon for having done so, but now that we are here, you are not to shirk your share of the duties. I want you to search around and get materials for a fire.”
“Search around?” cried Miss Sommerton dolefully.
“Yes, search around. Hunt, as you Americans say. You have got us into this scrape, so I don’t propose you shall sit calmly by and not take any of the consequences.”
“Do you mean to insult me, Mr. Trenton, now that I am helpless?”
“If it is an insult to ask you to get up and gather some wood and bring it here, then I do mean to insult you most emphatically. I shall gather some, too, for we shall need a quantity of it.”
Miss Sommerton rose indignantly, and was on the point of threatening to leave the place, when a moment’s reflection showed her that she didn’t know where to go, and remembering she was not as brave in the darkness and in the woods as in Boston, she meekly set about the search for dry twigs and sticks. Flinging down the bundle near the heap Trenton had already collected, the young woman burst into a laugh.
“Do you see anything particularly funny in the situation?” asked Trenton, with chattering teeth. “I confess I do not.”
“The funniness of the situation is that we should gather wood, when, if there is a match in your pocket, it must be so wet as to be useless.”
“Oh, not at all. You must remember I come from a very damp climate, and we take care of our matches there. I have been in the water before now on a tramp, and my matches are in a silver case warranted to keep out the wet.” As he said this Trenton struck a light, and applied it to the small twigs and dry autumn leaves. The flames flashed up through the larger sticks, and in a very few moments a cheering fire was blazing, over which Trenton threw armful after armful of the wood he had collected.
“Now,” said the artist, “if you will take off what outer wraps you have on, we can spread them here, and dry them. Then if you sit, first facing the fire and next with your back to it, and maintain a sort of rotatory motion, it will not be long before you are reasonably dry and warm.”
Miss Sommerton laughed, but there was not much merriment in her laughter.
“Was there ever anything so supremely ridiculous?” she said. “A gentleman from England gathering sticks, and a lady from Boston gyrating before the fire. I am glad you are not a newspaper man, for you might be tempted to write about the situation for some sensational paper.”
“How do you know I am not a journalist?”
“Well, I hope you are not. I thought you were a photographer.”
“Oh, not a professional photographer, you know.”
“I am sorry; I prefer the professional to the amateur.”
“I like to hear you say that.”
“Why? It is not very complimentary, I am sure.”
“The very reason I like to hear you say it. If you were complimentary I would be afraid you were going to take a chill and be ill after this disaster; but now that you are yourself again, I have no such fear.”
“Myself again!” blazed the young woman. “What do you know about me? How do you know whether I am myself or somebody else? I am sure our acquaintance has been very short.”
“Counted by time, yes. But an incident like this, in the wilderness, does more to form a friendship, or the reverse, than years of ordinary acquaintance in Boston or London. You ask how I know that you are yourself. Shall I tell you?”
“If you please.”
“Well, I imagine you are a young lady who has been spoilt. I think probably you are rich, and have had a good deal of your own way in this world. In fact, I take it for granted that you have never met any one who frankly told you your faults. Even if such good fortune had been yours, I doubt if you would have profited by it. A snub would have been the reward of the courageous person who told Miss Sommerton her failings.”
“I presume you have courage enough to tell me my faults without the fear of a snub before your eyes.”
“I have the courage, yes. You see I have already received the snub three or four times, and it has lost its terrors for me.”
“In that case, will you be kind enough to tell me what you consider my faults?”
“If you wish me to.”
“I do wish it.”
“Well, then, one of them is inordinate pride.”
“Do you think pride a fault?”
“It is not usually reckoned one of the virtues.”
“In this country, Mr. Trenton, we consider that every person should have a certain amount of pride.”
“A certain amount may be all right. It depends entirely on how much the certain amount is.”
“Well, now for fault No. 2.”
