“But the Lord is mindful of His own,”
singing it with a power of expression marvellous in so young a girl. Then, without further request, she glided into the lovely aria, “O Rest in the Lord.” It was all new and wonderful to Ranald. He did not dream that such majesty and sweetness could be expressed in music. He sat silent with eyes looking far away, and face alight with the joy that filled his soul.
“Oh, thanks, very much,” murmured the lieutenant, when Kate had finished. “Lovely thing that aria, don't you know?”
“Very nice,” echoed Mr. Sims, “and so beautifully done, too.”
Ranald looked from one to the other in indignant surprise, and then turning away from them to Kate, said, in a tone almost of command: “Sing it again.”
“I'll sing something else,” she said. “Did you ever hear—”
“No, I never heard anything at all like that,” interrupted Ranald. “Sing some more like the last.”
The deep feeling showing in his face and in his tone touched Kate.
“How would this do?” she replied. “It is a little high for me, but I'll try.”
She played a few introductory chords, and then began that sweetest bit of the greatest of all the oratorios “He shall Feed His Flock.” And from that passed into the soul-moving “He Was Despised” from the same noble work. The music suited the range and quality of her voice perfectly, and she sang with her heart thrilling in response to the passionate feeling in the dark eyes fixed upon her face. She had never sung to any one who listened as Ranald now listened to her. She forgot the others. She was singing for him, and he was compelling her to her best. She was conscious of a subtle sense of mastery overpowering her, and with a strange delight she yielded herself to that commanding influence; but as she sang she began to realize that he was thinking not of her, but of her song, and soon she, too, was thinking of it. She knew that his eyes were filled with the vision of “The Man of Sorrows” of whom she sang, and before she was aware, the pathos of that lonely and despised life, set forth in the noble words of the ancient prophet, was pouring forth in the great Master's music.
When the song was ended, no one spoke for a time, and even Mr. Sims was silent. Then the lieutenant came over to the harmonium, and leaning toward Kate, said, in an earnest voice, unusual with him, “Thank you Miss Raymond. That was truly great.”
“Great indeed;” said Harry, with enthusiasm. “I never heard you sing like that before, Kate.”
But Ranald sat silent, finding no words in which to express the thoughts and feelings her singing had aroused in him.
There is that in noble music which forbids unreality, rebukes frivolity into silence, subdues ignoble passions, soothes the heart's sorrow, and summons to the soul high and holy thoughts. It was difficult to begin the conversation; the trivial themes of the earlier part of the evening seemed foreign to the mood that had fallen upon the company. At length Mr. Sims ventured to remark, with a giggle: “It's awfully fine, don't you know, but a trifle funereal. Makes one think of graves and that sort of thing. Very nice, of course,” he added, apologetically, to Kate. Ranald turned and regarded the little man for some moments in silence, and then, with unutterable scorn, exclaimed: “Nice! man, it's wonderful, wonderful to me whatever! Makes me think of all the great things I ever saw.”
“What things?” Kate ventured to say.
For a few moments Ranald paused, and then replied: “It makes me think of the big pine trees waving and wailing over me at night, and the big river rolling down with the moonlight on it—and—other things.”
“What other things, Ranald,” persisted Kate.
But Ranald shook his head and sat silent for some time. Then he rose abruptly.
“I will be going now,” he said.
“You will come again soon, Ranald,” said Maimie, coming toward him with a look on her face that reminded him of the days in the Glengarry manse. She had forgotten all about his red shirt and silk handkerchief. As Ranald caught that look a great joy leaped into his eyes for a moment, then faded into a gaze of perplexity.
“Yes, do come,” added Kate.
“Will you sing again?” he asked, bluntly.
“Yes, indeed,” she replied, with a slight blush, “if you want me to.”
“I will come. When? To-morrow night?”
“Yes, certainly, to-morrow night,” said Kate, blushing deeply now, for she noticed the slight smile on Harry's face, and the glance that passed between Mr. Sims and the lieutenant. Then Ranald said good night.
“I have never had such pleasure in my life,” he said, holding her hand a moment, and looking into her eyes that sparkled with a happy light. “That is,” he added, with a swift glance at Maimie, “from music or things like that.”
Kate caught the glance, and the happy light faded from her eyes.
“Good night,” said Ranald, offering his hand to Maimie. “I am glad I came now. It makes me think of the last night at the manse, although I am always thinking of it,” he added, simply, with a touch of sadness in his voice. Maimie's face grew hot with blushes.
“Yes,” she answered, hurriedly. “Dear Aunt Murray!”
He stood a moment or two as if about to speak, while Maimie waited in an agony of fear, not knowing what to expect in this extraordinary young man. Then he turned abruptly away, and with a good night to De Lacy and a nod to Mr. Sims, strode from the room.
“Great Caesar's ghost!” exclaimed the lieutenant; “pardon me, but has anything happened? That young man now and then gives me a sense of tragedy. What HAS taken place?” he panted, weakly.
“Nonsense,” laughed Maimie, “your nervous system is rather delicate.”
“Ah, thanks, no doubt that's it. Miss Kate, how do you feel?”
“I,” said Kate, waking suddenly, “thank you, quite happy.”
“Happy,” sighed De Lacy. “Ah, fortunate young man!”
“Great chap, that,” cried Harry, coming back from seeing Ranald to the door.
“Very,” said De Lacy, so emphatically that every one laughed.
“Some one really ought to dress him, though,” suggested Mr. Sims, with a slight sneer.
“Why?” said Kate, quietly, facing him.
“Oh, well, you know, Miss Raymond,” stammered Mr. Sims, “that sort of attire, you know, is hardly the thing for the drawing-room, you know.”
“He is a shantyman,” said Maimie, apologetically, “and they all dress like that. I don't suppose that he has any other clothes with him.”
“Oh, of course,” assented Mr. Sims, retreating before this double attack.
“Besides,” continued Kate, “it is good taste to dress in the garb of your profession, isn't it, Lieutenant De Lacy?”
“Oh, come now, Miss Kate, that's all right,” said the lieutenant, “but you must draw the line somewhere, you know. Those colors now you must confess are a little startling.”
