_LUCRETIA._
I will acknowledge that I was certainly a very young man in the year'67; indeed, I was only just turned of twenty, and was inordinatelyproud of a slight downy fringe on my upper lip, which I was pleased tospeak of as my moustache. Still, I was a sturdy young fellow enough, inspite of my consumptive tendencies, and not given to groundless fears ina general way; but I must allow that I was decidedly frightened by myadventure in the Richmond Hotel on the Christmas Eve of that aforesaidyear of grace. It may be a foolish reminiscence, yet I dare say youwon't mind listening to it.
When I say the Richmond Hotel, you must not understand me to speak ofthe Star and Garter in the town of that ilk situated in the county ofSurrey, England. The Richmond where I passed my uncomfortable ChristmasEve stands on the banks of the pretty St. Francis River in Lower Canada.I had gone out to the colony in the autumn of that year, to look after asmall property of my mother's near Kamouraska; and I originally intendedto spend the winter in Quebec. But as November and December wore away,and the snow grew deeper and deeper upon the plains of Abraham, I becamegradually aware that a Canadian winter was not the best adapted tonic inthe world for a hearty young man with a slight hereditarypredisposition to consumption. I had seen enough of Arctic life inQuebec during those two initial months to give me a good idea of itspleasures and its drawbacks. I had steered by taboggan down the ice-coneat the Falls of Montmorenci; I had driven a sleigh, _tete-a-tete_ with aFrench Canadian belle, to a surprise picnic in a house at Sainte Anne; Ihad skated, snow-shoed, and curled to my heart's content; and I hadcaught my death of cold on the frozen St. Lawrence, not to mention suchminor misfortunes as getting my nose, ears, and feet frostbitten duringa driving party up the banks of the Chaudiere. So a few days beforeChristmas, I determined to strike south. I would go for a tour throughVirginia and the Carolinas, to escape the cold weather, waiting for thereturn of the summer sun to catch a glimpse of Niagara and the greatlakes.
For this purpose I must first go to Montreal; and, that being the case,what could be more convenient than to spend Christmas Day itself withthe rector at Richmond, to whom I had letters of introduction, his wifebeing in fact a first cousin of my mother's? Richmond lies half-way onthe Grand Trunk line between Quebec and Montreal, and it would be morepleasant, by breaking my journey there, to eat my turkey andplum-pudding in a friend's family than in that somewhat cheerless hotel,the Dominion Hall. So off I started from the Point Levy station, at fouro'clock on the twenty-fourth of December, hoping to arrive at myjourney's end about one o'clock on Christmas morning.
Now, those were the days, just after the great American civil war, whengold was almost unknown either in the States or Canada, and everybodyused greasy dollar notes of uncertain and purely local value. Hence Iwas compelled to take the money for expenses on my projected tour in theonly form of specie which was available, that of solid silver. A hundredand fifty pounds in silver dollars amounts to a larger bulk and aheavier weight than you would suppose; and I thought it safer to carrythe sum in my own hands, loosely bundled into a large leather reticule._Hinc illoe lacrimoe_:--that was the real cause of my night'sadventure and of the present story.
When I got into the long open American railway-carriage, with itscomfortable stove and warm foot-bricks, I found only one seat vacant,and that was a red velvet sofa, opposite to another occupied by a girlof singular beauty. I can remember to this day exactly how she wasdressed. I dare say my lady readers will think it horribly old-fashionedat the present time, but it was the very latest and most enchantingstyle in the year '67. On her head was a coquettish little cheese-platebonnet, bound round with one of those warm, soft, fleecy woollen veilsor head-wraps which Canadian girls know as Nubias. Her dress was a shortwinter walking costume of the period, trimmed with fur, and vandyked atthe bottom so as to show a glimpse of the quilted down petticoatunderneath. Her little high-heeled boots, displayed by the shortcostume, were buttoned far above the ankle, and bound with fur to matchthe dress; while a tiny tassel at the side added just a suspicion ofParisian coquetry. Her cloak was lined with sable, or what seemed so tomy undiscriminating eyes; and her rug was a splendid piece of wolverineskins. As to her eyes, her lips, her figure, I had rather not attemptthem. I can manage clothes, but not goddesses. Altogether, quite a dreamof Canadian beauty, not devoid of that indefinable grace which goes onlywith the French blood.
