“Prove it,” Nancy said defensively.
“I will.”
“Now.”
“Give me time.”
“Time is something one seizes, not takes as a free gift.”
Brock laughed.
“Your utterances make superb epigrams, Miss Howard. The only objection
to them arises when one stops to find out what they really mean.”
“I mean that you can never prove to me that the French are really
outclassed by the English,” she retorted, bringing the discussion back
to its point of departure.
Brock looked down at her quizzically.
“Shall St. Jacques and I fight it out in three rounds?” he inquired.
“That’s no test. You’re not English.”
“Not in the real sense of it. But neither is he French. We’re both of us
relative terms.”
“And so useless for the sake of argument,” she replied.
“For the sake of nothing else, I trust,” Brock said lightly.
She looked up at him with a smile.
“Mr. Brock, I am not an ingrate. Without you and M. St. Jacques, I
should have been a good deal more lonely, this past month. My father is
an old man, and not strong. He has appreciated your courtesy to him,
too.”
Brock shifted his stick to his left hand.
“Shall we shake hands on it?” he said jovially. “The month has been
rather jolly for us, as Barth would say. The Maple Leaf is a mighty good
sort of place; but the atmosphere there is sometimes a little more
mature than one cares for. St. Jacques and I haven’t given all the good
times. But about the argument: when can you take time to be convinced?”
“By a walk to the Wolfe monument?” she queried mockingly.
“No; by two hours of eloquent pleading on my part. I propose to do it by
sheer weight of intellect and statistics. How about to-morrow afternoon
at three?”
“Very well,” she assented.
“I’ll cut the office for the afternoon. Shall we choose the Saint Foye
Road for the scene of the fray?”
“As you like,” she answered merrily. “But remember that you are to do no
monologues. I reserve the right to interrupt, whenever I choose.”
Then they fell silent, as they tramped briskly up and down the terrace.
The lights from the Frontenac beside them glowed in the purple dusk and
mingled with the glare that lingered in the west. At their feet, the
streets of the Lower Town were crowded in the last mad scurry of the
dying day, and the river beyond was dotted here and there with the
moving lights of an occasional ferry. Then a bugle call rang down from
the Citadel, and Nancy roused herself abruptly.
“I suppose we really ought to go to supper,” she said regretfully.
“It isn’t late.”
“No; but my father will be waiting.”
Reluctantly Brock faced about.
“Well, I suppose there are more days to come,” he observed
philosophically.
“Especially to-morrow,” she reminded him.
Barth was at the table, when they entered the dining-room. Eager,
flushed with her swift exercise in the crisp night air and daintily trim
from top to toe, Nancy seemed to him a most attractive picture as she
came towards him. Brock was close behind; together, they were laughing
over some jest of which he was in ignorance. Nevertheless, Nancy paused
beside his chair long enough to give him a friendly word of greeting,
and Barth smiled back at her blissfully. For an instant, it occurred to
him that it was rather pleasant to be no longer on the outer edge of The
Maple Leaf. At a first glance, he had resented the supremacy of this
American girl in an English house. The shorter grew his radius, however,
the surer grew his allegiance to the focal point. American or no
American, Nancy was undeniably pretty, her gowns threw the gowns of his
own sisters into disrepute, and, moreover, that afternoon, she had shown
herself altogether friendly and womanly and winning. Accordingly, he
sowed the seeds of incipient indigestion by bolting his supper at a most
unseemly speed, in order to gain possession of a chair near the parlor
door. Close study of the situation, during many previous evenings, had
informed him that this chair held a position of strategic importance. As
a rule, St. Jacques had occupied it, while Barth had rested on his
dignity in remote corners. With the tail of his eye, Barth had assured
himself that the Frenchman was at the final stage of the meal, when he
himself reached the table. However, the Frenchman was munching toast and
marmalade in a most leisurely fashion, turning now and then for a word
with Brock and Nancy; and Barth felt sure that he could overtake him.
His surety increased as St. Jacques, abandoning his toast, took
possession of a mammoth bun and a fresh supply of marmalade. Barth, who
scorned all things of the jammy persuasion, finished his meat with the
greed of a half-grown puppy, scalded his throat with the tea which had
obstinately resisted his efforts to cool it, and, with a brief nod to
St. Jacques, left the table and betook himself to the parlor.
“Monsieur has a haste upon himself, to-night,” St. Jacques observed
dryly.