“Fault No. 2 is a disregard on your part for the feelings of others. This arises, I imagine, partly from fault No. 1. You are in the habit of classing the great mass of the public very much beneath you in intellect and other qualities, and you forget that persons whom you may perhaps dislike, have feelings which you have no right to ignore.”
“I presume you refer to this morning,” said Miss Sommerton, seriously. “I apologised for that two or three times, I think. I have always understood that a gentleman regards an apology from another gentleman as blotting out the original offence. Why should he not regard it in the same light when it comes from a woman?”
“Oh, now you are making a personal matter of it. I am talking in an entirely impersonal sense. I am merely giving you, with brutal rudeness, opinions formed on a very short acquaintance. Remember, I have done so at your own request.”
“I am very much obliged to you, I am sure. I think you are more than half right. I hope the list is not much longer.”
“No, the list ends there. I suppose you imagine that I am one of the rudest men you ever met?”
“No, we generally expect rudeness from Englishmen.”
“Oh, do you really? Then I am only keeping up the reputation my countrymen have already acquired in America. Have you had the pleasure of meeting a rude Englishman before?”
“No, I can’t say that I have. Most Englishmen I have met have been what we call very gentlemanly indeed. But the rudest letter I ever received was from an Englishman; not only rude, but ungrateful, for I had bought at a very high price one of his landscapes. He was John Trenton, the artist, of London. Do you know him?”
“Yes,” hesitated Trenton, “I know him. I may say I know him very well. In fact, he is a namesake of mine.”
“Why, how curious it is I had never thought of that. Is your first name J—, the same as his?”
“Yes.”
“Not a relative, is he?”
“Well, no. I don’t think I can call him a relative. I don’t know that I can even go so far as to call him my friend, but he is an acquaintance.”
“Oh, tell me about him,” cried Miss Sommerton, enthusiastically. “He is one of the Englishmen I have longed very much to meet.”
“Then you forgave him his rude letter?”
“Oh, I forgave that long ago. I don’t know that it was rude, after all. It was truthful. I presume the truth offended me.”
“Well,” said Trenton, “truth has to be handled very delicately, or it is apt to give offence. You bought a landscape of his, did you? Which one, do you remember?”
“It was a picture of the Thames valley.”
“Ah, I don’t recall it at the moment. A rather hackneyed subject, too. Probably he sent it to America because he couldn’t sell it in England.”
“Oh, I suppose you think we buy anything here that the English refuse, I beg to inform you this picture had a place in the Royal Academy, and was very highly spoken of by the critics. I bought it in England.”
“Oh yes, I remember it now, ‘The Thames at Sonning.’ Still, it was a hackneyed subject, although reasonably well treated.”
“Reasonably well! I think it one of the finest landscape pictures of the century.”
“Well, in that at least Trenton would agree with you.”
“He is very conceited, you mean?”
“Even his enemies admit that.”
“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe a man of such talent could be so conceited.”
“Then, Miss Sommerton, allow me to say you have very little knowledge of human nature. It is only reasonable that a great man should know he is a great man. Most of our great men are conceited. I would like to see Trenton’s letter to you. I could then have a good deal of amusement at his expense when I get back.”
“Well, in that case I can assure you that you will never see the letter.”
“Ah, you destroyed it, did you?”
“Not for that reason.”
“Then youdiddestroy it?”
“I tore it up, but on second thoughts I pasted it together again, and have it still.”
“In that case, why should you object to showing me the letter?”
“Well, because I think it rather unusual for a lady to be asked by a gentleman show him a letter that has been written to her by another gentleman.”
“In matters of the heart that is true; but in matters of art it is not.”
“Is that intended for a pun?”
“It is as near to one as I ever allow myself to come, I should like very much to see Mr. Trenton’s letter. It was probably brutally rude. I know the man, you see.”
“It was nothing of the sort,” replied Miss Sommerton, hotly. “It was a truthful, well-meant letter.”
“And yet you tore it up?”
“But that was the first impulse. The pasting it together was the apology.”
“And you will not show it to me?”