I was not bold in '67, and I would have preferred to take any other seatrather than face this divine apparition; but there was no help for it,since all the others were filled: so I sat down a little sheepishly, Idare say. Almost before we were well out of the station we had got intoa conversation, and it was she who began it.
"You are an Englishman, I think?" she said, looking at me with a frankand pleasant smile.
"Yes," I answered, colouring, though why I should have been ashamed ofmy nationality for that solitary moment of my life I cannotimagine,--unless, perhaps, because _she_ was a Canadian; "but how onearth did you discover it?"
"You would have been more warmly wrapped up if you had lived long inCanada," she replied. "In spite of our stoves and hot bricks, you'llfind yourself very cold before you get to your journey's end."
"Yes," I said; "I suppose it's rather chilly late at night in these bigcars."
"Dreadfully; oh, quite terribly. You ought to have a rug, you reallyought. Won't you let me lend you one? I have another under the seathere."
"But you brought that for yourself," I interposed. "You will want itby-and-by, when it gets a little colder."
"Oh no, I shan't. This is warm enough for me; it's wolverine. You have amother?"
What an extraordinary question, I thought, and what an unusuallyfriendly girl! Was she really quite as simple-minded as she seemed, orcould she be the "designing woman" of the novels? Yes, I admitted to hercautiously that I possessed a maternal parent, who was at that momentsafely drinking her tea in a terrace at South Kensington.
"_I_ have none," she said, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, anda sort of appealing look in her big eyes. "But you should take care ofyourself, for her sake. You really _must_ take my rug. _Hundreds_, oh,_thousands_ of young Englishmen come out here, and kill themselves theirfirst winter by imprudence."
Thus adjured, I accepted the rug with many thanks and apologies, andwrapped myself warmly up in the corner, with a splendid view of my_vis-a-vis_.
Exactly at that moment, the ticket collector came round upon hisofficial tour. Now, on American and Canadian railways, you do not takeyour ticket beforehand, but pay your fare to the collector, who walks upand down through the open cars from end to end, between every station. Ilifted up my bag of silver, which lay on the seat beside me, andimprudently opened it to take out a few dollars full in sight of myenchanting neighbour. I saw her look with unaffected curiosity at theheap of coin within, and I was proud at being able to give such anunequivocal proof of my high respectability--for what better guaranteeof all the noblest moral qualities can any man produce all the worldover than a bag of dollars?
"What a lot of money!" she said, as the collector passed on. "What canyou want with it all in coin?"
"I'm going on a tour in the Southern States," I confided in reply, "andI thought it better to take specie." (I was very proud ten or twelveyears ago of that word _specie_.)
"And I suppose those are your initials on the reticule? What a prettymonogram! Your mother gave you that for a birthday present."
"You must be a conjurer or a clairvoyant," I said, smiling. "So shedid;" and I added that the initials represented my humble patronymic andbaptismal designations.
"My name's Lucretia," said my neighbour artlessly, as a child might havesaid it, without a word as to surname or qualifying circumstances; andfrom that moment she became to me simply Lucretia. I think of her asLucretia to the present day. As she spoke, she pointed to the wordengraved in tiny letters on her pretty silver locket.
I suppose she thought my confidence required a little more confidence inreturn, for after a
slight pause she repeated once more, "My name'sLucretia, and I live at Richmond."
"Richmond!" I cried. "Why, that's just where I'm going. Do you know therector?"
"Mr. Pritchard? Oh yes, intimately. He's our greatest friend. Are yougoing to stop with him?"
"For a day or two at least, on my way to Montreal. Mrs. Pritchard is mymother's cousin."