His early training had been potent, and St. Jacques no longer wasted
upon Barth any conversational efforts whatsoever. In Nancy’s presence,
he treated the Englishman with distant courtesy. In the face of Brock’s
teasing, he gave him an occasional grudging word of moral support; but,
at the table, he ignored him completely. According to the creed of
Adolphe St. Jacques, a man should never allow himself to be snubbed
twice by the same person. He carried his creed so far that, waitresses
failing, he chose to rise and march completely around the table rather
than ask for a stray pepper-pot lodged at Barth’s other hand.
By the time Barth had gone twice through the diminutive evening paper,
advertisements and all, he came to the tardy conclusion that the race
was not always to the swift. He knew that Brock had left the house. Hat
in hand, the tall Canadian had come into the parlor for a book. The next
minute, the front door had slammed, and Brock’s measured stride had
passed the parlor windows. Brock gone, Barth wondered what could be
keeping Nancy. Not even a healthy American appetite could linger for an
hour and a half over a meal of cold beef and marmalade.
He started upon a third tour of the paper, in true British fashion
beginning with the editorials, and finally losing himself in an
enthusiastic account of a recent opening of fall hats. By the time he
realized that he was mentally trying each of the hats upon Nancy
Howard’s auburn hair, he also realized that it was time he roused
himself to action. Letting the newspaper slide to the floor, he rose and
walked out into the hall. From the office beyond, there came the low,
continuous buzz of earnest voices. Rising on his toes, Barth peered
cautiously around the corner. Then he seized his hat and stick and,
stamping out of the house, banged the street door behind him. The Lady
was temporarily absent. In her place, the office chair was occupied by
Nancy and comfortably settled opposite to Nancy was M. Adolphe St.
Jacques.
Laval had a banquet at the St. Louis, that night. It began late and
ended early. From certain random words he had overheard, Barth knew that
St. Jacques was not only to be present, but was to be one of the
speakers. Accordingly, a personal animosity mingled with his annoyance
at the sounds from next door which broke in upon his dreams. The singing
was off the key; the cheering was harsh and unduly loud, and when at
last _God Save the King_ was followed by a rush into the quiet street,
Barth crawled out of bed and stood shivering at the window, as the
tri-colored banner and its accompanying crowd marched past his ducal
residence. In his present mood, it would have been a consolation to have
seen that St. Jacques was the worse for his revel. However, that
consolation was denied him. In the sturdy color-bearer heading the line,
he failed to recognize his table companion; the other revellers tramped
along as steadily as did the soldiers going home from church parade. In
the depths of his swaddling blankets, Barth shivered. He shivered again,
as he crawled back into the icy sheets which he had thoughtlessly left
open to the chill night air.
His spirits rose, next morning, when he discovered that St. Jacques did
not appear at breakfast. They fell again, when Nancy also failed to
appear. His masculine mind could not be expected to discern that she had
risen early, in order to attack a basket heaped with long arrears of
undarned socks and flimsy stockings. His near-sighted eyes had not
discovered Nancy, sitting at her own front window, with a stout number
thirteen drawn on over her slender hand. Nancy saw him, however; and, in
the midst of her musings, she took friendly note of the fact that, this
morning, Barth scarcely limped at all.
Barth loitered in his room until the dinner hour was past. To the Lady
he gave the excuse of important letters; but a copper coin would have
paid the postal bills incurred by his morning’s work. The honest fact
was that he longed acutely for more of Nancy’s society, and he had no
idea how to set about obtaining it. To ask it would be too bald a
compliment; he lacked the arrogant graces of his Canadian rivals who
appropriated the girl promptly and quite as a matter of course. Barth
had been used to more deliberate and tentative methods. Nevertheless, as
he stared at the yellow walls of his room, he took a sudden resolve.
English methods failing, he would, according to the best of his ability,
adopt the methods of America. In his turn, he too would take possession
of Nancy. With Nancy’s possible wishes in the matter, he concerned
himself not at all.
“Too bad it rains!” Brock said, as he met Nancy at dinner, that noon.
“Because you must delay your argument?”
“No. Because we can’t have it in the open air. The Saint Foye Road must
be changed for the parlor.”
“Can you do it there?”
“Why not? It is always empty, in the afternoon.”
“I didn’t mean that. But will there be room for you there?” Nancy
questioned, with lazy impertinence. “I have always noticed that a man
needs to gesticulate a great deal, whenever he is arguing for a lost
cause.”
Brock laughed, as he patted his side pocket.
“Don’t be too sure it is lost. You haven’t seen my documents yet. Can
you be ready, directly after dinner?”
“As soon as I see my father off. Else he would be sure to forget his
goloshes and neglect to open his umbrella. A father is a great
responsibility; isn’t it, daddy?” she added, with a little pat on the
gray tweed sleeve.