“You didn't mind the colors when he saved you the other day from that awful mob!”
“One for you, De Lacy,” cried Harry.
“Quite right,” answered the lieutenant, “but don't mistake me. I distinguish between a fellow and his clothes.”
“For my part,” said Kate, “I don't care how a man is dressed; if I like him, I like him should he appear in a blanket and feathers.”
“Don't speak of it,” gasped the lieutenant.
“Do let's talk of something else,” said Maimie, impatiently.
“Delighted, I am sure,” said De Lacy; “and that reminds me that madam was thinking of a picnic down the river this week—just a small company, you know. The man would drive her down and take the hamper and things, and we would go down by boat. Awful pull back, though,” he added, regretfully, “but if it should give any pleasure—delighted, you know,” bowing gallantly to the ladies.
“Delightful!” cried Maimie.
“And Ranald pulls splendidly,” said Kate.
Maimie looked at her, wondering how she knew that. “I don't think Ranald can get away every day. I'm sure he can't; can he, Harry?” she said.
“No,” said Harry, “no more can I, worse luck! The governor is sticking awfully close to work just now.”
“And, of course, you can't be spared,” said Kate, mockingly. “But couldn't you both come later? We could wait tea for you.
“Might,” said Harry. “I shall make my best endeavor for your sake,” bowing toward Kate, “but I am doubtful about Ranald. Perhaps we'd better not—”
“Why, certainly, old chap,” said the lieutenant, “what's the matter?”
“Well, the fact is,” blurted out Harry, desperately, “I don't want to drag in Ranald. I like him awfully, but you may feel as if he were not quite one of us. You know what I mean; your mother doesn't know him.”
Harry felt extremely awkward knowing that he came perilously near to suspecting the lieutenant of the most despicable snobbery.
“Why, certainly,” repeated the lieutenant. “That's all right. Bring your Glengarry man along if any one wants him.”
“I do,” said Kate, decidedly.
“Kismet,” replied the lieutenant. “It is decreed. The young man must come, for I suspect he is very much 'one of us.'” But of this the lieutenant was not quite so certain by the time the day of the picnic had arrived.
The Glengarry men were on the Montreal boat leaving for home. Macdonald Bhain's farewell to his nephew was full of sadness, for he knew that henceforth their ways would lie apart, and full of solemn warnings against the dangers of the city where Ranald was now to be.
“It is a wicked place, and the pitfalls are many, and they are not in the places where the eyes will be looking for them. Ye are taking the way that will be leading you from us all, and I will not be keeping you back, nor will I be laying any vows upon you. You will be a true man, and you will keep the fear of God before your eyes, and you will remember that a Macdonald never fails the man that trusts him.” And long after the great man was gone his last words kept tugging at Ranald's heart: “Ranald, lad, remember us up yonder in the Indian Lands,” he said, holding his hand with a grip that squeezed the bones together; “we will be always thinking of you, and more than all, at the Bible class and the meetings she will be asking for you and wondering how you are doing, and by night and by day the door will be on the latch for your coming; for, laddie, laddie, you are a son to me and more!” The break in the big Macdonald's voice took away from Ranald all power of speech, and without a word of reply, he had to let his uncle go.
Yankee's good by was characteristic. “Well, guess I'll git along. Wish you were comin' back with us, but you've struck your gait, I guess, and you're goin' to make quite a dust. Keep your wind till the last quarter; that's where the money's lost. I ain't 'fraid of you; you're green, but they can't break you. Keep your left eye on the suckers. There ain't no danger from the feller that rips and rares and gits up on his hind legs, but the feller that sidles raound and sorter chums it up to you and wants to pay fer your drinks, by Jings, kick him. And say,” Yankee's voice here grew low and impressive, “git some close. These here are all right for the woods, but with them people close counts an awful lot. It's the man inside that wins, but the close is outside. Git 'em and git 'em good; none of your second-hand Jew outfits. It'll cost, of course, but—(here Yankee closed up to Ranald) but here's a wad; ain't no pertickaler use to me.”
Then Ranald smote him in the chest and knocked him back against a lumber pile.
“I know you,” he cried; “you would be giving me the coat off your back. If I would be taking money from any man I'd take it from you, but let me tell you I will have no money that I do not earn;” then, seeing Yankee's disappointed face, he added, “but indeed, I owe you for your help to me—and—mi—mine, when help was needed sore, more than I can ever pay back.” Then, as they shook hands, Ranald spoke again, and his voice was none too steady. “And I have been thinking that I would like you to have Lisette, for it may be a long time before I will be back again, and I know you will be good to her; and if ever I need your help in this way, I promise I will come to you.”
Yankee chewed his quid of tobacco hard and spat twice before he could reply. Then he answered slowly: “Now look-ye-here, I'll take that little mare and look after her, but the mare's yours and if—and if—which I don't think will happen—if you don't come back soon, why—I will send you her equivalent in cash; but I'd ruther see—I'd ruther see you come back for it!”
It was with a very lonely heart that Ranald watched out of sight the steamboat that carried to their homes in the Indian Lands the company of men who had been his comrades for the long months in the woods and on the river, and all the more that he was dimly realizing that this widening blue strip of flowing river was separating him forever from the life he so passionately loved. As his eyes followed them he thought of the home-coming that he would have shared; their meetings at the church door, the grave handshakings from the older folk, the saucy “horos” from the half-grown boys, the shy blushing glances from the maidens, and last and dearest of all, the glad, proud welcome in the sweet, serious face with the gray-brown eyes. It was with the memory of that face in his heart that he turned to meet what might be coming to him, with the resolve that he would play the man.
“Hello, old chap, who's dead?” It was Harry's gay voice. “You look like a tomb.” He put his arm through Ranald's and walked with him up the street.
“Where are you going now?” he asked, as Ranald walked along in silence.
“To get some clothes.”
“Thank the great powers!” ejaculated Harry to himself.
“What?”
“And where are you going to get them?”
“I do not know—some store, I suppose.” Ranald had the vaguest notions not only of where he should go, but of the clothes in which he ought to array himself, but he was not going to acknowledge this to his friend.
“You can't get any clothes fit to wear in this town,” said Harry, in high contempt. Ranald's heart sank. “But come along, we will find something.”
