“En roulant ma boule roulant,En roulant me boule.”
“This, I suppose, is one of your beloved shantymen,” said the lieutenant, turning to Kate, who was walking with Harry behind.
“Isn't he lovely!” exclaimed Kate.
“Oh,” cried Maimie, in terror, “let us get into a shop!”
“Quite unnecessary, I assure you,” said the lieutenant, indifferently; “I have not the least idea that he will molest you.”
The lumberman by this time had swaggered up to the party, expecting them to make way, but instead, De Lacy stiffened his shoulder, caught the Frenchman in the chest, and rolled him off into the street. Surprised and enraged, the Frenchman turned to demolish the man who had dared to insult the “boss bully on de reever Hottawa.”
“Vous n'avez pas remarque la demoiselle,” said the lieutenant, in a tone of politeness.
The lumberman, who had swaggered up ready to strike, glanced at Maimie, took off his hat, and made a ceremonious bow.
“Eh bien! Non! Pardon, Mams'elle.”
“Bon jour,” said Lieutenant De Lacy, with a military salute, and moved on, leaving the lumberman staring after them as if he had seen a vision.
“Beauty and the Beast,” murmured the lieutenant. “Thought I was in for it, sure. Really wonderful, don't you know!”
“Do you think we had better go on?” said Maimie, turning to Kate and Harry.
“Why not? Why, certainly!” they exclaimed.
“These horrid men,” replied Maimie.
“Dear creatures!” said the lieutenant, glancing at Kate with a mildly pathetic look. “Sweet, but not always fragrant.”
“Oh, they won't hurt us. Let us go on.”
“Certainly, go on,” echoed Harry, impatiently.
“Safe enough, Miss St. Clair, but,” pulling out his perfumed handkerchief, “rather trying.”
“Oh, get on, De Lacy,” cried Harry, and so they moved on.
The office of Raymond & St. Clair stood near the wharves. Harry paused at the door, not quite sure whether to go in or not. It was easy to discover work in that office.
“You might ask if Ranald has come,” said Kate. “Maimie is too shy.”
Harry returned in a few moments, quite excited.
“The Macdonald gang are in, and the Big Macdonald was here not half an hour ago, and Ranald is down at the raft beyond the last wharf. I know the place.”
“Oh, do let us go on!” cried Kate, to whom Harry had been extolling Ranald on the way down. “You really ought to inspect your timber, Harry, shouldn't you?”
“Most certainly, and right away. No saying what might happen.”
“Awful slush,” said the lieutenant, glancing at Maimie's face. “Do you think the timber wouldn't keep for a week?”
“Oh, rubbish! A week!” cried Harry. “He is thinking of his boots again.”
To be quite fair to the lieutenant, it was Maimie's doubtful face, rather than his shiny boots, that made him hesitate. She was evidently nervous and embarrassed. The gay, easy manner which was her habit was gone.
“I think perhaps we had better go, since we are here,” she said, doubtfully.
“Exactly; it is what I most desired,” said the lieutenant, gallantly.
Scores of rafts lay moored along the wharves and shore, and hundred of lumbermen were to be seen everywhere, not only on the timber and wharves, but crowding the streets and the doors of the little saloons.
For half an hour they walked along, watching the men at work with the timber on the river. Some were loading the vessels lying at anchor, some were shifting the loose timber about. When they reached the end of the last wharf, they saw a strapping young lumberman, in a shanty costume that showed signs of the woods, running some loose sticks of timber round the end of the raft. With great skill he was handling his pike, walking the big sticks and running lightly over the timber too small to carry him, balancing himself on a single stick while he moved the timber to the bit of open water behind the raft, and all with a grace and dexterity that excited Kate's admiration to the highest degree.
“Rather clever, that,” said the lieutenant, lazily. “Hello! close call, that; ha! bravo!” It was not often the lieutenant allowed himself the luxury of excitement, but the lumberman running his timber slipped his pike pole and found himself balancing on the edge of open water. With a mighty spring he cleared the open space, touched a piece of small timber that sank under him, and at the next spring landed safe on the raft. Maimie's scream sounded with the lieutenant's “bravo.” At the cry the young fellow looked up. It was Ranald.
“Hello, there!” cried Harry; and with an answering shout, Ranald, using his pike as a jumping-pole, cleared the open space, ran lightly over the floating sticks, and with another spring reached the shore. Without a moment's hesitation he dropped his pole and came almost running toward them, his face radiant with delight.
“Maimie!” he exclaimed, holding out his hand, wet and none too clean.