"How delightful! Then we may consider ourselves acquaintances. But youdon't mean to knock them up to-night? They'll all be in bed long beforeone o'clock."
"No, I haven't even written to tell them I was coming," I answered."They gave me a general invitation, and said I might drop in whenever Ipleased."
"Then you must stop at the hotel to-night. I'm going there myself. Mypeople keep the hotel."
Was it possible! I was thunderstruck. I had pictured Lucretia to myselfas at least a countess of the _ancien regime_, a few of whom stilllinger on in Montreal and elsewhere. Her locket, her rugs, her eyes, herchiselled features, all of them seemed to me redolent of the old French_noblesse_. And here it turned out that this living angel was only thedaughter of an inn-keeper! But in that primitive and pleasant Canadiansociety such things, I thought, can easily be. No doubt she is thepetted child of the house, the one heiress of the old man's savings; andafter spending a winter holiday among the gaieties of Quebec, she is nowreturning to pass the Christmas season with her own family. I will notconceal the fact that I had already fallen over head and ears in lovewith Lucretia at first sight, and that frank avowal made me love her allthe more. Besides, these Canadian hotel-keepers are often very rich; andwas not her manner perfect, and was she not an intimate friend of therector and his wife? All these things showed at least that she wasaccustomed to refined society. I caught myself already speculating as towhat my mother would think of such a match.
In five minutes it was all arranged about the hotel, and I had got intothe midst of a swimming conversation with Lucretia. She told me aboutherself and her past; how she had been educated at a convent inMontreal, and loved the nuns, oh so dearly, though she was a Protestantherself, and only French on her mother's side. (This, I thought, waswell, as a safeguard against parental prejudice.) She told me all thegossip of Richmond, and whom I should meet at the rector's, and what adull little town it was. But Quebec was delightful, and Montreal--oh, ifshe could only live in Montreal, it would be perfect bliss. And so Ithought myself, if only Lucretia would live there with me; but Iprudently refrained from saying so, as I thought it rather premature. Orperhaps I blushed and stammered too much to get the words out. "Had sheever been in Europe?" No, never, but she would so like it. "Ah, it wouldbe delightful to spend a month or two in Paris," I suggested, withinternal pictures of a honeymoon floating through my brain. "Yes, thatwould be most enjoyable," she answered. Altogether, Lucretia and I keptchatting uninterruptedly the whole way to Richmond, and the otherpassengers must have voted us most unconscionable bores; for theyevidently could not sleep by reason of our incessant talking. _We_ didnot sleep, nor wish to sleep. And I am bound to say that a more franklyenchanting or seemingly guileless girl than Lucretia I have never metfrom that day to this.
At last we reached Richmond Depot (as the Canadians call the stations),very cold and tired externally, but lively enough as regards theinternal fires. We got out, and looked after our luggage. A sleepyporter promised to bring it next morning to the hotel. There were nosleighs in waiting--Richmond is too much of a country station forthat--so I took my reticule in my hand, threw Lucretia's rug across hershoulders, and proceeded to walk with her to the hotel.
Now, the "Depot" is in a suburb known as Melbourne, while Richmonditself lies on the other side of the river St. Francis, here crossed bya long covered bridge, a sort of rough wooden counterpart of the famousone at Lucerne. As we passed out into the cold night, it was snowingheavily, and the frost was very bitter. Lucretia took my arm without aword of prelude, as naturally as if she were my sister, and guided methrough the snow-covered path to the bridge. When we got under theshelter of the wooden covering, we had to pass through the long darkgallery, as black as night, heading only for the dim square of moonlightat the other end. But Lucretia walked and chatted on as unconcernedly asif she had always been in the habit of traversing that lonelytunnel-like bridge with a total stranger every evening of her life. Iconfess I was surprised. I fancied a prim English girl in a similarsituation, and I began to wonder whether all this artlessness was reallyas genuine as it looked.