As they passed in front of the little French shops, with windows filled inside and out with ready-made garments, Ranald paused to investigate.
“Oh! pshaw,” cried Harry, “don't know what you'll get here. We'll find something better than this cheap stuff,” and Ranald, glad enough of guidance, though uncertain as to where it might lead him, followed meekly.
“What sort of a suit do you want?” said Harry.
“I don't know,” said Ranald, doubtfully. It had never occurred to him that there could be any great difference in suits. There had never been any choosing of suits with him.
“Like yours, I suppose,” he continued, glancing at Harry's attire, but adding, cautiously, “if they do not cost too much.”
“About forty dollars,” said Harry, lightly; then, noticing the dismayed look on Ranald's face, he added quickly, “but you don't need to spend that much, you know. I say, you let me manage this thing.” And fortunate it was for Ranald that he had his friend's assistance in this all-important business, but it took all Harry's judgment, skill, and delicacy of handling to pilot his friend through the devious ways of outfitters, for Ranald's ignorance of all that pertained to a gentleman's wardrobe was equaled only by the sensitive pride on the one hand that made him shrink from appearing poor and mean, and by his Scotch caution on the other that forbade undue extravagance. It was a hard hour and a half for them both, but when all was over, Ranald's gratitude more than repaid Harry for his pains.
“Come up to-night,” said Harry, as they stood at the door of the Hotel du Nord, where Ranald had taken up his quarters.
“No,” said Ranald, abruptly, unconsciously glancing down at his rough dress.
“Then I'll come down here,” said Harry, noting the glance.
“I will be very glad,” replied Ranald, his face lighting up, for he was more afraid than he cared to show of the lonely hours of that night. It would be the first night in his life away from his own kin and friends. But he was not so glad when, after tea, as he stood at the door of the hotel, he saw sauntering toward him not only Harry, but also Lieutenant De Lacy and his friend Mr. Sims.
“These fellows would come along,” explained Harry; “I told them you didn't want them.”
“Showed how little he knew,” said the lieutenant. “I told him you would be delighted.”
“Will you come in?” said Ranald, rather grudgingly, “though there is nothing much inside.”
“What a bear,” said Mr. Sims to Harry, disgustedly, in a low voice.
“Nothing much!” said the lieutenant, “a good deal I should say from what one can hear.”
“Oh, that is nothing,” replied Ranald; “the boys are having some games.”
The bar-room was filled with men in shanty dress, some sitting with chairs tipped back against the wall, smoking the black French “twist” tobacco; others drinking at the bar; and others still at the tables that stood in one corner of the room playing cards with loud exclamations and oaths of delight or disgust, according to their fortune. The lieutenant pushed his way through the crowd, followed by the others.
“A jolly lot, by Jove!” he exclaimed, looking with mild interest on the scene, “and with the offer of some sport, too,” he added, glancing at the card-players in the corner, where men were losing their winter's wages.
“What will you take?” said Ranald, prompted by his Highland sense of courtesy, “and would you have it in the next room?”
“Anywhere,” said the lieutenant, with alacrity; “a little brandy and soda for me; nothing else in these places is worth drinking.”
Ranald gave the order, and with some degree of pride, noticed the obsequious manner of the bar-tender toward him and his distinguished guests. They passed into an inner and smaller room, lit by two or three smoky lamps in brackets on the walls. In this room, sitting at one of the tables, were two Frenchmen playing ecarte. As the lieutenant entered, one of them glanced up and uttered an exclamation of recognition.
“Ah, it is our warlike friend,” cried De Lacy, recognizing him in return; “you play this game also,” he continued in French.
“Not moche,” said LeNoir, for it was he, with a grand salute. “Will the capitaine join, and his friends?”
Ranald shook his head and refused.
“Come along,” said the lieutenant, eagerly, to Ranald. The game was his passion. “Mr. Sims, you will; Harry, what do you say?”
“I will look on with Ranald.”
“Oh, come in Macdonald,” said the lieutenant, “the more the better, and we'll make it poker. You know the game?” he said, turning to LeNoir; “and your friend—I have not the pleasure—”
“Mr. Rouleau,” said Ranald and LeNoir together, presenting the young Frenchman who spoke and looked like a gentleman.
“Do you play the game?” said the lieutenant.
“A verie leetle, but I can learn him.”
“That's right,” cried the lieutenant, approvingly.
“What do you say, Ranald,” said Harry, who also loved the game.
“No,” said Ranald, shortly, “I never play for money.”
“Make it pennies,” said Mr. Sims, with a slight laugh.
“Go on, De Lacy,” said Harry, angry at Mr. Sims's tone. “You've got four—that'll do!”
“Oh, very well,” said De Lacy, his easy, languid air returning to him. “What shall it be—quarter chips with a dollar limit? Brandy and soda, Mr. LeNoir? And you, Mr. Rouleau? Two more glasses, garcon,” and the game began.
From the outset Rouleau steadily won till his chips were piled high in front of him.
“You play the game well,” said the lieutenant. “Shall we raise the limit?”
“As you lak,” said Rouleau, with a polite bow.
“Let's make it five dollars,” suggested Mr. Sims, to which all agreed.
But still the game was Rouleau's, who grew more and more excited with every win. The lieutenant played coolly, and with seeming indifference, in which he was imitated by Mr. Sims, the loss of a few dollars being a matter of small moment to either.
“It would make it more interesting if we made it a dollar to play,” at length said Mr. Sims. The suggestion was accepted, and the game went on. At once the luck began to turn, and in a half hour's play Rouleau's winnings disappeared and passed over to the lieutenant's hand. In spite of his bad luck, however, Rouleau continued to bet eagerly and recklessly, until Ranald, who hated to see the young lumberman losing his season's wages, suggested that the game come to an end.
“The night is early,” said the lieutenant, “but if you have had enough,” he said, bowing to LeNoir and Rouleau.
“Non!” exclaimed Rouleau, “the fortune will to me encore. We mak it de two-dollar to play. Dat will brak de luck.”
“I think you ought to stop it,” said Harry.