“How do you do?” said Maimie. She had noticed the look of surprise and mild disgust on the lieutenant's face, and she was embarrassed. Ranald was certainly not lovely to look at. His shirt was open at the neck, torn, and dirty. His trousers and boots were much the worse of their struggle with the bush.
“This is Mr. Macdonald, Lieutenant De Lacy,” Maimie hurried to say. The lieutenant offered a limp hand.
“Chawmed, I'm suah,” he murmured.
“What?” said Ranald.
“Lovely weather,” murmured the lieutenant again, looking at his fingers that Ranald had just let go.
“Well, old chap,” said Harry, grasping Ranald's hand and throwing his arm about his shoulder, “I am awfully glad to find you. We have been hunting you for half an hour. But hold up, here you are. Let me introduce you to Miss Kate Raymond, the best girl anywhere.”
Kate came forward with a frank smile. “I am very glad to meet you,” she said. “I have heard so much about you, and I am going to call you Ranald, as they all do.”
“How lovely!” sighed De Lacy.
Her greeting warmed Ranald's heart that somehow had been chilled in the meeting. Something was wrong. Was it this fop of a soldier, or had Maimie changed? Ranald glanced at her face. No, she was the same, only more beautiful than he had dreamed.
But while she was shaking hands with him, there flashed across his mind the memory of the first time he had seen her, and the look of amusement upon her face then, that had given him such deadly offense. There was no amusement now, but there was embarrassment and something else. Ranald could not define it, but it chilled his heart, and at once he began to feel how badly dressed he was. The torn shirt, the ragged trousers, and the old, unshapely boots that he had never given a thought to before, now seemed to burn into his flesh. Unconsciously he backed away and turned to go.
“Where are you off to?” cried Harry; “do you think we are going to let you go now? We had hard enough work finding you. Come up to the office and see the governor. He wants to see you badly.”
Ranald glanced at the lieutenant, immaculate except where the slush had speckled his shiny boots, and then at his own ragged attire. “I think I will not go up now,” he said.
“Well, come up soon,” said Maimie, evidently relieved.
“No!” said Kate, impetuously, “come right along now.” As she spoke she ranged herself beside him.
For a moment or two Ranald hesitated, shot a searching glance at Maimie's face, and then, with a reckless laugh, said, “I will go now,” and set off forthwith, Kate proudly marching at one side, and Harry on the other, leaving Maimie and the lieutenant to follow after.
And a good thing it was for Ranald that he did go that day with Harry to his “governor's” office. They found the office in a “swither,” as Harry said, over the revelations of fraud that were coming to light every day—book-keeper, clerk, and timber-checker having all been in conspiracy to defraud the company.
“Where have you been, Harry?” said his father in an annoyed tone as his son entered the office. “You don't seem to realize how much there is to do just now.”
“Looking up Ranald, father,” said Harry, cheerfully.
“Ah, the young man from Glengarry?” said Mr. St. Clair, rising. “I am glad to know you, and to thank you in person for your prompt courage in saving my daughter.”
“Lucky dog!” groaned the lieutenant, in an undertone to Maimie.
Mr. St. Clair spoke to Ranald of his father and his uncle in words of highest appreciation, and as Ranald listened, the reckless and hard look which had been gathering ever since his meeting with Maimie passed away, and his face became earnest and touched with a tender pride.
“I hear about you frequently from my sister, Mr. Macdonald—or shall I say Ranald?” said Mr. St. Clair, kindly. “She apparently thinks something of you.”
“I am proud to think so,” replied Ranald, his face lighting up as he spoke; “but every one loves her. She is a wonderful woman, and good.”
“Yes,” said Mr. St. Clair, “that's it; wonderful and good.”
Then Maimie drew nearer. “How is auntie?” she said. “What a shame not to have asked before!”
“She was very well last fall,” said Ranald, looking keenly into Maimie's face; “but she is working too hard at the meetings.”
“Meetings!” exclaimed Harry.
“Aye, for a year and more she has been at them every night till late.”
“At meetings for a year! What meetings?” cried Harry, astonished.
“Oh, Harry, you know about the great revival going on quite well,” said Maimie.
“Oh, yes. I forgot. What a shame! What is the use of her killing herself that way?”
“There is much use,” said Ranald, gravely. “They are making bad men good, and the whole countryside is new, and she is the heart of it all.”
“I have no doubt about that,” said Mr. St. Clair. “She will be the head and heart and hands and feet.”
“You're just right, governor,” said Harry, warmly. “There is no woman living like Aunt Murray.”