Nearly an hour later, Barth bounced into the room. By largesse wisely
distributed, he had gained a good dinner, in spite of his tardiness. He
had found Brock’s coat hanging on the rack where he had left his own;
and experience had taught him where Brock, once inside The Maple Leaf,
was generally to be found. The office was quite deserted; and, with
unerring instinct, Barth betook himself in the direction of the parlor.
In the angle behind the half-shut door, at a table covered with maps and
papers, Brock and Nancy sat side by side. They looked up in surprise, as
Barth dashed into the room.
“Good afternoon, Miss Howard,” he said abruptly.
It was Brock who answered.
“You appear to be in haste about something,” he remarked.
“Oh, no. I have no engagement for the afternoon. I just looked in to see
if Miss Howard—”
Again it was Brock who answered.
“Miss Howard has an engagement.”
“To—?” Barth queried, as he edged towards Nancy’s side of the table.
Craftily Brock avoided the ambiguous preposition.
“Miss Howard and I are busy together, this afternoon.”
“Oh, really. I am very sorry. I hope I don’t intrude.” And, with the
hope still dangling from his lips, Barth plumped himself down on the
sofa beside them and felt about for his glasses. As soon as they were
found and settled on his nose, he turned to Nancy. “I do hope I’m not in
the way,” he reiterated spasmodically.
Brock was growling defiantly in his throat; but Nancy’s answer was
dutifully courteous.
“Not at all, Mr. Barth.”
“You are sure you wouldn’t rather I went away?” he persisted.
“It isn’t our parlor,” Nancy reminded him.
“Yours by right of possession.” As he spoke, Barth arose and carefully
closed the door.
“Oh, no. And we could easily move out.”
Barth looked startled. It was hard enough to force himself to this
cheerful arrogance of manner. It was harder still to have the manner
miss fire in this fashion. It was thus, to his mind, that Brock was
accustomed to take forcible possession of Nancy’s leisure hours. He had
never heard her suggest the advisability of moving out, when Brock came
in upon the scene. Vaguely conscious that something was amiss, Barth
nevertheless persevered in his undertaking.
“Oh, but why should you move out?”
Nancy’s eyes lighted, half with amusement, half with impatience. What
was the man driving at? Only yesterday she had been ready to accept him
as a friend, as a man of tact and ingrained breeding. Now his former
obtuseness seemed to have returned upon him, fourfold. And she had just
been explaining to Brock that the man wasn’t half bad, after all. The
question of what Brock must be thinking of her taste lent an added tinge
of acidity to her reply.
“Merely in case you wished to move in,” she answered, with the lightest
possible of laughs.
Barth turned scarlet; but he valiantly sought to explain.
“But I only came in here, because I was looking for you.”
From a man of Barth’s previous habits of speech, this was rather too
direct. In her turn, Nancy became scarlet.
“What did you wish, Mr. Barth?”
“Oh, just to—to talk to you. It is a beastly day, you know; and I
thought—I fancied—”
Nancy cut in remorselessly. Instead of recognizing Barth’s imitation of
the American manner, she came to the swift conclusion that his vagueness
was due to temporary dementia.
“I am sorry, Mr. Barth; but I am very busy with Mr. Brock. Don’t let us
drive you away, though. We can go to the office.”
“But don’t do that. Stay here. That’s what I came for. I fancied you
would like to have a little more talk about Sainte Anne.”
Nancy felt Brock’s keen gray eyes fixed upon her, felt the world of
merriment in their depths. She reflected swiftly. During the past twenty
hours, there had been scant chance that Barth should have discovered her
identity. His suggestion was doubtless only the random result of chance.
Nevertheless, with Brock’s eyes upon her, she was unable to parry the
suggestion with her wonted ease.
“Why should I care to talk about Sainte Anne?” she asked coldly.
“I—I thought you seemed interested, last night.”
Again Nancy felt Brock’s eyes on her, and she chafed at the false
position in which she found herself. It was plain that Brock took it for
granted that she had decoyed the unsuspecting Barth into telling over
the tale of his experiences; and Nancy, rebelling at the suspicion, was
powerless to deny it. She felt a momentary pity for the young Englishman
who seemed bent upon offering himself up as a victim to his allied foes,
yet she found it impossible to come to his rescue without imperiling her
secret.
Suddenly Barth spoke again.
“Were you ever at Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré, Miss Howard?”
There was an instant’s pause, when it seemed to Nancy that Brock must be
able to count the throbbing of her pulse. Then she answered quietly,—
“Once, quite a long time ago. However, the whole episode is so
unpleasant that I rarely allow myself to think much about it. Mr. Brock,
perhaps we’d better go out to the office, if Mr. Barth will excuse us.”