But the demon of play had taken full possession of both Rouleau and the lieutenant and they were not to be denied. Rouleau took from his pocket a roll of bills and counted them.
“Fifty dollars,” he cried. “Bon! I play him, me!”
The others deposited a like sum before them, and the game proceeded. The deal was De Lacy's. After a few moment's consideration, Mr. Sims and LeNoir each drew three cards. In a tone of triumph which he could not altogether suppress, Rouleau exclaimed “Dees are good enough for me.” The lieutenant drew one card, and the betting began.
Twice Rouleau, when it came to his turn, bet the limit, the others contenting themselves by “raising” one dollar. On the third round LeNoir, remarking, “Das leetle too queek for me,” dropped out.
Once more Rouleau raised the bet to the limit, when Mr. Sims refused, and left the game to him and the lieutenant. There was no mistaking the eager triumph in the Frenchman's pale face. He began to bet more cautiously, his only fear being that his opponent would “call” too soon. Dollar by dollar the bet was raised till at last Rouleau joyously gathered his last chips, raised the bet once more by the limit, exclaiming, as he did so, “Alas! dere ees no more!”
He had played his season's wages that night, but now he would recover all.
De Lacy, whose coolness was undisturbed, though his face showed signs of his many brandy-and-sodas, covered the bet.
“Hola!” exclaimed Rouleau in triumph. “Eet ees to me!” He threw down his cards and reached for the pile.
“Excuse me,” said the lieutenant, quietly looking at Rouleau's cards. “Ah, a straight flush, queen high.” Coolly he laid his cards on the table. “Thought you might have had the ace,” he said, languidly, leaning back in his chair. He, too, held a straight flush, but with the king.
Rouleau gazed thunderstruck.
“Mort Dieu!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “The deal was from you.”
“Mine,” said De Lacy, quietly, looking up at the excited Frenchman.
“Ah,” cried Rouleau, beside himself. “It is—what you call? One cheat! cheat!”
The lieutenant sat up straight in his chair.
“Do you mean that I cheated you?” he said, with slow emphasis. “Beware what you say.”
“Oui!” cried the Frenchman; “sacr-r-re—so I mean!”
Before the words had well left his lips, and before any one could interfere De Lacy shot out his arm, lifted the Frenchman clear off his feet, and hurled him to the floor.
“Stop! you coward!” Ranald stood before the lieutenant with eyes blazing and breath coming quick.
“Coward?” said De Lacy, slowly.
“You hit a man unprepared.”
“You are prepared, I suppose,” replied De Lacy, deliberately.
“Yes! Yes!” cried Ranald, eagerly, the glad light of battle coming into his eyes.
“Good,” said De Lacy, slowly putting back his chair, and proceeding to remove his coat.
“Glengarry!” cried LeNoir, raising the battle cry he had cause to remember so well; and flinging off his coat upon the floor, he patted Ranald on the back, yelling, “Go in, bully boy!”
“Shut the door, LeNoir,” said Ranald, quickly, “and keep it shut.”
“De Lacy,” cried Harry, “this must not go on! Ranald, think what you are doing!”
“You didn't notice his remark, apparently, St. Clair,” said the lieutenant, calmly.
“Never mind,” cried Harry, “he was excited, and anyway the thing must end here.”
“There is only one way. Does he retract?” said De Lacy, quietly.
“Ranald,” Harry cried, beseechingly, “you know he is no coward; you did not mean that.”
By this time Ranald had himself in hand.
“No,” he said, regretfully, forcing himself to speak the truth. “I know he is no coward; I have seen him where no coward would be, but,” he added, “he struck a man unguarded, and that was a coward's blow.”
“Macdonald,” said De Lacy deliberately, “you are right. True, he called me a cheat, but I should have given him time. Still,” he added, rolling up his sleeves, “I hope you will not deprive yourself or me of the privilege of settling this little business.”
“I will be glad,” said Ranald, his eyes once more lighting up. “Very glad indeed, if you wish.”
“Nonsense,” cried Harry, passionately, “I tell you I will not have it. He has given you ample apology, De Lacy; and you, Ranald, I thought a Macdonald never fought except for sufficient cause!” Harry remembered the fighting rule of the Macdonald gang.
“That is true,” said Ranald, gravely, “but it was a cruel blow,” pointing to Rouleau, who, supported by LeNoir, was sitting on a chair, his face badly cut and bleeding, “and that, too, after taking from him the wages of six months in the bush!”
“I suppose you admit the game was fair,” said the lieutenant, moving nearer to Ranald, the threat in his tone evident to all.
“The game was fair,” said Ranald, facing De Lacy, “but I will say the lad was no fair match for you!”
“He chose to risk his money, which you were not willing to do.” De Lacy felt that he was being put in an unpleasant light and was determined to anger Ranald beyond control. Ranald caught the sneer.
“If I did not play,” he cried, hotly, “it was for no fear of you or any of you. It was no man's game whatever,” he continued, contemptuously.
“Now, De Lacy,” cried Harry, again, “let this stop. The man who fights will first fight me!”
“Perhaps Mr. Macdonald would show us how the game should be played,” said Mr. Sims, coming as near to a sneer as he dared.
“It would not be hard to show you this game,” said Ranald, ignoring Mr. Sims, and looking the lieutenant in the eyes, “or perhaps the other!”
“Good!” cried Harry, gladly seizing the opportunity of averting a fight. “The game! Take your places, gentlemen!”
The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, as if uncertain what to do. Then, with a slight laugh, he said, “Very well, one thing at a time, the other can wait.”
“Come on!” cried Harry, “who goes in? LeNoir, you?”
LeNoir looked at Ranald.
“What you say?”
“No,” said Ranald, shortly, “this is my game!” With that he turned aside from the table and spoke a few words in a low tone to LeNoir, who assisted Rouleau from the room, and after some minutes' absence, returned with a little linen bag. Ranald took the bag and began to count out some money upon the table before him.
“I will play to one hundred dollars,” he said.
The lieutenant and Mr. Sims each laid the same amount before them upon the table.
“I have not so much on me,” said Harry, “but perhaps my I. O. U. will do.”
“What shall we say,” said Mr. Sims, “a dollar to play and five dollars limit?”