There was silence for a few moments. Then Mr. St. Clair said suddenly: “We are in an awful fix here. Not a man to be found that we can depend upon for book-keeper, clerk, or checker.”
Harry coughed slightly.
“Oh, of course, Harry is an excellent book-keeper,” Harry bowed low; “while he is at it,” added Mr. St. Clair.
“Very neat one,” murmured the lieutenant.
“Now, father, do not spoil a fine compliment in that way,” cried Harry.
“But now the checker is gone,” said Mr. St. Clair, “and that is extremely awkward.”
“I say,” cried Harry, “what will you give me for a checker right now?”
Mr. St. Clair looked at him and then at the lieutenant.
“Pardon me, Mr. St. Clair,” said that gentleman, holding up his hand. “I used to check a little at Rugby, but—”
“Not you, by a long hand,” interrupted Harry, disdainfully.
“This awfully charming brother of yours, so very frank, don't you know!” said the lieutenant, softly, to Maimie, while they all laughed.
“But here is your man, governor,” said Harry, laying his hand on Ranald.
“Ranald!” exclaimed Mr. St. Clair. “Why, the very man! You understand timber, and you are honest.”
“I will answer for both with my head,” said Harry.
“What do you say, Ranald?” said Mr. St. Clair. “Will you take a day to think it over?”
“No,” said Ranald; “I will be your checker.” And so Ranald became part of the firm of Raymond & St. Clair.
“Come along, Ranald,” said Harry. “We will take the girls home, and then come back to the office.”
“Yes, do come,” said Kate, heartily. Maimie said nothing.
“No,” said Ranald; “I will go back to the raft first, and then come to the office. Shall I begin tonight?” he said to Mr. St. Clair.
“To-morrow morning will do, Ranald,” said Mr. St. Clair. “Come up to the hotel and see us tonight.” But Ranald said nothing. Then Maimie went up to him.
“Good by, just now,” she said, smiling into his face. “You will come and see us to-night, perhaps?”
Ranald looked at her, while the blood mounted slowly into his dark cheek, and said: “Yes, I will come.”
“What's the matter with you, Maimie?” said Harry, indignantly, when they had got outside. “You would think Ranald was a stranger, the way you treat him.”
“And he is just splendid! I wish he had pulled ME out of the fire,” cried Kate.
“You might try the river,” said the lieutenant. “I fancy he would go in. Looks that sort.”
“Go in?” cried Harry, “he would go anywhere.” The lieutenant made no reply. He evidently considered that it was hardly worth the effort to interest himself in the young lumberman, but before he was many hours older he found reason to change his mind.
After taking the young ladies to their hotel there was still an hour till the lieutenant's dinner, so, having resolved to cultivate the St. Clair family, he proposed accompanying Harry back to the office.
As they approached the lower portion of the town they heard wild shouts, and sauntering down a side street, they came upon their French-Canadian friend of the afternoon. He was standing with his back against a wall trying to beat off three or four men, who were savagely striking and kicking at him, and crying the while: “Gatineau! Gatineau!”
It was the Gatineau against the Ottawa.
“Our friend seems to have found the object of his search,” said the lieutenant, as he stood across the street looking at the melee.
“I say, he's a good one, isn't he?” cried Harry, admiring the Ottawa's dauntless courage and his fighting skill.
“His eagerness for war will probably be gratified in a few minutes, by the look of things,” replied the lieutenant.
The Gatineaus were crowding around, and had evidently made up their minds to bring the Ottawa champion to the dust. That they were numbers to one mattered not at all. There was little chivalry in a shantymen's fight.
“Ha! Rather a good one, that,” exclaimed the lieutenant, mildly interested. “He put that chap out somewhat neatly.” He lit a cigar and stood coolly watching the fight.
“Where are the Ottawas—the fellow's friends?” said Harry, much excited.
“I rather think they camp on another street further down.”
The Ottawa champion was being sorely pressed, and it looked as if in a moment or two more he would be down.
“What a shame!” cried Harry.
“Well,” said the lieutenant, languidly, “it's beastly dirty, but the chap's done rather well, so here goes.”
Smoking his cigar, and followed by Harry, he pushed across the street to the crowd, and got right up to the fighters.
“Here, you fellows,” he called out, in a high, clear voice, “what the deuce do you mean, kicking up such a row? Come now, stop, and get out of here.”
The astonished crowd stopped fighting and fell back a little. The calm, clear voice of command and her majesty's uniform awed them.
“Mon camarade!” said the lieutenant, removing his cigar and saluting, “rather warm, eh?”
“You bet! Ver' warm tam,” was the reply.