At the opposite end of the bridge we emerged upon a street of woodenframe houses. In one of them only was there a light. "That's the hotel!"said Lucretia, nodding towards it, and again I suffered a thrill ofdisappointment. I had pictured to myself a great solid building like theSt. Lawrence Hall at Montreal, forgetting that Richmond was a merecountry village; and here I found a bit of a frame cottage as the wholedomain of Lucretia's supposed father. It was too awful!
We reached the door and entered. Fresh surprises were in store for me.The passage led into a bar, where half-a-dozen French Canadians weresitting with bottles and glasses, playing some game of cards. One ratherrough-looking young man jumped up in astonishment as we entered, andexclaimed, "Why, Lucretia, we didn't expect you for another hour. Imeant to take the sleigh for you." I could have knocked him down forcalling her by her Christian name, but the conviction flashed upon methat this was Lucretia's brother. He glanced up at the big Yankee clockon the mantelpiece, which pointed to a quarter past twelve, then pulledout his watch and whistled. "Stopped three quarters of an hour ago, byJingo," was his comment. "Why, I forgot to wind it up. Upon my word,Lucretia, I'm awfully sorry. But who is the gentleman?"
"A friend of the Pritchards, Tom dear, who wants a bed here to-night. Icouldn't imagine why the sleigh didn't come for me. It's so unlike younot to remember it." And she gave him a look to melt adamant.
Tom was profuse in his apologies, and made it quite clear that hisintentions at least had been most excellent; besides, he kissed Lucretiawith so much brotherly tenderness that I relented of my desire to knockhim down. Then brother and sister retired for a while, apparently to seeafter my bedroom, and I was left alone in the bar.
I cannot say I liked the look of it. The men were drinking whiskey andplaying _ecarte_--two bad things, I thought in my twenty-year-oldpropriety. My dear mother hated gambling, which hatred she had instilledinto my youthful mind, and this was evidently a backwoodsgambling-house. Moreover, I carried a bag of silver coin, quite largeenough to make it well worth while, to rob me. The appearances wereclearly against Lucretia's home; but surely Lucretia herself was aguarantee for anything.
Presently Tom returned, and told me my room was ready. I followed him upthe stairs with a beating heart and a heavy reticule. At the top of thelanding Lucretia stood smiling, my candle in her hand, and showed meinto the room. Tom and she looked around to see that all wascomfortable, and then they both shook hands with me, which certainlyseemed a curious thing for an inn-keeper and his sister. As soon as theywere gone, I began to look about me and consider the situation. The roomhad two doors, but the key was gone from both. I opened one towards thepassage, but found no key outside; the other, which probablycommunicated with a neighbouring bedroom, was locked from the oppositeside. Moreover, there had once been a common bolt on this second door,but it had been removed. I looked close at the screw-holes, and was surethey were quite fresh. Could the bolt have been taken off while I waswaiting in the bar? All at once it flashed upon my mind that I had beenimprudently confiding in my disclosures to Lucretia. I had told her thatI carried a hundred and fifty pounds in coin, an easy thing to rob and adifficult thing to identify. She had heard that nobody was aware of mypresence in Richmond, except herself and her brother. I had not writtento tell the Pritchards I was coming, and she knew that I had not toldany one of my whereabouts, because I did not decide where I should gountil I talked with her about the matter. No one in Canada would missme. If these people chose to murder me for my money (and inn-keepersoften murder their guests, I th
ought), nobody would think of inquiringor know where to inquire for me. Weeks would elapse before my motherwrote from England to ask my whereabouts, and by that time all tracesmight well be lost. I left Quebec only telling the people at my hotelthat I was going to Montreal. Then I thought of Lucretia's eagerness toget into conversation, her observation about my money, her suggestionthat I should come to the Richmond Hotel. And how could she, a smallinn-keeper's daughter, afford to get all those fine furs and lockets byfair means? Did she really know the Pritchards, or was it likely,considering her position? All these things came across me in a moment.What a fool I had been ever to think of trusting such a girl!