“Say five and twenty-five,” said De Lacy, who was commanding himself with a great effort.
“Is that too high?” said Harry, looking toward Ranald.
“No,” said Ranald, “the higher the better.”
It was soon evident that Ranald knew the game. He had learned it during the long winter nights in the shanty from Yankee, who was a master at it, and he played it warily and with iron nerve. He seemed to know as by instinct when to retreat and when to pursue; and he played with the single purpose of bleeding the lieutenant dry. Often did he refuse to take toll of Harry or Mr. Sims when opportunity offered, but never once did he allow the lieutenant to escape.
“You flatter me,” said the lieutenant, sarcastically, as Ranald's purpose became increasingly clear.
“I will have from you all you have won,” replied Ranald, in a tone of such settled resolve that it seemed as if nothing could prevent the accomplishment of his purpose. In vain the lieutenant sought to brace his nerves with his brandy-and-sodas. He played now recklessly and again with over-caution, while Ranald, taking advantage of every slip and every sign of weakness, followed him with relentless determination.
With such stakes the game was soon over. It was not long before the lieutenant was stripped of his hundred, while Harry and Mr. Sims had each lost smaller amounts.
“You will try another hundred?” said the lieutenant, burning to get revenge.
Without a word Ranald laid down his hundred; the others did likewise, and once more the game proceeded. There was no change in Ranald's play. Thorough knowledge of the game, absolute self-command, an instinctive reading of his opponent's mind, and unswerving purpose soon brought about the only result possible. The lieutenant's second hundred with a part of Harry's and Mr. Sims's passed into Ranald's possession.
Again De Lacy challenged to play.
“No,” said Ranald, “I have done.” He put back into his linen bag his one hundred dollars, counted out two hundred, and gave it to LeNoir, saying: “That is Rouleau's,” and threw the rest upon the table. “I want no man's money,” he said, “that I do not earn.”
The lieutenant sprang to his feet.
“Hold!” he cried, “you forget, there is something else!”
“No,” said Ranald, as Harry and Mr. Sims put themselves in De Lacy's way, “there is nothing else to-night; another day, and any day you wish, you can have the other game,” and with that he passed out of the room.
The ancient capital of Canada—the old gray queen of the mighty St. Lawrence—is a city of many charms and of much stately beauty. Its narrow, climbing streets, with their quaint shops and curious gables, its old market, with chaffering habitant farmers and their wives, are full of living interest. Its noble rock, crowned with the ancient citadel, and its sweeping tidal river, lend it a dignity and majestic beauty that no other city knows; and everywhere about its citadel and walls, and venerable, sacred buildings, there still linger the romance and chivalry of heroic days long gone. But there are times when neither the interests of the living present nor the charms of the romantic past can avail, and so a shadow lay upon Maimie's beautiful face as she sat in the parlor of the Hotel de Cheval Blanc, looking out upon the mighty streets and the huddled roofs of the lower town. She held in her hand an open note.
“It is just awfully stupid,” she grumbled, “and I think pretty mean of him!”
“Of whom, may I ask?” said Kate, pausing in her singing, “or is there any need? What says the gallant lieutenant?”
Maimie tossed her the note.
“The picnic is postponed. Well, of course the rain told us that; and he is unavoidably prevented from calling, and entreats your sympathy and commiseration. Well, that's a very nice note, I am sure.”
“Where has he been these three days! He might have known it would be stupid, and Harry gives one no satisfaction.” Maimie was undeniably cross. “And Ranald, too,” she went on, “where has he been? Not even your music could bring him!” with a little spice of spite. “I think men are just horrid, anyway.”
“Especially when they will keep away,” said Kate.
“Well, what are they good for if not to entertain us? I wish we could do without them! But I do think Ranald might have come.”
“Well,” said Kate, emphatically, “I can't see why you should expect him.”
“Why not?”
“I think you ought to know.”
“I, how should I know?” Maimie's innocent blue eyes were wide open with surprise.
“Nonsense,” cried Kate, with impatience rare in her, “don't be absurd, Maimie; I am not a child.”
“What do YOU mean?”
“You needn't tell me you don't know why Ranald comes. Do you want him to come?”
“Why, of course I do; how silly you are.”
“Well,” said Kate, deliberately, “I would rather be silly than cruel and unkind.”
“Why, Kate, how dreadful of you!” exclaimed Maimie; “'cruel and unkind!'”
“Yes.” said Kate; “you are not treating Ranald well. You should not encourage him to—to—care for you when you do not mean to—to—go on with it.”
“Oh, what nonsense; Ranald is not a baby; he will not take any hurt.”
“Oh, Maimie,” said Kate, and her voice was low and earnest, “Ranald is not like other men. He does not understand things. He loves you and he will love you more every day if you let him. Why don't you let him go?”
“Let him go!” cried Maimie, “who's keeping him?” But as she spoke the flush in her cheek and the warm light in her eye told more clearly than words that she did not mean to let him go just then.
“You are,” said Kate, “and you are making him love you.”
“Why, how silly you are,” cried Maimie; “of course he likes me, but—”
“No, Maimie,” said Kate, with sad earnestness, “he loves you; you can see it in the way he looks at you; in his voice when he speaks and—oh, you shouldn't let him unless you mean to—to—go on. Send him right away!” There were tears in Kate's dark eyes.
“Why, Katie,” cried Maimie, looking at her curiously, “what difference does it make to you? And besides, how can I send him away? I just treat him as I do Mr. De Lacy.”
“De Lacy!” cried Kate, indignantly. “De Lacy can look after himself, but Ranald is different. He is so serious and—and so honest, and he means just what he says, and you are so nice to him, and you look at him in such a way!”
“Why, Kate, do you mean that I try to—” Maimie was righteously indignant.
“You perhaps don't know,” continued Kate, “but you can't help being fascinating to men; you know you are, and Ranald believes you so, and—and you ought to be quite straightforward with him!” Poor Kate could no longer command her voice.
“There, now,” said Maimie, caressing her friend, not unpleased with Kate's description of her; “I'm going to be good. I will just be horrid to both of them, and they'll go away! But, oh, dear, things are all wrong! Poor Ranald,” she said to herself, “I wonder if he will come to the picnic on Saturday?”
Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears.
“Indeed I hope he will not,” she said, indignantly, “for I know you mean to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” said Maimie, smiling.
“Just what you mean to do.”
“I wish you would tell me that.”
“Now I tell you, Maimie,” said Kate, “if you go on with Ranald so any longer I will just tell him you are playing with him.”
“Do,” said Maimie, scornfully, “and be careful to make clear to him at the same time that you are speaking solely in his interest!”
Kate's face flushed red at the insinuation, and then grew pale. She stood for some time looking in silence at her friend, and then with a proud flash of her dark eyes, she swept from the room without a word, nor did Maimie see her again that afternoon, though she stood outside her door entreating with tears to be forgiven. Poor Kate! Maimie's shaft had gone too near a vital spot, and the wound amazed and terrified her. Was it for Ranald's sake alone she cared? Yes, surely it was. Then why this sharp new pain under the hand pressing hard upon her heart?
Oh, what did that mean? She put her face in her pillow to hide the red that she knew was flaming in her cheeks, and for a few moments gave herself up to the joy that was flooding her whole heart and soul and all her tingling veins. Oh, how happy she was. For long she had heard of the Glengarry lad from Maimie and more from Harry till there had grown up in her heart a warm, admiring interest. And now she had come to know him for herself! How little after all had they told her of him. What a man he was! How strong and how fearless! How true-hearted and how his eyes could fill with love! She started up. Love? Love? Ah, where was her joy! How chill the day had grown and how hateful the sunlight on the river. She drew down the blind and threw herself once more upon the bed, shivering and sick with pain—the bitterest that heart can know. Once more she started up.
“She is not worthy of him!” she exclaimed, aloud; “her heart is not deep enough; she does not, cannot love him, and oh, if some one would only let him know!”
She would tell him herself. No! No! Maimie's sharp arrow was quivering still in her heart. Once more she threw herself upon the bed. How could she bear this that had stricken her? She would go home. She would go to her mother to-morrow. Go away forever from—ah—could she? No, anything but that! She could not go away.
Over the broad river the warm sunlight lay with kindly glow, and the world was full of the soft, sweet air of spring, and the songs of mating birds; but the hours passed, and over the river the shadows began to creep, and the whole world grew dark, and the songs of the birds were hushed to silence. Then, from her room, Kate came down with face serene, and but for the eyes that somehow made one think of tears, without a sign of the storm that had swept her soul. She did not go home. She was too brave for that. She would stay and fight her battle to the end.
That was a dreary week for Ranald. He was lonely and heartsick for the woods and for his home and friends, but chiefly was he oppressed with the sense of having played the fool in his quarrel with De Lacy, whom he was beginning to admire and like. He surely might have avoided that; and yet whenever he thought of the game that had swept away from Rouleau all his winter's earnings, and of the cruel blow that had followed, he felt his muscles stiffen and his teeth set tight in rage. No, he would do it all again, nor would he retreat one single step from the position he had taken, but would see his quarrel through to the end. But worst of all he had not seen Maimie all the week. His experience with Harry in the ordering of his suit had taught him the importance of clothes, and he now understood as he could not before, Maimie's manner to him. “That would be it,” he said to himself, “and no wonder. What would she do with a great, coarse tyke like me!” Then, in spite of all his loyalty, he could not help contrasting with Maimie's uncertain and doubtful treatment of him, the warm, frank friendliness of Kate. “SHE did not mind my clothes,” he thought, with a glow of gratitude, but sharply checking himself, he added, “but why should she care?” It rather pleased him to think that Maimie cared enough to feel embarrassed at his rough dress. So he kept away from the Hotel de Cheval Blanc till his new suit should be ready. It was not because of his dress, however, that he steadily refused Harry's invitation to the picnic.
“No, I will not go,” he said, with blunt decision, after listening to Harry's pleading. “It is Lieutenant De Lacy's picnic, and I will have nothing to do with him, and indeed he will not be wanting me!”
“Oh, he's forgotten all about that little affair,” cried Harry.
“Has he? Indeed then if he is a man he has not!”
“I guess he hasn't remembered much of anything for the last week,” said Harry, with a slight laugh.
“Why not?”
“Oh, pshaw, he's been on a big tear. He only sobered up yesterday.”
“Huh!” grunted Ranald, contemptuously. He had little respect for a man who did not know when he had had enough. “What about his job?” he asked.
“His job? Oh, I see. His job doesn't worry him much. He's absent on sick-leave. But he's all fit again and I know he will be disappointed if you do not come to-morrow.”
“I will not go,” said Ranald, with final decision, “and you can tell him so, and you can tell him why.”
And Harry did tell him with considerable fullness and emphasis not only of Ranald's decision, but also Ranald's opinion of him, for he felt that it would do that lordly young man no harm to know that a man whom he was inclined to patronize held him in contempt and for cause. The lieutenant listened for a time to all Harry had to say with apparent indifference, then suddenly interrupting him, he said: “Oh, I say, old chap, I wouldn't rub it in if I were you. I have a more or less vague remembrance of having rather indulged in heroics. One can't keep his head with poker and unlimited brandy-and-sodas; they don't go together. It's a thing I almost never do; never in a big game, but the thing got interesting before I knew. But I say, that Glengarry chap plays a mighty good game. Must get him on again. Feels hot, eh? I will make that all right, and what's the French chap's name—Boileau, Rondeau, eh? Rouleau. Yes, and where could one see him?”
“I can find out from LeNoir, who will be somewhere near Ranald. You can't get him away from him.”
“Well, do,” said the lieutenant, lazily. “Bring LeNoir to see me. I owe that Rouleau chap an apology. Beastly business! And I'll fix it up with Macdonald. He has the right of it, by Jove! Rather lucky, I fancy, he didn't yield to my solicitations for a try at the other game—from what I remember of the street riot, eh? Would not mind having a go with him with the gloves, though. I will see him to-morrow morning. Keep your mind at rest.”
Next morning when LeNoir came to his work he was full of the lieutenant's praises to Ranald.