“Better get away, mon ami. The odds are rather against you,” said the lieutenant. “Your friends are some distance down the next street. You better go along.” So saying, he stepped out toward the crowd of Gatineaus who were consulting and yelling.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, politely, waving his little cane. Those immediately in front gave back, allowed the lieutenant, followed by the Ottawa man and Harry, to pass, and immediately closed in behind. They might have escaped had it not been that the Ottawa man found it impossible to refrain from hurling taunts at them and inviting them to battle. They had gone not more than two blocks when there was a rush from behind, and before they could defend themselves they were each in the midst of a crowd, fighting for their lives. The principal attack was, of course, made upon the Ottawa man, but the crowd was quite determined to prevent the lieutenant and Harry from getting near him. In vain they struggled to break through the yelling mass of Gatineaus, who now had become numerous enough to fill the street from wall to wall, and among whom could be seen some few of the Ottawa men trying to force their way toward their champion. By degrees both Harry and De Lacy fought their way to the wall, and toward each other.
“Looks as if our man had met his Waterloo,” said the lieutenant, waiting for his particular man to come again.
“What a lot of beasts they are!” said Harry, disgustedly, beating off his enemy.
“Hello! Here they come again. We shall have to try another shot, I suppose,” said the lieutenant, as the crowd, which had for a few moments surged down the street, now came crushing back, with the Ottawa leader, and some half-dozen of his followers in the center.
“Well, here goes,” said De Lacy, leaving the wall and plunging into the crowd, followed by Harry. As they reached the center a voice called out: “A bas les Anglais!”
And immediately the cry, a familiar enough one in those days, was taken up on all sides. The crowd stiffened, and the attack upon the center became more determined than ever. The little company formed a circle, and standing back to back, held their ground for a time.
“Make for the wall. Keep together,” cried De Lacy, pushing out toward the side, and followed by his company. But, one by one, the Ottawas were being dragged down and trampled beneath the “corked” boots of their foes, till only two of them, with their leader, beside Harry and De Lacy, were left.
At length the wall was gained. There they faced about and for a time held their lives safe. But every moment fresh men rushed in upon them, yelling their cries, “Gatineau! Gatineau! A bas les Anglais!”
The Ottawa leader was panting hard, and he could not much longer hold his own. His two companions were equally badly off. Harry was pale and bleeding, but still in good heart. The lieutenant was unmarked as yet, and coolly smoking his cigar, but he knew well that unless help arrived their case was hopeless.
“We can't run,” he remarked, calmly, “but a dignified and speedy retreat is in order if it can be executed. There is a shop a little distance down here. Let us make for it.”
But as soon as they moved two more of the Ottawas were dragged down and trampled on.
“It begins to look interesting,” said the lieutenant to Harry. “Sorry you are into this, old chap. It was rather my fault. It is so beastly dirty, don't you know.”
“Oh, fault be hanged!” cried Harry. “It's nobody's fault, but it looks rather serious. Get back, you brute!” So saying, he caught a burly Frenchman under the chin with a straight left-hander and hurled him back upon the crowd.
“Ah, rather pretty,” said the lieutenant, mildly. “It is not often you can just catch them that way.” They were still a few yards from the shop door, but every step of their advance had to be fought.
“I very much fear we can't make it,” said the lieutenant, quietly to Harry. “We had better back up against the wall here and fight it out.”
But as he spoke they heard a sound of shouting down the street a little way, which the Ottawa leader at once recognized, and raising his voice he cried: “Hottawa! Hottawa! Hottawa a moi!”
Swiftly, fiercely, came the band of men, some twenty of them, cleaving their way through the crowd like a wedge. At their head, and taller than the others, fought two men, whose arms worked with the systematic precision of piston-rods, and before whom men fell on either hand as if struck with sledge-hammers.
“Hottawa a moi!” cried the Ottawa champion again, and the relieving party faced in his direction.
“I say,” said the lieutenant, “that first man is uncommonly like your Glengarry friend.”
“What, Ranald?” cried Harry. “Then we are all right. I swear it is,” he said, after a few moments, and then, remembering the story of the great fight on the Nation, which he had heard from Hughie and Maimie, he raised the Macdonald war-cry: “Glengarry! Glengarry!”
Ranald paused and looked about him.
“Here, Ranald!” yelled Harry, waving his white handkerchief. Then Ranald caught sight of him.
“Glengarry!” he cried, and sprang far into the crowd in Harry's direction.
“Glengarry! Glengarry forever!” echoed Yankee—for he it was—plunging after his leader.
