THE COUSINS
Dinner was over at the Windsor, in Montreal, and Mrs. Keith was sitting
with Mrs. Ashborne in the square between the hotel and St. Catharine's
Street. A cool air blew uphill from the river, and the patch of grass
with its fringe of small, dusty trees had a certain picturesqueness in
the twilight. Above it the wooded crest of the mountain rose darkly
against the evening sky; lights glittered behind the network of thin
branches and fluttering leaves along the sidewalk, and the dome of the
cathedral bulked huge and shadowy across the square. Downhill, toward
St. James's, rose towering buildings, with the rough-hewn front of the
Canadian Pacific station prominent among them, and the air was filled
with the clanging of street-cars and the tolling of locomotive bells.
Once or twice, however, when the throb of the traffic momentarily
subsided, music rose faint and sweet from the cathedral, and Mrs. Keith
turned to listen. She had heard the uplifted voices before, through
her open window in the early morning when the city was silent and its
busy toilers slept, and now it seemed to her appropriate that they
could not be wholly drowned by its hoarse commercial clamor.
The square served as a cool retreat for the inhabitants of crowded
tenements and those who had nowhere else to go, but Margaret Keith was
not fastidious about her company. She was interested in the unkempt
immigrants who, waiting for a west-bound train, lay upon the grass,
surrounded by their tired children; and she had sent Millicent down the
street to buy fruit to distribute among the travelers. She liked to
watch the French Canadian girls who slipped quietly up the broad
cathedral steps. They were the daughters of the rank and file, but
their movements were graceful and they were tastefully dressed. Then
the blue-shirted, sinewy men, who strolled past, smoking, roused her
curiosity. They had not acquired their free, springy stride in the
cities; these were adventurers who had met with strange experiences in
the frozen North and the lonely West. Some of them had hard faces and
a predatory air, but that added to their interest. Margaret Keith
liked to watch them all, and speculate about their mode of life; that
pleasure could still be enjoyed, though, as she sometimes told herself
with humorous resignation, she could no longer take a very active part
in things.
Presently, however, something that appealed to her in a more direct and
personal way occurred, for a man came down the steps of the Windsor and
crossed the well-lighted street with a very pretty English girl. He
carried himself well, and had the look of a soldier; his figure was
finely proportioned; but his handsome face suggested sensibility rather
than decision of character, and his eyes were dreamy. His companion,
so far as Mrs. Keith could judge by her smiling glance as she laid her
hand upon his arm when they left the sidewalk, was proud of him, and
much in love with him.
"Whom are you looking at so hard?" Mrs. Ashborne inquired.
"Bertram Challoner and his bride," said Mrs. Keith. "They're coming
toward us yonder."
Then a curious thing happened, for a man who was crossing the street
seemed to see the Challoners and, turning suddenly, stepped back behind
a passing cab. They had their backs to him when he went on, but he
looked around, as if to make sure he had not been observed, before he
entered the hotel.
"That was strange," said Mrs. Ashborne. "It looked as if the fellow
didn't want to meet our friends. Who can he be?"
"How can I tell?" Mrs. Keith answered. "I think I've seen him
somewhere, but that's all I know."
Looking around as Millicent joined them, she noticed the girl's puzzled
expression. Millicent had obviously seen the stranger's action, but
Mrs. Keith did not wish to pursue the subject then; and the next moment
Challoner came up and greeted her heartily, while his wife spoke to
Mrs. Ashborne.
"We arrived only this afternoon, and must have missed you at dinner,"
he said. "We may go West to-morrow, though we haven't decided yet.
I've no doubt we shall see you again to-night or at breakfast."
After a few pleasant words the Challoners passed on, and Mrs. Keith
looked after them thoughtfully.
"Bertram has changed in the last few years," she said. "I heard that
he had malaria in India, and that perhaps accounts for it, but he shows
signs of his mother's delicacy. She was not strong, and I always
thought he had her highly strung nervous temperament, though he must
have learned to control it in the army."
"He couldn't have got in unless the doctors were satisfied with him,"
Mrs. Ashborne pointed out.
"That's true; but both mental and physical traits have a way of lying
dormant while we're young, and developing later. Bertram has shown
himself a capable officer; but, to my mind, he looked more like a
soldier when he was at Sandhurst than he does now."