“No, I will not.”
“Did you answer it?”
“I will tell you nothing more about it. I am sorry I spoke of the letter at all. You don’t appreciate Mr. Trenton’s work.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon, I do. He has no greater admirer in England than I am—except himself, of course.”
“I suppose it makes no difference to you to know that I don’t like a remark like that.”
“Oh, I thought it would please you. You see, with the exception of myself, Mr. Trenton is about the rudest man in England. In fact, I begin to suspect it was Mr. Trenton’s letter that led you to a wholesale condemning of the English race, for you admit the Englishmen you have met were not rude.”
“You forget I have met you since then.”
“Well bowled, as we say in cricket.”
“Has Mr. Trenton many friends in London?”
“Not a great number. He is a man who sticks rather closely to his work, and, as I said before, he prides himself on telling the truth. That doesn’t do in London any more than it does in Boston.”
“Well, I honour him for it.”
“Oh, certainly; everybody does in the abstract. But it is not a quality that tends to the making or the keeping of friends, you know.”
“If you see Mr. Trenton when you return, I wish you would tell him there is a lady in America who is a friend of his; and if he has any pictures the people over there do not appreciate, ask him to send them to Boston, and his friend will buy them.”
“Then you must be rich, for his pictures bring very good prices, even in England.”
“Yes,” said Miss Sommerton, “I am rich.”
“Well, I suppose it’s very jolly to be rich,” replied the artist, with a sigh.
“You are not rich, then, I imagine?”
“No, I am not. That is, not compared with your American fortunes. I have enough of money to let me roam around the world if I wish to, and get half drowned in the St. Maurice River.”
“Oh, is it not strange that we have heard nothing from those boatmen? You surely don’t imagine they could have been drowned?”
“I hardly think so. Still, it is quite possible.”
“Oh, don’t say that; it makes me feel like a murderer.”
“Well, I think it was a good deal your fault, don’t you know.” Miss Sommerton looked at him.
“Have I not been punished enough already?” she said.
“For the death of two men—if they are dead? Bless me! no. Do you imagine for a moment there is any relation between the punishment and the fault?”
Miss Sommerton buried her face in her hands.
“Oh, I take that back,” said Trenton. “I didn’t mean to say such a thing.”
“It is the truth—it is the truth!” wailed the young woman. “Do you honestly think they did not reach the shore?”
“Of course they did. If you want to know what has happened, I’ll tell you exactly, and back my opinion by a bet if you like. An Englishman is always ready to back his opinion, you know. Those two men swam with the current until they came to some landing-place. They evidently think we are drowned. Nevertheless, they are now making their way through the woods to the settlement. Then comes the hubbub. Mason will stir up the neighbourhood, and the men who are back from the woods with the other canoes will be roused and pressed into service, and some time to-night we will be rescued.”
“Oh, I hope that is the case,” cried Miss Sommerton, looking brightly at him.
“It is the case. Will you bet about it?”
“I never bet,” said Miss Sommerton.
“Ah, well, you miss a good deal of fun then. You see I am a bit of a mind reader. I can tell just about where the men are now.”
“I don’t believe much in mind reading.”
“Don’t you? Shall I give you a specimen of it? Take that letter we have spoken so much about. If you think it over in your mind I will read you the letter—not word for word, perhaps, but I shall give you gist of it, at least.”
“Oh, impossible!”
“Do you remember it?”
“I have it with me.”
“Oh, have you? Then, if you wish to preserve it, you should spread it out upon the ground to dry before the fire.”
“There is no need of my producing the letter,” replied Miss Sommerton; “I remember every word it.”
“Very well, just think it over in your mind, and see if I cannot repeat it. Are you thinking about it?”
“Yes, I am thinking about it.”
“Here goes, then. ‘Miss Edith Sommerton—‘”
“Wrong,” said that young lady.
“The Sommerton is right, is it not?”
“Yes, but the first name is not.”