Swift and sharp like the thrust of a lance, the Glengarry men pierced the crowd, which gave back on either side, and soon reached the group at the wall.
“How in the world did YOU get here?” cried Ranald to Harry; then, looking about him, cried: “Where is LeNware? I heard he was being killed by the Gatineaus, and I got a few of our men and came along.”
“LeNware? That is our Canadian friend, I suppose,” said the lieutenant. “He was here a while ago. By Jove! There he is.”
Surrounded by a crowd of the Gatineaus, LeNoir, for he was the leader of the Ottawas, was being battered about and like to be killed.
“Glengarry!” cried Ranald, and like a lion he leaped upon them, followed by Yankee and the others. Right and left he hurled the crowd aside, and seizing LeNoir, brought him out to his own men.
“Who are you?” gasped LeNoir. “Why, no, it ees not possible. Yes, it is Yankee for sure! And de Macdonald gang, but”—turning to Ranald—“who are YOU?” he said again.
“Never mind,” said Ranald, shortly, “let us get away now, quick! Go on, Yankee.”
At once, with Yankee leading, the Glengarry men marched off the field of battle bearing with them the rescued party. There was no time to lose. The enemy far outnumbered them, and would soon return to the attack.
“But how did you know we were in trouble, Ranald?” said Harry as he marched along.
“I didn't know anything about you,” said Ranald. “Some one came and said that the bully of the Ottawa was being killed, so I came along.”
“And just in time, by Jove!” said the lieutenant, aroused from his languor for once. “It was a deucedly lucky thing, and well done, too, 'pon my soul.”
That night, as Ranald and his uncle were in their cabin on the raft talking over the incidents of the day, and Ranald's plans for the summer, a man stood suddenly in the doorway.
“I am Louis LeNoir,” he said, “and I have some word to say to de young Macdonald. I am sore here,” he said, striking his breast. “I cannot spik your languige. I cannot tell.” He stopped short, and the tears came streaming down his face. “I cannot tell,” he repeated, his breast heaving with mighty sobs. “I would be glad to die—to mak' over—to not mak'—I cannot say de word—what I do to your fadder. I would give my life,” he said, throwing out both his hands. “I would give my life. I cannot say more.”
Ranald stood looking at him for a few moments in silence when he finished; then he said slowly and distinctly, “My father told me to say that he forgave you everything, and that he prayed the mercy of God for you, and,” added Ranald, more slowly, “I—forgive—you—too.”
The Frenchman listened in wonder, greatly moved, but he could only reiterate his words: “I cannot spik what I feel here.”
“Sit down, Mr. LeNoir,” said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, pointing to a bench, “and I will be telling you something.”
LeNoir sat down and waited.
“Do you see that young man there?” said Macdonald Bhain, pointing to Ranald. “He is the strongest man in my gang, and indeed, I will not be putting him below myself.” Here Ranald protested. “And he has learned to use his hands as I cannot. And of all the men I have ever seen since I went to the woods, there is not one I could put against him. He could kill you, Mr. LeNoir.”
The Frenchman nodded his head and said: “Das so. Das pretty sure.”
“Yes, that is very sure,” said Macdonald Bhain. “And he made a vow to kill you,” went on Macdonald Bhain, “and to-night he saved your life. Do you know why?”
“No, not me.”
“Then I will be telling you. It is the grace of God.”
LeNoir stared at him, and then Macdonald Bhain went on to tell him how his brother had suffered and struggled long, and how the minister's wife had come to him with the message of the forgiveness of the great God. And then he read from Ranald's English Bible the story of the unforgiving debtor, explaining it in grave and simple speech.
“That was why,” he concluded. “It was because he was forgiven, and on his dying bed he sent you the word of forgiveness. And that, too, is the very reason, I believe, why the lad here went to your help this day.”
“I promised the minister's wife I would do you good and not ill, when it came to me,” said Ranald. “But I was not feeling at all like forgiving you. I was afraid to meet you.”
“Afraid?” said LeNoir, wondering that any of that gang should confess to fear.
“Yes, afraid of what I would do. But now, tonight, it is gone,” said Ranald, simply, “I can't tell you how.”
“Das mos' surprise!” exclaimed LeNoir. “Ne comprenne pas. I never see lak dat, me!”
“Yes, it is wonderful,” said Macdonald Bhain. “It is very wonderful. It is the grace of God,” he said again.
“You mak' de good frien' wit me?” asked LeNoir, rising and putting his hand out to Macdonald Bhain. Macdonald Bhain rose from his place and stepped toward the Frenchman, and took his hand.