I got up and walked about the room. It was evidently Lucretia's ownbedroom; "part of the decoy," said I to myself sapiently. But could sobeautiful a girl really hurt one? A piece of music was lying on thedressing-table. I took it up and looked at it casually. Graciousheavens! it was a song from "Lucrezia Borgia!" Her very name betrayedher! She too was a Lucretia. I walked over to the mantelpiece. A littleivory miniature hung above the centre: I gave it a glance as I passed.Incredible! It was the Beatrice Cenci! Talk of beautiful women! Why,they poison one, they stab one, they burn one alive, with a smile ontheir lips. Lucretia must have a taste for murderesses. Evidently she isa connoisseur.
At least, thought I, I shall sell my life dearly. I could not go to bed;but I pulled the bedstead over against one of the doors--the lockedone--and I laid the mattress down in front of the other. Then I lay downon the mattress, my money-bag under my head, and put the pokerconveniently by my side. If they came to rob and murder me, they shouldat least have a broken head to account for next day. But I soon gottired of this defensive attitude, and reflected that, if I must lieawake all night, I might as well have something to read. So I went overto the little book-case and took down the first book which came to hand.It bore on the outside the title "OEuvres de Victor Hugo. Tome I'er.Theatre." "This, at any rate," said I to myself, "will be light andinteresting." I returned to my mattress, opened the volume, and began toread _Le Roi s'amuse_.
I had never before dipped into that terrible drama, and I devoured itwith a horrid avidity. I read how Triboulet bribed the gipsy to murderthe king; how the gipsy's sister beguiled him into the hut; how the plotwas matured; and how the sack containing the corpse was delivered overto Triboulet. It was an awful play to read on such a night and in such aplace, with the wind howling round the corners and the snow gatheringdeeply upon the window-panes. I was in a considerable state of frightwhen I began it: I was in an agony of terror before I had got half-waythrough. Now and then I heard footsteps on the stairs: again I coulddistinguish two voices, one a woman's, whispering outside the door; alittle later, the other door was very slightly opened and then pushedback again stealthily by a man's hand. Still I read on. At last, just asI reached the point where Triboulet is about to throw the corpse intothe river, my candle, a mere end, began to sputter in its socket, andafter a few ineffectual flickers suddenly went out, leaving me in thedark till morning.
I lay down once more, trembling but wearied out. A few minutes later thevoices came again. The further door was opened a second time, and I sawdimly a pair of eyes (_not_, I felt sure, Lucretia's) peering in thegloom, and reflecting the light from the snow on the window. A man'svoice said huskily in an undertone, "It's all right now;" and then therewas a silence. I knew they were coming to murder me. I clutched thepoker firmly, stood on guard over the dollars, and waited the assault.The moment that intervened seemed like a lifetime.
A minute. Five minutes. A quarter of an hour. They are evidently tryingto take me off my guard. Perhaps they saw the poker; in any case, theymust have felt the bedstead against the door. That would show them thatI expected them. I held my watch to my ear and counted the seconds, thenthe minutes, then the hours. When the candle went out it was threeo'clock. I counted up till about half-past five.
After that I must have fallen asleep from very weariness. My head glidedback upon the reticule, and I dozed uneasily until morning. Every nowand then I started in my sleep, but the murderers hung back. When Iawoke it was eight o'clock, and the dollars were still safe under myhead. I rose wearily, washed myself, and arranged the tumbled clothes inwhich I had slept, for my portmanteau had not yet arrived from theDepot. Next, I put back the bed and mattress, and then I took thedollars and went downstairs to the bar, hardly knowing whether to laughat my last night's terror, or to congratulate myself on my lucky escapefrom a den of robbers. At the foot of the stairs, whom should I comeacross but Lucretia herself!
In a moment the doubt was gone. She was enchanting. Quite a differentstyle of dress, but equally lovely and suitable. A long figured gown ofsome fine woollen material, giving very nearly the effect of a plainneat print, and made quite simply to fit her perfect little figure. Aplain linen collar, and a quiet silver brooch. Hair tied in a singlebroad knot above the head, instead of yesterday's chignon andcheese-plate. Altogether, a model winter morning costume for a coldclimate. And as she advanced frankly, holding out her hand with a smile,I could have cut my own throat with a pocket-knife as a meritedpunishment for daring to distrust her. Such is human nature at the ripeage of twenty!
