ON THE RIVER BOAT
Dusk was falling on the broad river, and the bold ridge behind the city
stood out sharp and black against a fading gleam in the western sky. A
big, sidewheel steamer, spotlessly white, with tiers of decks that
towered above the sheds and blazed with light, was receiving the last
of her passengers and preparing to cast off from her moorings. Richard
Blake hurried along the wharf and, on reaching the gangplank, stood
aside to let an elderly lady pass. She was followed by her maid and a
girl whose face he could not see. It was a few minutes after the
sailing time, and as the lady stepped on board a rope fell with a
splash. There was a shout of warning as the bows, caught by the
current, began to swing out into the stream, and the end of the
gangplank slipped along the edge of the wharf. It threatened to fall
into the river, and the girl was not yet on board. Blake leaped upon
the plank. Seizing her shoulder, he drove her forward until a seaman,
reaching out, drew her safe on deck. Then the paddles splashed and as
the boat forged out into the stream, the girl turned and thanked Blake.
He could not see her clearly, for an overarching deck cast a shadow on
her face.
"Glad to have been of assistance; but I don't think you could have
fallen in," he said. "The guy-rope they had on the gangplank might
have held it up."
Turning away, he entered the smoking-room, where he spent a while over
an English newspaper that devoted some space to social functions and
the doings of people of importance, noticing once or twice, with a
curious smile, mention of names he knew. He had the gift of making
friends, and before he went to India he had met a number of men and
women of note who had been disposed to like him. Then he had won the
good opinion of responsible officers on the turbulent frontier and had
made acquaintances that might have been valuable. Now, however, he had
done with all that; he was banished from the world in which they moved,
and if they ever remembered him it was, no doubt, as one who had gone
under.
Shaking off these thoughts, he joined some Americans in a game of
cards, and it was late at night when he went out into the moonlight as
the boat steamed up Lake St. Peter. A long plume of smoke trailed
across the cloudless sky, the water glistened with silvery radiance,
and, looking over the wide expanse, he could see dark trees etched
faintly on the blue horizon. Ahead, the lights of Three Rivers
twinkled among square, black blocks of houses and tall sawmill stacks.
A few passengers were strolling about, but the English newspaper had
made Blake restless, and he wanted to be alone. Descending to a
quieter deck, he was surprised to see the girl he had assisted sitting
in a canvas chair near the rail. Nearby stood several large baskets,
from which rose an angry snarling.
"What is this?" he asked, with the careless abruptness which usually
characterized him. "With your permission."
He raised a lid, while the girl watched him with amusement.
"Looks like a menagerie on a small scale," he remarked. "Are these
animals yours?"
"No; they belong to Mrs. Keith."
"Mrs. Keith?" he said sharply. "The lady I saw at the Frontenac, with
the autocratic manners? It's curious, but she reminds me of somebody I
knew, and the name's the same. I wonder----"
He broke off, and Millicent Graham studied him as he stood in the
moonlight. She did not think he recognized her, and perhaps he was
hardly justified in supposing that his timely aid at the gangway
dispensed with the need for an introduction, but she liked his looks,
which she remembered well. She had no fear of this man's presuming too
far; and his surprise when she mentioned Mrs. Keith, had roused her
interest.
"Yes," she said; "I believe it was my employer you knew."
He did not follow this lead.
"Are you supposed to sit up all night and watch the animals for her?"
he asked.
"Only for an hour or two. The steamboat people refused to have them in
the saloon, and the maid should have relieved me. She was tired,
however, with packing and running errands all day, and I thought I'd
let her sleep a while."
"Then it can't be much of an intrusion if I try to make you more
comfortable. Let me move your chair nearer the deckhouse, where you'll
be out of the wind; but I'll first see if I can find another rug."
He left her without waiting for a reply, and, returning with a rug,
placed her chair in a sheltered spot; then he leaned against the
railing.
"So you are Mrs. Keith's companion," he observed. "It strikes me as
rather unfeeling of her to keep you here in the cold." He indicated
the baskets. "But what's her object in buying these creatures?"
"Caprice," Millicent smiled. "Some of them are savage, and they cost a
good deal. I can't imagine what she means to do with them; I don't
think she knows herself. One of them, however, has been growling all
day, and as it's apparently unwell it mustn't be neglected."
"If it growls any more, I'll feel tempted to turn yonder hose upon it,
or try some other drastic remedy."
"Please don't!" cried Millicent in alarm. "But you mustn't think Mrs.
Keith is inconsiderate. I have much to thank her for; but she gets
very enthusiastic over her hobbies."
"Do you know whether she ever goes down to a little place in
Shropshire?"
"Yes; I have been with her. Once she took me to your old home." The
color crept into Millicent's face. "You don't seem to remember me,
Lieutenant Blake."
Blake had learned self-control and he did not start, though he came
near doing so as he recalled a scene in which he had taken part some
years earlier.