“Yes, I will be friends with you,” he said, gravely, “and I will seek God's mercy for you.”
Then LeNoir turned to Ranald, and said; “Will you be frien' of me? Is it too moche?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, slowly, “I will be your friend, too. It is a little thing,” he added, unconsciously quoting his father's words. Then LeNoir turned around to Macdonald Bhain, and striking an attitude, exclaimed: “See! You be my boss, I be your man—what you call—slave. I work for noting, me. Das sure.”
Macdonald Bhain shook his head.
“You could not belong to us,” he said, and explained to him the terms upon which the Macdonald men were engaged. LeNoir had never heard of such terms.
“You not drink whisky?”
“Not too much,” said Macdonald Bhain.
“How many glass? One, two, tree?”
“I do not know,” said Macdonald Bhain. “It depends upon the man. He must not take more than is good for him.”
“Bon!” said LeNoir, “das good. One glass he mak' me feel good. Two das nice he mak' me feel ver fonny. Three glass yes das mak' me de frien' of hevery bodie. Four das mak' me feel big; I walk de big walk; I am de bes' man all de place. Das good place for stop, eh?”
“No,” said Macdonald Bhain, gravely, “you need to stop before that.”
“Ver' good. Ver' good me stop him me. You tak' me on for your man?”
Macdonald Bhain hesitated. LeNoir came nearer him and lowering his voice said: “I'm ver' bad man me. I lak to know how you do dat—what you say—forgive. You show me how.”
“Come to me next spring,” said Macdonald Bhain.
“Bon!” said LeNoir. “I be dere on de Nation camp.”
And so he was. And when Mrs. Murray heard of it from Macdonald Bhain that summer, she knew that Ranald had kept his word and had done LeNoir good and not evil.
The story of the riot in which Ranald played so important a part filled the town and stirred society to its innermost circles—those circles, namely, in which the De Lacys lived and moved. The whole town began talking of the Glengarry men, and especially of their young leader who had, with such singular ability and pluck, rescued the Ottawas with Harry and Lieutenant De Lacy, from their perilous position.
The girls had the story from Harry's lips, and in his telling of it, Ranald's courage and skill certainly lost nothing; but to Maimie, while it was pleasant enough for her to hear of Ranald's prowess, and while she enjoyed the reflected glory that came to her as his friend, the whole incident became altogether hateful and distressing. She found herself suddenly famous in her social world; every one was talking of her, but to her horror, was connecting Ranald's name with her's in a most significant way. It was too awful, and if her Aunt Frances should hear of it, the consequences would be quite too terrible for her to imagine. She must stop the talk at once. Of course she meant to be kind to Ranald; he had done her great service, and he was her Aunt Murray's friend, and besides, she liked him; how much she hardly cared to say to herself. She had liked him in Glengarry. There was no doubt of that, but that was two years ago, and in Glengarry everything was different! There every one was just as good as another, and these people were all her Aunt Murray's friends. Here the relations were changed. She could not help feeling that however nice he might be, and however much she might like him, Ranald was not of her world.
“Well, tell him so; let him see that,” said Kate, with whom Maimie was discussing her difficulty.
“Yes, and then he would fly off and I—we would never see him again,” said Maimie. “He's as proud as—any one!”
“Strange, too,” said Kate, “when he has no money to speak of!”
“You know I don't mean that, and I don't think it's very nice of you. You have no sympathy with me!”
“In what way?”
“Well, in this very unpleasant affair; every one is talking about Ranald and me, as if I—as if we had some understanding.”
“And have you not? I thought—” Kate hesitated to remind Maimie of certain confidences she had received two years ago after her friend had returned from Glengarry.
“Oh, absurd—just a girl and boy affair,” said Maimie, impatiently.
“Then there's nothing at all,” said Kate, with a suspicion of eagerness in her voice.
“No, of course not—that is, nothing really serious.”
“Serious? You mean you don't care for him at all?” Kate looked straight at her friend.
“Oh, you are so awfully direct. I don't know. I do care; he's nice in many ways, and he's—I know he likes me and—I would hate to wound him, but then you know he's not just one of us. You know what I mean!”
“Not exactly,” said Kate, quietly. “Do you mean he is not educated?”
“Oh, no, I don't mean education altogether. How very tiresome you are! He has no culture, and manners, and that sort of thing.”
“I think he has very fine manners. He is a little quaint, but you can't call him rude.”
“Oh, no, he's never rude; rather abrupt, but oh, dear, don't you know? What would Aunt Frank say to him?”
Kate's lip curled a little. “I'm very sure I can't say, but I can imagine how she would look.”