“What is it, then?”
“I shall not tell you.”
“Oh, very well. Miss Sommerton,—‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter.’ Oh, by the way, I forgot the address. That is the first sentence of the letter, but the address is some number which I cannot quite see, ‘Beacon Street, Boston.’ Is there any such street in that city?”
“There is,” said Miss Sommerton. “What a question to ask.”
“Ah, then Beacon Street is one of the principal streets, is it?”
“One of them? It isthestreet. It is Boston.”
“Very good. I will now proceed with the letter. ‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter, because the sketches you send are so bad, that it seems to me no one could seriously forward them to an artist for criticism. However, if you really desire criticism, and if the pictures are sent in good faith, I may say I see in them no merit whatever, not even good drawing; while the colours are put on in a way that would seem to indicate you have not yet learned the fundamental principle of mixing the paints. If you are thinking of earning a livelihood with your pencil, I strongly advise you to abandon the idea. But if you are a lady of leisure and wealth, I suppose there is no harm in your continuing as long as you see fit.—Yours truly, JOHN TRENTON.’”
Miss Sommerton, whose eyes had opened wider and wider as this reading went on, said sharply—
“He has shown you the letter. You have seen it before it was sent.”
“I admit that,” said the artist.
“Well—I will believe all you like to say about Mr. John Trenton.”
“Now, stop a moment; do not be too sweeping in your denunciation of him. I know that Mr. Trenton showed the letter to no one.”
“Why, I thought you said a moment ago that he showed it to you.”
“He did. Yet no one but himself saw the letter.”
The young lady sprang to her feet.
“Are you, then, John Trenton, the artist?”
“Miss Sommerton, I have to plead guilty.”
Contents
Miss Eva Sommerton and Mr. John Trenton stood on opposite sides of the blazing fire and looked at each other. A faint smile hovered around the lips of the artist, but Miss Sommerton’s face was very serious. She was the first to speak.
“It seems to me,” she said, “that there is something about all this that smacks of false pretences.”
“On my part, Miss Sommerton?”
“Certainly on your part. You must have known all along that I was the person who had written the letter to you. I think, when you found that out, you should have spoken of it.”
“Then you do not give me credit for the honesty of speaking now. You ought to know that I need not have spoken at all, unless I wished to be very honest about the matter.”
“Yes, there is that to be said in your favour, of course.”
“Well, Miss Sommerton, I hope you will consider anything that happens to be in my favour. You see, we are really old friends, after all.”
“Old enemies, you mean.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I would rather look on myself as your friend than your enemy.”
“The letter you wrote me was not a very friendly one.”
“I am not so sure. We differ on that point, you know.”
“I am afraid we differ on almost every point.”
“No, I differ with you there again. Still, I must admit I would prefer being your enemy—”
“To being my friend?” said Miss Sommerton, quickly.
“No, to being entirely indifferent to you.”
“Really, Mr. Trenton, we are getting along very rapidly, are we not?” said the young lady, without looking up at him.
“Now, I am pleased to be able to agree with you there, Miss Sommerton. As I said before, an incident like this does more to ripen acquaintance or friendship, or—” The young man hesitated, and did not complete his sentence.
“Well,” said the artist, after a pause, “which is it to be, friends or enemies?”
“It shall be exactly as you say,” she replied.
“If you leave the choice to me, I shall say friends. Let us shake hands on that.”
She held out her hand frankly to him as he crossed over to her side, and as he took it in his own, a strange thrill passed through him, and acting on the impulse of the moment, he drew her toward him and kissed her.
“How dare you!” she cried, drawing herself indignantly from him. “Do you think I am some backwoods girl who is flattered by your preference after a day’s acquaintance?”
“Not a day’s acquaintance, Miss Sommerton—a year, two years, ten years. In fact, I feel as though I had known you all my life.”
“You certainly act as if you had. I did think for some time past that you were a gentleman. But you take advantage now of my unprotected position.”