Mrs. Ashborne glanced toward Millicent, who was distributing a basket
of peaches among a group of untidy immigrant children. One toddling
baby clung to her skirt.
"What a charming picture! Miss Graham fits the part well. You can see
that she's sorry for the dirty little beggars. They don't look as if
they'd had a happy time; and a liner's crowded steerage isn't a
luxurious place."
Mrs. Keith smiled as Millicent came toward her with a few of the small
children clustered round her.
"I have some English letters to write," she said; "and I think we'll go
in."
The Challoners did not leave for the West the next day. About an hour
before sunset they leaned upon the rails of a wooden gallery built out
from the rock on the summit of the green mountain that rises close
behind Montreal. It is a view-point that visitors frequent, and they
gazed with appreciation at the wide landscape. Wooded slopes led
steeply down to the stately college buildings of McGill and the rows of
picturesque houses along Sherbrook Avenue; lower yet, the city, shining
in the clear evening light, spread across the plain, dominated by its
cathedral dome and the towers of Notre Dame. Green squares with trees
in them checkered the blocks of buildings; along its skirts, where a
haze of smoke hung about the wharves, the great river gleamed in a
broad silver band. On the farther bank the plain ran on again, fading
from green to gray and purple, until it melted into the distance, and
the hills on the Vermont frontier cut, faintly blue, against the sky.
"How beautiful this world is!" Challoner exclaimed. "I have seen
grander sights, and there are more picturesque cities than
Montreal--I'm looking forward to showing you the work of the Moguls in
India--but happiness such as I've had of late casts a glamour over
everything. It wasn't always so with me; I've had my bad hours when I
was blind to beauty."
Though Blanche Challoner was very young, and much in love, she ventured
a smiling rebuke.
"You shouldn't wish to remember them; I'm afraid, Bertram, there's a
melancholy strain in you, and I don't mean to let you indulge in it.
Besides, how could you have had bad hours? You have been made much of,
and given everything you could wish for, since you were a boy. Indeed,
I sometimes wonder how you escaped from being spoiled."
"When I joined the army, I hated it; that sounds like high treason,
doesn't it? However, I got used to things, and made art my hobby
instead of my vocation. You won't mind if I confess that a view of
this kind makes me long to paint?"
"Oh, no; I intend to encourage you. You mustn't waste your talent.
When we stay among the Rockies we will spend the days in the most
beautiful places we can find, and I shall take my pleasure in watching
you at work. But didn't your fondness for sketching amuse the mess?"
"I used to be chaffed about it, but I repaid my tormentors by
caricaturing them. On the whole, they were very good-natured."
"I am sure they admired the drawings; they ought to have done so,
anyway. You have talent. Indeed, I never quite understood why you
became a soldier."
"I think it was from a want of moral courage; you have seen that
determination is not among my virtues. If you knew my father very
well, you would understand. Though he's fond of pictures, he looks
upon artists and poets as a rather effeminate and irresponsible set,
and I must admit that he has met one or two unfavorable specimens.
Then, he couldn't imagine the possibility of a son of his not being
anxious to follow the family profession; and, knowing how my defection
would grieve him, I let him have his way. There has always been a
Challoner fighting or ruling in India since John Company's time."
"They must have been fine men, by their portraits. There's one of a
Major Henry Challoner I fell in love with. He was with Outram, wasn't
he? You have his look, though there's a puzzling difference. I think
those men were bluffer and blunter than you are. You're gentler and
more sensitive; in a way, finer drawn."
"My sensitiveness has not been a blessing," said Challoner soberly.
"But it makes you lovable," Blanche declared. "There must have been a
certain ruthlessness about those old Challoners which you couldn't
show. After all, their pictures suggest that their courage was of the
unimaginative, physical kind."
A shadow crept into Challoner's face, but he banished it.
"I am happy in having a wife who won't see my faults." Then he added
humorously: "After all, however, that's not good for one."