“Das fine feller le Capitaine, eh? Das de Grand Seigneur for sure! He's mak eet all right wit Rouleau! He's pay de cash money and he's mak eet de good posish for him, an' set him up the champagne, too, by gar!”
“Huh,” grunted Ranald. “Run that crib around the boom there LeNoir; break it up and keep your gang moving to-day!”
“Bon!” said LeNoir, with alacrity. “I give 'em de big move, me!”
But however unwilling Ranald was to listen to LeNoir singing the lieutenant's praises, when he met Harry at noon in the office he was even more enthusiastic than LeNoir in his admiration of De Lacy.
“I never saw the likes of him,” he said. “He could bring the birds out of the trees with that tongue of his. Indeed, I could not have done what he did whatever. Man, but he is a gentleman!”
“And are you going this evening?”
“That I am,” said Ranald. “What else could I do? I could not help myself; he made me feel that mean that I was ready to do anything.”
“All right,” said Harry, delighted, “I will take my canoe around for you after six.”
“And,” continued Ranald, with a little hesitation, “he told me he would be wearing a jersey and duck trousers, and I think that was very fine of him.”
“Why, of course,” said Harry, quite mystified, “what else would he wear?”
Ranald looked at him curiously for a moment, and said: “A swallow-tail, perhaps, or a blanket, maybe,” and he turned away leaving Harry more mystified than ever.
Soon after six, Harry paddled around in his canoe, and gave the stern to Ranald. What a joy it was to him to be in a canoe stern again; to feel the rush of the water under his knees; to have her glide swiftly on her soundless way down the full-bosomed, sunbathed river; to see her put her nose into the little waves and gently, smoothly push them asunder with never a splash or swerve; to send her along straight and true as an arrow in its flight, and then flip! flip to swing her off a floating log or around an awkward boat lumbering with clumsy oars. That was to be alive again. Oh, the joy of it! Of all things that move to the will of man there is none like the canoe. It alone has the sweet, smooth glide, the swift, silent dart answering the paddle sweep; the quick swerve in response to the turn of the wrist. Ranald felt as if he could have gladly paddled on right out to the open sea; but sweeping around a bend a long, clear call hailed them, and there, far down at the bottom of a little bay, at the foot of the big, scarred, and wrinkled rock the smoke and glimmer of the camp-fire could be seen. A flip of the stern paddle, and the canoe pointed for the waving figure, and under the rhythmic sweep of the paddles, sped like an arrow down the waters, sloping to the shore. There, on a great rock, stood Kate, directing their course.
“Here's a good landing,” she cried. Right at the rock dashed the canoe at full speed. A moment more and her dainty nose would be battered out of all shape on the cruel rock, but a strong back stroke, a turn of the wrist, flip, and she lay floating quietly beside the rock.
“Splendid!” cried Kate.
“Well done, by Jove!” exclaimed the lieutenant, who was himself an expert with the paddle.
“I suppose you have no idea how fine you look,” cried Kate.
“And I am quite sure,” answered Harry, “you have no suspicion of what a beautiful picture you all make.” And a beautiful picture it was: the great rocky cliff in the background, tricked out in its new spring green of moss and shrub and tree; the grassy plot at its foot where a little stream gurgled out from the rock; the blazing camp-fire with the little group about it; and in front the sunlit river. How happy they all were! And how ready to please and to be pleased. Even little Mr. Sims had his charm. And at the making of the tea, which Kate had taken in charge with Ranald superintending, what fun there was with burning of fingers and upsetting of kettles! And then, the talk and the laughter at the lieutenant's brilliant jokes, and the chaffing of the “lumbermen” over their voracious appetites! It was an hour of never-to-be-forgotten pleasure. They were all children again, and with children's hearts were happy in childhood's simple joys. And why not? There are no joys purer than those of the open air; of grass and trees flooded with the warm light and sweet scents of the soft springtime. Too soon it all came to an end, and then they set off to convoy the stately old lady to her carriage at the top of the cliff. Far in front went Kate, disdaining the assistance of Harry and Mr. Sims, who escorted her. Near at hand the lieutenant was in attendance upon Maimie, who seemed to need his constant assistance; for the way was rough, and there were so many jutting points of rock for wonderful views, and often the very prettiest plants were just out of reach. Last of all came Madame De Lacy, climbing the steep path with difficulty and holding fast to Ranald's arm. With charming grace she discoursed of the brave days of old in which her ancestors had played a worthy part. An interesting tale it was, but in spite of all her charm of speech, and grace of manner, Ranald could not keep his mind from following his heart and eyes that noted every step and move of the beautiful girl, flitting in and out among the trees before them. And well it was that his eyes were following so close; for, as she was reaching for a dainty spray of golden birch, holding by the lieutenant's hand, the treacherous moss slipped from under Maimie's feet, and with a piercing shriek she went rolling down the sloping mountain-side, dragging her escort with her. Like a flash of light Ranald dropped madame's arm, and seizing the top of a tall birch that grew up from the lower ledge, with a trick learned as a boy in the Glengarry woods, he swung himself clear over the edge, and dropping lightly on the mossy bank below, threw himself in front of the rolling bodies, and seizing them held fast. In another moment leaving the lieutenant to shift for himself, Ranald was on his knees beside Maimie, who lay upon the moss, white and still. “Some water, for God's sake!” he cried, hoarsely, to De Lacy, who stood dazed beside him, and then, before the lieutenant could move, Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms, as if she had been an infant, and bore her down to the river's edge, and laid her on the grassy bank. Then, taking up a double handful of water, he dashed it in her face. With a little sigh she opened her eyes, and letting them rest upon his face, said, gently, “Oh, Ranald, I am so glad you—I am so sorry I have been so bad to you.” She could say no more, but from her closed eyes two great tears made their way down her pale cheeks.
“Oh, Maimie, Maimie,” said Ranald, in a broken voice, “tell me you are not hurt.”
Again she opened her eyes and said, “No, I am not hurt, but you will take me home; you will not leave me!” Her fingers closed upon his hand.
With a quick, strong clasp, he replied: “I will not leave you.”
In a few minutes she was able to sit up, and soon they were all about her, exclaiming and lamenting.