“Miss Sommerton, let me humbly apologise!”
“I shall not accept your apology. It cannot be apologised for. I must ask you not to speak to me again until Mr. Mason comes. You may consider yourself very fortunate when I tell you I shall say nothing of what has passed to Mr. Mason when he arrives.”
John Trenton made no reply, but gathered another armful of wood and flung it on the fire.
Miss Sommerton sat very dejectedly looking at the embers.
For half an hour neither of them said anything.
Suddenly Trenton jumped up and listened intently.
“What is it?” cried Miss Sommerton, startled by his action.
“Now,” said Trenton, “that is unfair. If I am not to be allowed to speak to you, you must not ask me any questions.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Sommerton, curtly.
“But really I wanted to say something, and I wanted you to be the first to break the contract imposed. May I say what I wish to? I have just thought about something.”
“If you have thought of anything that will help us out of our difficulty, I shall be very glad to hear it indeed.”
“I don’t know that it will help usoutof our difficulties, but I think it will help us now that we’reinthem. You know, I presume, that my camera, like John Brown’s knapsack, was strapped on my back, and that it is one of the few things rescued from the late disaster?”
He paused for a reply, but she said nothing. She evidently was not interested in his camera.
“Now, that camera-box is water-tight. It is really a very natty arrangement, although you regard it so scornfully.”
He paused a second time, but there was no reply.
“Very well; packed in that box is, first the camera, then the dry plates, but most important of all, there are at least two or three very nice Three Rivers sandwiches. What do you say to our having supper?”
Miss Sommerton smiled in spite of herself, and Trenton busily unstrapped the camera-box, pulled out the little instrument, and fished up from the bottom a neatly-folded white table-napkin, in which were wrapped several sandwiches.
“Now,” he continued, “I have a folding drinking-cup and a flask of sherry. It shows how absent-minded I am, for I ought to have thought of the wine long ago. You should have had a glass of sherry the moment we landed here. By the way, I wanted to say, and I say it now in case I shall forget it, that when I ordered you so unceremoniously to go around picking up sticks for the fire, it was not because I needed assistance, but to keep you, if possible, from getting a chill.”
“Very kind of you,” remarked Miss Sommerton.
But the Englishman could not tell whether she meant just what she said or not.
“I wish you would admit that you are hungry. Have you had anything to eat to-day?”
“I had, I am ashamed to confess,” she answered. “I took lunch with me and I ate it coming down in the canoe. That was what troubled me about you. I was afraid you had eaten nothing all day, and I wished to offer you some lunch when we were in the canoe, but scarcely liked to. I thought we would soon reach the settlement. I am very glad you have sandwiches with you.”
“How little you Americans really know of the great British nation, after all. Now, if there is one thing more than another that an Englishman looks after, it is the commissariat.”
After a moment’s silence he said—
“Don’t you think, Miss Sommerton, that notwithstanding any accident or disaster, or misadventure that may have happened, we might get back at least on the old enemy footing again? I would like to apologise”—he paused for a moment, and added, “for the letter I wrote you ever so many years ago.”
“There seem to be too many apologies between us,” she replied. “I shall neither give nor take any more.”
“Well,” he answered, “I think after all that is the best way. You ought to treat me rather kindly though, because you are the cause of my being here.”
“That is one of the many things I have apologised for. You surely do not wish to taunt me with it again?”
“Oh, I don’t mean the recent accident. I mean being here in America. Your sketches of the Shawenegan Falls, and your description of the Quebec district, brought me out to America; and, added to that—I expected to meet you.”
“To meet me?”
“Certainly. Perhaps you don’t know that I called at Beacon Street, and found you were from home—with friends in Canada, they said—and I want to say, in self-defence, that I came very well introduced. I brought letters to people in Boston of the most undoubted respectability, and to people in New York, who are as near the social equals of the Boston people as it is possible for mere New York persons to be. Among other letters of introduction I had two to you. I saw the house in Beacon Street. So, you see, I have no delusions about your being a backwoods girl, as you charged me with having a short time since.”