“Well, that's it—”
“But,” went on Kate, “I can imagine, too, how Ranald would look back at her if he caught her meaning.”
“Well, perhaps,” said Maimie, with a little laugh, “and that's just it. Oh, I wish he were—”
“A lieutenant?” suggested Kate.
“Well, yes, I do,” said Maimie, desperately.
“And if he were, you would marry him,” said Kate, a shade of contempt in her tone that Maimie failed to notice.
“Yes, I would.”
Kate remained silent.
“There now, you think I am horrid, I know,” said Maimie. “I suppose you would marry him if he were a mere nobody!”
“If I loved him,” said Kate, with slow deliberation, and a slight tremor in her voice, “I'd marry him if he were—a shantyman!”
“I believe you would,” said Maimie, with a touch of regret in her voice; “but then, you've no Aunt Frank!”
“Thank Providence,” replied Kate, under her breath.
“And I'm sure I don't want to offend her. Just listen to this.” Maimie pulled out a letter, and turning over the pages, found the place and began to read: “'I am so glad to hear that you are enjoying your stay in Quebec'—um-um-um—'fine old city'—um-um-um—'gates and streets,' 'old days'—um-um-um—'noble citadel,' 'glorious view'—um-um-um-um—'finest in the world'—No, that isn't it—Oh, yes, here it is: 'The De Lacys are a very highly connected English family and very old friends of my friends, the Lord Archers, with whom I visited in England, you know. The mother is a dear old lady—so stately and so very particular—with old-fashioned ideas of breeding and manners, and of course, very wealthy. Her house in Quebec is said to be the finest in the Province, and there are some English estates, I believe, in their line. Lieutenant De Lacy is her only son, and from what you say, he seems to be a very charming young man. He will occupy a very high place someday. I suppose Kate will'—um-um-um—'Oh yes, and if Mrs. De Lacy wishes you to visit her you might accept'—um-um—um—'and tell Kate that I should be delighted if she could accompany me on a little jaunt through the Eastern States. I have asked permission of her father, but she wrote you herself about that, didn't she?—um-um-um—And then listen to this! 'How very odd you should have come across the young man from Glengarry again—Mac Lennon, is it? Mac-something-or-other! Your Aunt Murray seems to consider him a very steady and worthy young man. I hope he may not degenerate in his present circumstances and calling, as so many of his class do. I am glad your father was able to do something for him. These people ought to be encouraged.' Now you see!” Maimie's tone was quite triumphant.
“Yes,” said Kate! “I do see! These people should be encouraged to make our timber for us that we may live in ease and luxury, and even to save us from fire and from blood-thirsty mobs, as occasions may offer, but as for friendships and that sort of thing—”
“Oh, Kate,” burst in Maimie, almost in tears, “you are so very unkind. You know quite well what I mean.”
“Yes, I know quite well; you would not invite Ranald, for instance, to dine at your house, to meet your Aunt Frank and the Evanses and the Langfords and the Maitlands,” said Kate, spacing her words with deliberate indignation.
“Well, I would not, if you put it in that way,” said Maimie, petulantly, “and you wouldn't either!”
“I would ask him to meet every Maitland of them if I could,” said Kate, “and it wouldn't hurt them either.”
“Oh, you are so peculiar,” said Maimie, with a sigh of pity.
“Am I,” said Kate; “ask Harry,” she continued, as that young man came into the room.
“No, you needn't mind,” said Maimie; “I know well he will just side with you. He always does.”
“How very amiable of me,” said Harry; “but what's the particular issue?”
“Ranald,” said Kate.
“Then I agree at once. Besides, he is coming to supper next Sunday evening!”
“Oh, Harry,” exclaimed Maimie, in dismay, “on Sunday evening?”
“He can't get off any other night; works all night, I believe, and would work all Sunday, too, if his principles didn't mercifully interfere. He will be boss of the concern before summer is over.”
“Oh, Harry,” said Maimie, in distress, “and I asked Lieutenant De Lacy and his friend, Mr. Sims, for Sunday evening—”
“Sims,” cried Harry; “little cad!”
“I'm sure he's very nice,” said Maimie, “and his family—”
“Oh, hold up; don't get on to your ancestor worship,” cried Harry, impatiently. “Anyway, Ranald's coming up Sunday evening.”
“Well, it will be very awkward,” said Maimie.
“I don't see why,” said Kate.
“Oh,” cried Harry, scornfully, “he will have on his red flannel shirt and a silk handkerchief, and his trousers will be in his boots; that's what Maimie is thinking of!”