"We were so afraid you didn't sleep, Tom and I," she said with a littletone of anxiety; "we saw a light in your room till so very late, and Tomopened the door a wee bit once or twice to see if you were sleeping; buthe said you seemed to have pulled the mattress on the floor. I _do_ hopeyou weren't ill."
What on earth could I answer? Dare I tell this angel how I had suspectedher? Impossible! "Well," I stammered out, colouring up to my eyes, "I_was_ rather over-tired, and couldn't get to rest, so I put the candleon a chair, took a book, and lay on the floor so as to have a light toread by. But I slept very well after the candle went out, thank you."
"There were none but French books in the room, though," she saidquickly: "perhaps you read French?"
"I read _Le Roi s'amuse_, or part of it," said I.
"Oh, what a dreadful play to read on Christmas Eve!" cried Lucretia,with a little deprecating gesture. "But you must come and have yourbreakfast."
I followed her into the dining-room, a pretty little bright-lookingroom behind the bar. Frightened as I was during the night, I could notfail to notice how tastefully the bedroom was furnished; but this little_salle-a-manger_ was far prettier. The paper, the carpet, the furniture,were all models of what cheap and simple cottage decorations ought tobe. They breathed of Lucretia. The Montreal nuns had evidently taughther what "art at home" meant. The table was laid, and the whitetable-cloth, with its bright silver and sprays of evergreen in the vase,looked delightfully appetising. I began to think I might manage abreakfast after all.
"How pretty all your things are!" I said to Lucretia.
"Do you think so?" she answered. "I chose them, and I laid the table."
I looked surprised; but in a moment more I was fairly overwhelmed whenLucretia left the room for a minute, and then returned carrying a traycovered with dishes. These she rapidly and dexterously placed upon thetable, and then asked me to take my seat.
"But," said I, hesitating, "am I to understand.... You don't mean tosay.... Are you ... going ... to _wait upon me_?"
Lucretia's face was one smile of innocent amusement from her whitelittle forehead to her chiselled little chin. "Why, yes," she answered,laughing, "of course I am. I always wait upon our guests when I'm athome. And I cooked these salmon cutlets, which I'm sure you'll find niceif you only try them while they're hot." With which recommendation sheuncovered all the dishes, and displayed a breakfast that might havetempted St. Anthony. Not being St. Anthony, I can do Lucretia'sbreakfast the justice to say that I ate it with unfeigned heartiness.
So my princess was, after all, the domestic manager and assistant cookof a small country inn! Not a countess, not even a murderess (which isat least romantic), but only a prosaic housekeeper! Yet she _was_ aprincess for all that. Did she not read Victor Hugo, and play "LucreziaBorgia," and spread her own refinement
over the village tavern? In noother country could you find such a strange mixture of culture andsimplicity; but it was new, it was interesting, and it was piquant.Lucretia in her morning dress officiously insisting upon offering me thebuckwheat pancakes with her own white hands was Lucretia still, and Ifell deeper in love than ever.
After breakfast came a serious difficulty. I must go to the Pritchards,but before I went, I must pay. Yet, how was I to ask for my bill? I_couldn't_ demand it of Lucretia. So I sat a while ruminating, and atlast I said, "I wonder how people do when they want to leave thishouse."
"Why," said Lucretia, promptly, "they order the sleigh."
"Yes," I answered sheepishly, "no doubt. But how do they manage aboutpaying?"
Lucretia smiled. She was so absolutely transparent, and so accustomed toher simple way of doing business, that I suppose she did not comprehendmy difficulty. "They ask _me_, of course, and I tell them what they owe.You owe us half-a-dollar."