“I would rather not refer to that again, if you please.”
“Very well. Now, I have one question to ask you—one request to make. Have I your permission to make it?”
“It depends entirely on what your request is.”
“Of course, in that case you cannot tell until I make it. So I shall now make my request, and I want you to remember, before you refuse it, that you are indebted to me for supper. Miss Sommerton, give me a plug of tobacco.”
Miss Sommerton stood up in dumb amazement.
“You see,” continued the artist, paying no heed to her evident resentment, “I have lost my tobacco in the marine disaster, but luckily I have my pipe. I admit the scenery is beautiful here, if we could only see it; but darkness is all around, although the moon is rising. It can therefore be no desecration for me to smoke a pipeful of tobacco, and I am sure the tobacco you keep will be the very best that can be bought. Won’t you grant my request, Miss Sommerton?”
At first Miss Sommerton seemed to resent the audacity of this request. Then a conscious light came into her face, and instinctively her hand pressed the side of her dress where her pocket was supposed to be.
“Now,” said the artist, “don’t deny that you have the tobacco. I told you I was a bit of a mind reader, and besides, I have been informed that young ladies in America are rarely without the weed, and that they only keep the best.”
The situation was too ridiculous for Miss Sommerton to remain very long indignant about it. So she put her hand in her pocket and drew out a plug of tobacco, and with a bow handed it to the artist.
“Thanks,” he replied; “I shall borrow a pipeful and give you back the remainder. Have you ever tried the English birdseye? I assure you it is a very nice smoking tobacco.”
“I presume,” said Miss Sommerton, “the boatmen told you I always gave them some tobacco when I came up to see the falls?”
“Ah, you will doubt my mind-reading gift. Well, honestly, they did tell me, and I thought perhaps you might by good luck have it with you now. Besides, you know, wasn’t there the least bit of humbug about your objection to smoking as we came up the river? If you really object to smoking, of course I shall not smoke now.”
“Oh, I haven’t the least objection to it. I am sorry I have not a good cigar to offer you.”
“Thank you. But this is quite as acceptable. We rarely use plug tobacco in England, but I find some of it in this country is very good indeed.”
“I must confess,” said Miss Sommerton, “that I have very little interest in the subject of tobacco. But I cannot see why we should not have good tobacco in this country. We grow it here.”
“That’s so, when you come to think of it,” answered the artist.
Trenton sat with his back against the tree, smoking in a meditative manner, and watching the flicker of the firelight on the face of his companion, whose thoughts seemed to be concentrated on the embers.
“Miss Sommerton,” he said at last, “I would like permission to ask you a second question.
“You have it,” replied that lady, without looking up. “But to prevent disappointment, I may say this is all the tobacco I have. The rest I left in the canoe when I went up to the falls.”
“I shall try to bear the disappointment as well as I may. But in this case the question is of a very different nature. I don’t know just exactly how to put it. You may have noticed that I am rather awkward when it comes to saying the right thing at the right time. I have not been much accustomed to society, and I am rather a blunt man.”
“Many persons,” said Miss Sommerton with some severity, “pride themselves on their bluntness. They seem to think it an excuse for saying rude things. There is a sort of superstition that bluntness and honesty go together.”
“Well, that is not very encouraging, However, I do not pride myself on my bluntness, but rather regret it. I was merely stating a condition of things, not making a boast. In this instance I imagine I can show that honesty is the accompaniment. The question I wished to ask was something like this: Suppose I had had the chance to present to you my letters of introduction, and suppose that we had known each other for some time, and suppose that everything had been very conventional, instead of somewhat unconventional; supposing all this, would you have deemed a recent action of mine so unpardonable as you did a while ago?”
“You said you were not referring to smoking.”
“Neither am I. I am referring to my having kissed you. There’s bluntness for you.”