Blanche gave him a tender smile; but he did not see it, for he was
gazing at a man who came down the steps from the neighboring cable
railway. The newcomer was about thirty years old, of average height,
and strongly made. His face was deeply sunburned and he had eyes of a
curious dark blue, with a twinkle in them, and dark lashes, though his
hair was fair. As he drew nearer, Blanche was struck by something that
suggested the family likeness of the Challoners. He had their firm
mouth and wide forehead, but by no means their somewhat austere
expression. He looked as if he went carelessly through life and could
readily be amused. Then he saw Bertram, and, starting, made as if he
would pass the entrance to the gallery, and Blanche turned her
surprised glance upon her husband. Bertram's hand was tightly closed
on the glasses he held, and his face was tense and flushed, but he
stepped forward with a cry:
"Dick!"
The newcomer moved toward him, and Blanche knew that he was the man who
had brought dishonor upon her husband's family.
"This is a fortunate meeting," Bertram said, and his voice was cordial,
though rather strained. "Blanche, here's my cousin, Dick Blake."
Blake showed no awkwardness. Indeed, on the whole, he looked amused;
but his face grew graver as he fixed his eyes on Mrs. Challoner.
"Though I'm rather late, you'll let me wish you happiness," he said.
"I believe it will be yours. Bertram's a good fellow; I have much to
thank him for."
There was a sincerity and a hint of affection in his tone, and Bertram
looked uncomfortable.
"But how did you come here?" Bertram asked, as if to turn the
conversation from himself. "Where have you been since----"
He stopped abruptly, and Blake laughed.
"Since you surreptitiously said good-by to me at Peshawur? Well, after
that I went to Penang, and from there to Queensland. Stayed a time at
a pearl-fishing station among the Kanakas, and then went to England for
a few months."
"But how did you manage?" Bertram inquired with some diffidence. "It
raises a point you wouldn't let me talk about at Peshawur, but I've
often felt guilty because I didn't insist. Traveling about as you have
done is expensive."
"Not to me," Blake explained with a twinkle. "I've turned adventurer,
and I have the Blake gift of getting along without money." He added in
an explanatory aside to Blanche: "For two or three generations we kept
open house and a full stable in Ireland, on a revenue derived from
rents which were rarely paid, and if I hadn't been too young when a
disaster gave the creditors their chance. I'd have given them a
sporting run."
"But what did you do when you left England?" Bertram broke in.
"Went to East Africa; after that, to this country, where I tried my
hand at prairie farming. Found it decidedly monotonous and sold the
homestead at a profit. Then I did some prospecting, and now I'm here
on business."
"On business!" Bertram exclaimed. "You could never be trusted to get
proper value for a shilling!"
"I've learned to do so lately, and that's not going far. If you're in
commerce in this country, you must know how to put down fifty cents and
take up a dollar's worth. Anyhow, I'm here to meet an American whose
acquaintance I made farther West. He's a traveler in paints and
varnishes, and a very enterprising person, as well as an unusually good
sort. But I've told you enough about myself; I want your news."
Blanche thought it cost her husband an effort to fall in with his
cousin's casual mood. Blake, however, seemed quite at ease, and she
was growing interested in him. He reminded her of the Challoner
portraits in the dark oak gallery at Sandymere, but she thought him
lighter, more brilliant, and, in a sense, more human than those stern
soldiers. Then she remembered that his Irish blood explained something.
They talked a while about English friends and relatives; and then Blake
asked rather abruptly:
"And the Colonel?"
"Well," said Bertram, "I heard that you saw him, Dick."
"I did, for half an hour. I felt that it was my duty, though the
interview was hard on us both. He was fair, as he always was, and
tried to hide his feelings. I couldn't blame him because he failed."
Bertram looked away, and Blake's face was troubled. There was a hint
of emotion in his voice as he went on, turning to Blanche:
"Whatever he may think of me, I have a sincere respect for Colonel
Challoner; and I owe him more than I can ever repay. He brought me up
after my father's death and started me, like a son, in an honorable
career." His tone grew lighter. "It's one of my few virtues that I
don't forget my debts. But I've kept you some time. My American
friend hasn't turned up yet and I may be here a few days. Where are
you staying? I'll look you up before I leave."
"We go West to-morrow morning. Come down and have dinner with us at
the Windsor," Bertram said; and when Mrs. Challoner seconded the
request, they went up the steps to the platform from which the cable
train started.