Half-a-dollar--two shillings sterling--for a night of romance andterror, a bed and bedroom, a regal breakfast, and--Lucretia to wait uponone! It was _too_ ridiculous. And these were the good simple Canadianvillagers whom I had suspected of wishing to rob and murder me! I neverfelt so ashamed of my own stupidity in the whole course of my life.
I must pay it somehow, I supposed, but I could not bear to hand over twoshilling pieces into Lucretia's outstretched palm. It was desecration,it was sheer sacrilege. But Lucretia took the half-dollar with theutmost calmness, and went out to order the sleigh.
I drove to the rector's, after saying good-bye to Lucretia, with aclear determination that before I left Richmond she should haveconsented to become my wife. Of course there were social differences,but those would be forgotten in South Kensington, and nobody need everknow what Lucretia had been in Canada. Besides, she was fit to shine inthe society of duchesses--a society into which I cannot honestly pretendthat I habitually penetrate.
The rector and his wife gave me a hearty welcome, and I found Mrs.Pritchard a good motherly sort of body--just the right woman for helpingon a romantic love-match. So, in the course of the morning, as we walkedback from church, I managed to mention to her casually that a very niceyoung woman had come down in the train with me from Quebec.
"You don't mean Lucretia?" cried good Mrs. Pritchard.
"Lucretia," I answered in a cold sort of way, "I think that _was_ hername. In fact, I remember she told me so."
"Oh yes, everybody calls her Lucretia--indeed, she's hardly got anyother name. She's the dearest creature in the world, as simple as achild, yet the most engaging and kind-hearted girl you ever met. She wasbrought up by some nuns at Montreal, and being a very clever girl, witha great deal of taste, she was their favourite pupil, and has turned outa most cultivated person."
"Does she paint?" I asked, thinking of the Beatrice.
"Oh, beautifully. Her ivory miniatures always take prizes at the TorontoExhibition. And she plays and sings charmingly."
"Are they well off?"
"Very, for Canadians. Lucretia has money of her own, and they have agood farm besides the hotel."
"She said she knew you very well," I ventured to suggest.
"Oh yes; in fact, she's coming here this evening. We have an earlydinner--you know our simple Canadian habits--and a few friends will dropin to high tea after evening service. She and Tom will be amongthem--you met Tom, of course?"
"I had the pleasure of making Tom's acquaintance at one o'clock thismorning," I answered. "But, excuse my asking it, isn't it a little oddfor you to mix with people in their position?"
The rector smiled and put in his word. "This is a democratic country,"he said; "a mere farmer community, after all. We have little society inRichmond, and are very glad to know such pleasant intelligent people asTom and Lucretia."
"But then, the _convenances_," I urged, secretly desiring to have my ownposition strengthened. "When I got to the hotel last night, or ratherthis morning, there were a lot of rough-looking hulking fellows drinkingwhiskey and playing cards."
"Ah, I dare say. Old Picard, and young Le Patourel from Melbourne, andthe Post Office people sitting over a quiet game of _ecarte_ while theywaited for the last train. The English mail was in last night. As forthe whiskey, that's the custom of the country. We Canadians do nothingwithout whiskey. A single glass of Morton's proof does nobody any harm."
And these were my robbers and gamblers? A party of peaceable farmers andsleepy Post officials, sitting up with a sober glass of toddy andbeguiling the time with _ecarte_ for love, in expectation of HerMajesty's mails. I shall never again go to bed with a poker by my sideas long as I live.
About seven o'clock our friends came in. Lucretia was once morecharming; this time in a long evening dress, a peach-coloured silk withsquare-cut boddice, and a little lace cap on her black hair. I dare sayI saw almost the full extent of her wardrobe in those three changes; butthe impression she produced upon me was still that of boundless wealth.However, as she had money of her own, I no longer wondered at therichness of her toilette, and I reflected that a comfortable littlesettlement might help to outweigh any possible prejudice on my mother'spart.