“You are very rude, Harry,” said Maimie. “You know quite well that Ranald will not enjoy himself with the others. He has nothing in common with them.”
“Oh, I wouldn't worry about that Maimie,” said Kate; “I will talk to Ranald.” But Maimie was not quite sure how she should like that.
“You are just your Aunt Frank over again,” said Harry, in a disgusted tone; “clothes and people!”
Maimie was almost in tears.
“I think you are both very unkind. You know Ranald won't enjoy it. He will be quite miserable, and—they'll just laugh at him!”
“Well, they'd better laugh at him when he isn't observing,” said Harry.
“Do you think Ranald would really mind?” interposed Kate, addressing Harry. “Do you think he will feel shy and awkward? Perhaps we'd better have him another evening.”
“No,” said Harry, decidedly; “he is coming, and he's coming on Sunday evening. He can't get off any other night, and besides, I'd have to lie to him, and he has an unpleasant way of finding you out when you are doing it, and once he does find out why he is not asked for Sunday evening, then you may say good by to him for good and all.”
“Oh, no fear of that,” said Maimie, confidently; “Ranald has good sense, and I know he will come again.”
“Well,” cried Harry, “if you are not going to treat him as you would treat De Lacy and that idiotic Sims, I won't bring him!” And with that he flung out of the room.
But Harry changed his mind, for next Sunday evening as the young ladies with De Lacy and his friend were about to sit down to supper in their private parlor, Harry walked in with Ranald, and announced in triumph: “The man from Glengarry!” Maimie looked at him in dismay, and indeed she well might, for Ranald was dressed in his most gorgeous shanty array, with red flannel shirt and silk handkerchief, and trousers tucked into his boots. Sims gazed at him as if he were an apparition. It was Kate who first broke the silence.
“We are delighted to see you,” she cried, going forward to Ranald with hands outstretched; “you are become quite a hero in this town.”
“Quite, I assure you,” said the lieutenant, in a languid voice, but shaking Ranald heartily by the hand.
Then Maimie came forward and greeted him with ceremonious politeness and introduced him to Mr. Sims, who continued to gaze at the shantyman's attire with amused astonishment.
The supper was not a success; Ranald sat silent and solemn, eating little and smiling not at all, although Mr. Sims executed his very best jokes. Maimie was nervous and visibly distressed, and at the earliest possible moment broke up the supper party and engaged in conversation with the lieutenant and his witty friend, leaving Harry and Kate to entertain Ranald. But in spite of all they could do a solemn silence would now and then overtake the company, till at length Maimie grew desperate, and turning to Ranald, said: “What are you thinking of? You are looking very serious?”
“He is 'thinking of home and mother,'” quoted Mr. Sims, in a thin, piping voice, following his quotation with a silly giggle.
Kate flushed indignantly. “I am quite sure his thoughts will bear telling,” she said.
“I am sure they would,” said Maimie, not knowing what to say. “What were they, Ran—Mr. Macdonald?”
“I was thinking of you,” said Ranald, gravely, looking straight at her.
“How lovely,” murmured the lieutenant.
“And of your aunt, Mrs. Murray, and of what they would be doing this night—”
“And what would that be?” said Kate, coming to the relief of her friend. But Ranald was silent.
“I know,” cried Harry. “Let's see, it is ten o'clock; they will all be sitting in the manse dining-room before the big fire; or, no, they will be in the parlor where the piano is, and John 'Aleck' will be there, and they will be singing”; and he went on to describe his last Sabbath evening, two years before, in the Glengarry manse. As he began to picture his aunt and her work, his enthusiasm carried him away, and made him eloquent.
“I tell you,” he concluded, “she's a rare woman, and she has a hundred men there ready to die for her, eh, Ranald?”
“Yes,” said Ranald, and his deep voice vibrated with intense feeling. “They would just die for her, and why not? She is a great woman and a good.” His dark face was transformed, and his eyes glowed with an inner light.
In the silence that followed Kate went to the harmonium and began to play softly. Ranald stood up as to go, but suddenly changed his mind, and went over and stood beside her.
“You sing, don't you?” said Kate, as she played softly.
“You ought to just hear him,” said Harry.
“Oh, what does he sing?”
“I only sing the psalm tunes in church,” said Ranald, “and a few hymns.”
“Ye gods!” ejaculated the lieutenant to Maimie, “psalms and hymns; and how the fellow knocked those Frenchmen about!”
“Sing something, Kate, won't you?” said Maimie, and Kate, without a word began the beautiful air from Mendelssohn's St. Paul:—