“My dear sir,” replied Miss Sommerton, shading her face with her hand, “you know nothing whatever of me.”
“That is rather evading the question.”
“Well, then, I know nothing whatever of you.”
“That is the second evasion. I am taking it for granted that we each know something of the other.”
“I should think it would depend entirely on how the knowledge influenced each party in the case. It is such a purely supposititious state of things that I cannot see how I can answer your question. I suppose you have heard the adage about not crossing a bridge until you come to it.”
“I thought it was a stream.”
“Well, a stream then. The principle is the same.”’
“I was afraid I would not be able to put the question in a way to make you understand it. I shall now fall back on my bluntness again, and with this question, are you betrothed?”
“We generally call it engaged in this country.”
“Then I shall translate my question into the language of the country, and ask if—”
“Oh, don’t ask it, please. I shall answer before you do ask it by saying, No. I do not know why I should countenance your bluntness, as you call it, by giving you an answer to such a question; but I do so on condition that the question is the last.”
“But the second question cannot be the last. There is always the third reading of a bill. The auctioneer usually cries, ‘Third and last time,’ not ‘Second and last time,’ and the banns of approaching marriage are called out three times. So, you see, I have the right to ask you one more question.”
“Very well. A person may sometimes have the right to do a thing, and yet be very foolish in exercising that right.”
“I accept your warning,” said the artist, “and reserve my right.”
“What time is it, do you think?” she asked him.
“I haven’t the least idea,” he replied; “my watch has stopped. That case was warranted to resist water, but I doubt if it has done so.”
“Don’t you think that if the men managed to save themselves they would have been here by this time?”
“I am sure I don’t know. I have no idea of the distance. Perhaps they may have taken it for granted we are drowned, and so there is one chance in a thousand that they may not come back at all.”
“Oh, I do not think such a thing is possible. The moment Mr. Mason heard of the disaster he would come without delay, no matter what he might believe the result of the accident to be.”
“Yes, I think you are right. I shall try to get out on this point and see if I can discover anything of them. The moon now lights up the river, and if they are within a reasonable distance I think I can see them from this point of rock.”
The artist climbed up on the point, which projected over the river. The footing was not of the safest, and Miss Sommerton watched him with some anxiety as he slipped and stumbled and kept his place by holding on to the branches of the overhanging trees.
“Pray be careful, Mr. Trenton,” she said; “remember you are over the water there, and it is very swift.”
“The rocks seem rather slippery with the dew,” answered the artist; “but I am reasonably surefooted.”
“Well, please don’t take any chances; for, disagreeable as you are, I don’t wish to be left here alone.”
“Thank you, Miss Sommerton.”
The artist stood on the point of rock, and, holding by a branch of a tree, peered out over the river.
“Oh, Mr. Trenton, don’t do that!” cried the young lady, with alarm. “Please come back.”
“Say ‘John,’ then,” replied the gentleman.
“Oh, Mr. Trenton, don’t!” she cried as he leaned still further over the water, straining the branch to its utmost.
“Say ‘John.’”
“Mr. Trenton.”
“‘John.’”
The branch cracked ominously as Trenton leaned yet a little further.
“John!” cried the young lady, sharply, “cease your fooling and come down from that rock.”
The artist instantly recovered his position, and, coming back, sprang down to the ground again.
Miss Sommerton drew back in alarm; but Trenton merely put his hands in his pockets, and said—
“Well, Eva, I came back because you called me.”
“It was a case of coercion,” she said. “You English are too fond of coercion. We Americans are against it.”
“Oh, I am a Home Ruler, if you are,” replied the artist. “Miss Eva, I am going to risk my third and last question, and I shall await the answer with more anxiety than I ever felt before in my life. The question is this: Will—”
“Hello! there you are. Thank Heaven! I was never so glad to see anybody in my life,” cried the cheery voice of Ed. Mason, as he broke through the bushes towards them.