Lucretia was the soul of the evening. She talked, she flirted innocentlywith every man in the room (myself included), she played divinely, andshe sang that very song from "Lucrezia Borgia" in a rich contraltovoice. As she rose at last from the piano, I could contain myself nolonger. I must find some opportunity of proposing to her there and then.I edged my way to the little group where she was standing, flushed withthe compliments on her song, talking to our hostess near the piano. As Iapproached from behind, I could hear that they were speaking about me,and I caught a few words distinctly. I paused to listen. It was verywrong, but twenty is an impulsive age.
"Oh, a very nice young man indeed," Lucretia was saying; "and we had amost enjoyable journey down. He talked so simply, and seemed such aninnocent boy, so I took quite a fancy to him." (My heart beat about twohundred pulsations to the minute.) "Such a clever, intelligent talkertoo, full of wide English views and interests, so different from ournarrow provincial Canadian lads." (Oh, Lucretia, I feel sure of you now.Love at first sight on both sides, evidently!) "And then he spoke to meso nicely about his mother. I was quite grieved to think he should betravelling alone on Christmas Eve, and so pleased when I heard he was tospend his Christmas with you, dear. I thought what I should have feltif----"
I listened with all my ears. What could Lucretia be going to say?
"If _one of my own dear boys was grown up_, and passing his Christmasalone in a strange land."
I reeled. The room swam before me. It was too awful. So all thatLucretia had ever felt was a mere motherly interest in me as a solitaryEnglish boy away from his domestic turkey on the twenty-fifth ofDecember! Terrible, hideous, blighting fact! Lucretia was married!
The rector's refreshments in the adjoining dining-room only went to thelength of sponge-cake and weak claret-cup. I managed to get away fromthe piano without fainting, and swallowed about a quart of theintoxicating beverage by tumblerfuls. When I had recovered sufficientlyfrom the shock to trust my tongue, I ventured back into thedrawing-room. It struck me then that I had never yet heard Lucretia'ssurname. When she and her brother arrived in the early part of theevening, Mrs. Pritchard had simply introduced them to me by saying, "Ithink you know Tom and Lucretia already." Colonial manners are sounceremonious.
I joined the fatal group once more. "Do you know," I said, addressingLucretia with as little tremor in my voice as I could easily manage,"it's very curious, but I have never heard your surname yet."
"Dear me," cried Lucretia, "I quite forgot. Our name is Arundel."
"And which is Mr. Arundel?" I continued. "I should like to make hisacquaintance."
"Why," answered Lucretia with a puzzled expression of face, "you've methim already. Here he is!" And she took a neighbouring young man inunimpeachable evening dress gently by the arm. He turned round. Itrequired a moment's consideration to recogni
ze in that tall andgentlemanly young fellow with the plain gold studs and turndown collarmy rough acquaintance of last night, Tom himself!
I saw it in a flash. What a fool I had been! I might have known theywere husband and wife. Nothing but a pure piece of infatuatedpreconception could ever have made me take them for brother and sister.But I had so fully determined in my own mind to win Lucretia for myselfthat the notion of any other fellow having already secured the prize hadnever struck me.
It was all the fault of that incomprehensible Canadian society, with itsfoolish removal of the natural barriers between classes. My mother wasquite right. I should henceforth be a high-and-dry conservative in allmatters matrimonial, return home in the spring with heart completelyhealed, and after passing correctly through a London season, marry thedaughter of a general or a Warwickshire squire, with the full consent ofall the high contracting parties, at St. George's, Hanover Square. Withthis noble and moral resolution firmly planted in my bosom, I made myexcuses to the rector and his good little wife, and left Richmond forever the very next morning, without even seeing Lucretia once again.
But, somehow, I have never quite forgotten that journey from Quebec onChristmas Eve; and though I have passed through several London seasonssince that date, and undergone increasingly active sieges from mammasand daughters, as my briefs on the Oxford Circuit grow more and morenumerous, I still remain a bachelor, with solitary chambers in St.James's. I sometimes fancy it might have been otherwise if I could onlyonce have met a second paragon exactly like Lucretia.