"It would have been inexcusable if I had forgotten you," he responded
with a smile. "Still, I couldn't quite place you until a few moments
ago, when you faced the light. But you were wrong in one thing: I'm no
longer Lieutenant Blake."
She appreciated the frankness which had prompted this warning, and she
saw that she had made a tactless blunder, but she looked at him
steadily.
"I forgot," she said; "forgive me. I heard of--what happened in
India--but I knew that there must have been some mistake." She
hesitated for a moment. "I think so now."
Blake made a sudden movement, and then leaned back against the railing.
"I'm afraid that an acquaintance which lasted three or four minutes
could hardly enable you to judge: first impressions are often wrong,
you know. Anyway, I don't complain of the opinion of gentlemen who
knew more about me."
Millicent saw that the subject must be dropped.
"At our first meeting," she said, "I had no opportunity for thanking
you; and you gave me none tonight. It's curious that, while I've met
you only twice, on both occasions you turned up just when you were
needed. Is it a habit of yours?"
Blake laughed.
"That's a flattering thing to hint. The man who's always on hand when
he's wanted is an estimable person."
He studied her with an interest which she noticed but could not resent.
The girl had changed and gained something since their first meeting,
and he thought it was a knowledge of the world. She was, he felt,
neither tainted nor hardened by what she had learned, but her fresh
childish look which suggested ignorance of evil had gone and could not
come back. Indeed, he wondered bow she had preserved it in her
father's house. This was not a matter he could touch upon; but
presently she referred to it.
"I imagine," she said shyly, "that on the evening when you came to my
rescue in London you were surprised to find me--so unprepared; so
incapable of dealing with the situation."
"That is true," Blake answered with some awkwardness. "A bachelor
dinner, you know, after a big race meeting at which we had backed
several winners! One has to make allowances."
Millicent smiled rather bitterly.
"You may guess that I had to make them often in those days; but it was
on the evening we were speaking of that my eyes were first opened, and
I was startled. But you must understand that it was not by my father's
wish that I came to London and stayed with him--until the end. He
urged me to go away; but his health had broken down and he had no one
else to care for him. When he was no longer able to get about,
everybody deserted him, and he felt it."
"I was truly sorry to hear of his death," Blake said. "Your father was
once a very good friend to me. But, if I may ask, how was it he let
you come to his flat?"
"I forced myself upon him. My mother died long ago, and her unmarried
sisters took care of me. They lived very simply in a small secluded
country house: two old-fashioned Evangelicals, gentle but austere,
studying small economies, giving all they could away. In winter we
embroidered for missionary bazaars; in summer we spent the days in a
quiet, walled garden. It was all very peaceful, but I grew restless;
and when I heard that my father's health was failing I felt that I must
go to him. My aunts were grieved and alarmed, but they said they dare
not hinder me if I thought it my duty."
Stirred by troubled memories and perhaps encouraged by the sympathy he
showed, she had spoken on impulse without reserve, and Blake listened
with pity. The girl, brought up, subject to wholesome Puritanical
influences, in such surroundings as she had described, must have
suffered a cruel shock when suddenly plunged into the society of the
rakes and gamblers who frequented her father's flat.
"Could you not have gone back when you were no longer needed?" he asked.
"No," she said; "it would not have been fair. I had changed since I
left my aunts. They were very sensitive, and I think the difference
they must have noticed in me would have jarred on them. I should have
brought something alien into their unworldly life. It was too late to
return; I had to follow the path I had chosen."
Blake mused a while, watching the lights of Three Rivers fade astern
and the broad white wake of the paddles stream back across the glassy
surface of the lake. The girl must have learned much of human failings
since she left her sheltered home, but he thought the sweetness of
character which could not be spoiled by knowledge of evil was greatly
to be admired. He was, however, a man of action and not a philosopher.
"Well," he said, "I appreciate your letting me talk to you; but it's
cold and getting late, and you have sat on deck long enough. I'll see
that somebody looks after the animals."
Millicent felt dubious, though she was sleepy and tired.
"If anything happened to her pets, Mrs. Keith would not forgive me."
"I'll engage that something will happen to some of them very soon
unless you promise to go to your room," Blake laughed. Then he called
a deckhand. "What have you to do?"
"Stand here until the watch is changed."
"Then, you can keep an eye on these baskets. If any of the beasts
makes an alarming noise, send to my room, the second, forward, port
side. Look me up before we get to Montreal."
"That's all right, sir," replied the man.
Blake turned to Millicent and held out his hand as she rose.
"Now," he said, "you can go to rest with a clear conscience."
She left him with a word of thanks, wondering whether she had been
indiscreet, and why she had told him so much. She knew nothing to his
advantage except one chivalrous action, and she had not desired to
arouse his pity, but he had an honest face and had shown an
understanding sympathy which touched her, because she had seldom
experienced it. He had left the army with a stain upon his name; but
she felt very confident that he had not merited his disgrace.