Trenton looked around with anything but a welcome on his brow. If Mason had never been so glad in his life to see anybody, it was quite evident his feeling was not entirely reciprocated by the artist.
“How the deuce did you get here?” asked Trenton. “I was just looking for you down the river.”
“Well, you see, we kept pretty close to the shore. I doubt if you could have seen us. Didn’t you hear us shout?”
“No, we didn’t hear anything. We didn’t hear them shout, did we, Miss Sommerton?”
“No,” replied that young woman, looking at the dying fire, whose glowing embers seemed to redden her face.
“Why, do you know,” said Mason, “it looks as if you had been quarrelling. I guess I came just in the nick of time.”
“You are always just in time, Mr. Mason,” said Miss Sommerton. “For we were quarrelling, as you say. The subject of the quarrel is which of us was rightful owner of that canoe.”
Mason laughed heartily, while Miss Sommerton frowned at him with marked disapprobation.
“Then you found me out, did you? Well, I expected you would before the day was over. You see, it isn’t often that I have to deal with two such particular people in the same day. Still, I guess the ownership of the canoe doesn’t amount to much now. I’ll give it to the one who finds it.”
“Oh, Mr. Mason,” cried Miss Sommerton, “did the two men escape all right?”
“Why, certainly, I have just been giving them ‘Hail Columbia,’ because they didn’t come back to you; but you see, a little distance down, the bank gets very steep—so much so that it is impossible to climb it, and then the woods here are thick and hard to work a person’s way through. So they thought it best to come down and tell me, and we have brought two canoes up with us.”
“Does Mrs. Mason know of the accident?”
“No, she doesn’t; but she is just as anxious as if she did. She can’t think what in the world keeps you.”
“She doesn’t realise,” said the artist, “what strong attractions the Shawenegan Falls have for people alive to the beauties of nature.”
“Well,” said Mason, “we mustn’t stand here talking. You must be about frozen to death.” Here he shouted to one of the men to come up and put out the fire.
“Oh, don’t bother,” said the artist; “it will soon burn out.”
“Oh yes,” put in Ed. Mason; “and if a wind should happen to rise in the night, where would my pine forest be? I don’t propose to have a whole section of the country burnt up to commemorate the quarrel between you two.”
The half-breed flung the biggest brand into the river, and speedily trampled out the rest, carrying up some water in his hat to pour on the centre of the fire. This done, they stepped into the canoe and were soon on their way down the river. Reaching the landing, the artist gave his hand to Miss Sommerton and aided her out on the bank.
“Miss Sommerton,” he whispered to her, “I intended to sail to-morrow. I shall leave it for you to say whether I shall go or not.”
“You will not sail,” said Miss Sommerton promptly.
“Oh, thank you,” cried the artist; “you do not know how happy that makes me.”
“Why should it?”
“Well, you know what I infer from your answer.”
“My dear sir, I said that you would not sail, and you will not, for this reason: To sail you require to catch to-night’s train for Montreal, and take the train from there to New York to get your boat. You cannot catch to-night’s train, and, therefore, cannot get to your steamer. I never before saw a man so glad to miss his train or his boat. Good-night, Mr. Trenton. Good-night, Mr. Mason,” she cried aloud to that gentleman, as she disappeared toward the house.
“You two appear to be quite friendly,” said Mr. Mason to the artist.
“Do we? Appearances are deceitful. I really cannot tell at this moment whether we are friends or enemies.”
“Well, not enemies, I am sure. Miss Eva is a very nice girl when you understand her.”
“Doyouunderstand her?” asked the artist.
“I can’t say that I do. Come to think of it, I don’t think anybody does.”
“In that case, then, for all practical purposes, she might just as well not be a nice girl.”
“Ah, well, you may change your opinion some day—when you get better acquainted with her,” said Mason, shaking hands with his friend. “And now that you have missed your train, anyhow, I don’t suppose you care for a very early start to-morrow. Good-night.”
Contents