“What a silly girl I am,” she said, with a little tremulous laugh, “and what a fright I must have given you all!”
“Don't rise, my dear,” said Madame De Lacy, “until you feel quite strong.”
“Oh, I am quite right,” said Maimie, confidently; “I am sure I am not hurt in the least.”
“Oh, I am so thankful!” cried Kate.
“It is the Lord's mercy,” said Ranald, in a voice of deep emotion.
“Are you quite sure you are not hurt?” said Harry, anxiously.
“Yes, I really think I am all right, but what a fright I must look!”
“Thank God!” said Harry fervently; “I guess you're improving,” at which they all laughed.
“Now I think we must get home,” said Madame De Lacy. “Do you think you can walk, Maimie?”
“Oh, yes,” cried Maimie, and taking Ranald's hand, she tried to stand up, but immediately sank back with a groan.
“Oh, it is my foot,” she said, “I am afraid it is hurt.”
“Let me see!” cried Harry. “I don't think it is broken,” he said, after feeling it carefully, “but I have no doubt it is a very bad sprain. You can't walk for certain.”
“Then we shall have to carry her,” said Madame De Lacy, and she turned to her son.
“I fear I can offer no assistance,” said the lieutenant, pointing to his arm which was hanging limp at his side.
“Why, Albert, are you hurt? What is the matter? You are hurt!” cried his mother, anxiously.
“Not much, but I fear my arm is useless. You might feel it,” he said to Ranald.
Carefully Ranald passed his hand down the arm.
“Say nothing,” whispered the lieutenant to him. “It's broken. Tie it up some way.” Without a word Ranald stripped the bark of a birch tree, and making a case, laid the arm in it and bound it firmly with his silk handkerchief.
“We ought to have a sling,” he said, turning to Kate.
“Here,” said Madame De Lacy, untying a lace scarf from her neck, “take this.”
Kate took the scarf, and while Ranald held the arm in place she deftly made it into a sling.
“There,” said the lieutenant, “that feels quite comfortable. Now let's go.”
“Come, Maimie, I'll carry you up the hill,” said Harry.
“No,” said Ranald, decidedly, “she will go in the canoe. That will be easier.”
“Quite right,” said the lieutenant. “Sims, perhaps you will give my mother your arm, and if Miss Kate will be kind enough to escort me, we can all four go in the carriage; but first we shall see the rest of the party safely off.”
“Come, then, Maimie,” said Harry, approaching his sister; “let me carry you.”
But Maimie glanced up at Ranald, who without a word, lifted her in his arms.
“Put your arm about his neck, Maimie,” cried Harry, “you will go more comfortably that way. Ranald won't mind,” he added, with a laugh.
At the touch of her clinging arms the blood mounted slowly into Ranald's neck and face, showing red through the dark tan of his skin.
“How strong you are,” said Maimie, softly, “and how easily you carry me. But you would soon tire of me,” she added with a little laugh.
“I would not tire forever,” said Ranald, as he laid her gently down in the canoe.
“I shall send the carriage to the wharf for you,” said Madame De Lacy, “and you will come right home to me, and you, too, Miss Raymond.”
Ranald took his place in the stern with Maimie reclining in the canoe so as to face him.
“You are sure you are comfortable,” he said, with anxious solicitude in his tone.
“Quite,” she replied, with a cosy little snuggle down among the cushions placed around her.
“Then let her go,” cried Ranald, dipping in his paddle.
“Good by,” cried Kate, waving her hand at them from the rock. “We'll meet you at the wharf. Take good care of your invalid, Ranald.”
With hardly a glance at her Ranald replied: “You may be sure of that,” and with a long, swinging stroke shot the canoe out into the river. For a moment or two Kate stood looking after them, and then, with a weary look in her face, turned, and with the lieutenant, followed Madame De Lacy and Mr. Sims.
“You are tired,” said the lieutenant, looking into her face.
“Yes,” she replied, with a little sigh, “I think I am tired.”
The paddle home was all too short to Ranald, but whether it took minutes or hours he could not have told. As in a dream he swung his paddle and guided his canoe. He saw only the beautiful face and the warm light in the bright eyes before him. He woke to see Kate on the wharf before them, and for a moment he wondered how she came there. Once more, as he bore her from the canoe to the carriage, he felt Maimie's arms clinging about his neck and heard her whisper, “You will not leave me, Ranald,” and again he replied, “No, I will not leave you.”
Swiftly the De Lacy carriage bore them through the crooked, climbing streets of the city and out along the country road, then up a stately avenue of beeches, and drew up before the stone steps, of a noble old chateau. Once more Ranald lifted Maimie in his arms and carried her up the broad steps, and through the great oak-paneled hall into Madame De Lacy's own cosy sitting-room, and there he laid her safely in a snug nest of cushions prepared for her. There was nothing more to do, but to say good by and come away, but it was Harry that first brought this to Ranald's mind.
“Good by, Ranald,” said Maimie, smiling up into his face. “I cannot thank you for all you have done to-day, but I am sure Madame De Lacy will let you come to see me sometimes.”
“I shall be always glad to see you,” said the little lady, with gentle, old-fashioned courtesy, “for we both owe much to you this day.”
“Thank you,” said Ranald, quietly, “I will come,” and passed out of the room, followed by Harry and Kate.
At the great hall door, Kate stood and watched them drive away, waving her hand in farewell.
“Good by,” cried Harry, “don't forget us in your stately palace,” but Ranald made no reply. He had no thought for her. But still she stood and watched the carriage till the beeches hid it from her view, and then, with her hand pressed against her side, she turned slowly into the hall.
As the carriage rolled down the stately avenue, Ranald sat absorbed in deepest thought, heeding not his companion's talk.
“What's the matter with you, Ranald? What are you thinking of?” at last cried Harry, impatiently.
“What?” answered Ranald, in strange confusion, “I cannot tell you.” Unconsciously as he spoke he put up his hand to his neck, for he was still feeling the pressure of those clinging arms, and all the way back the sounds of the rolling wheels and noisy, rattling streets wrought themselves into one sweet refrain, “You will not leave me, Ranald,” and often in his heart he answered, “No, I will not,” with such a look on his face as men wear when pledging life and honor.