THE COUSINS
Dinner was over at the _Windsor_ in Montreal, and Mrs. Keith, who found
the big hotel rather noisy and uncomfortably warm, was sitting with
Mrs. Ashborne in the square between it 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. Down hill,
towards St. James's, rose towering buildings, with the rough-hewn front
of the Canadian Pacific depot 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, who heard the uplifted voices and knew what they sang,
turned to listen. She had heard them 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 the voices could not
be wholly drowned by its hoarse commercial clamour.
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
emigrants who, waiting for a Westbound 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 travellers; 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.
By and by, 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 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
towards 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 round, 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 rejoined. "I think I've seen him
somewhere, but that's all I know."
Looking round as Millicent joined them, she noticed her puzzled
expression. The girl had obviously seen the stranger's action, but
Mrs. Keith did not wish to pursue the subject then. Next moment
Challoner came up and greeted her heartily, while his wife spoke to
Mrs. Ashborne.
"We only arrived 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 he had
malaria in India, which 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,"
said Mrs. Ashborne.
"That's true, but both mental and physical traits have a way of lying
dormant while we're young and of 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."
A few minutes later Mrs. Chudleigh came out of the hotel with Sedgwick
and stopped to speak to Mrs. Keith.
"I came up by the last train and heard that you were here. Captain
Sedgwick travelled with me, but he's going on to Toronto to-morrow. I
suppose you have seen the Challoners? Such a number of English people
in the town! But isn't this a curious place to spend the evening?"
"It's cool," said Mrs. Keith. "I like fresh air."
Mrs. Chudleigh, glanced towards Millicent, who was distributing a
basket of peaches among a group of untidy, emigrant children.
"That's a charming picture, isn't it? Miss Graham fits the part very
well, but I suppose you're responsible."
There was a sneer in her tone and Sedgwick broke in: "Miss Graham's a
very nice girl; 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."
"Since you feel so pitiful, it would be more to the purpose if you gave
them something," Mrs. Chudleigh rejoined.
"A good idea!" said Sedgwick coolly. "I'll carry it out."
He crossed the grass and scattered a few small coins among the
children, who clustered round him, after which he stood talking to
Millicent, while Mrs. Chudleigh watched him with an impatience she did
not try to hide.
"It's a new role for Sedgwick," she remarked. "When he has finished,
we are going into the cathedral to hear the music. I'm fond of
churches, and we spent the afternoon in Notre Dame."
Mrs. Ashborne said it was worth seeing and conversation languished for
the next three or four minutes, after which Mrs. Chudleigh moved
forward imperiously and took Sedgwick away. Mrs. Keith turned to her
companion with an amused expression.
"I daresay you noticed that he didn't mind keeping her waiting."
"I thought he meant to flout her when he acted on her suggestion, and I
half expected something of a scene," said Mrs. Ashborne. "The woman
has a temper."
Mrs. Keith smiled. "The man is a fortune hunter, but he's taking the
right way. She's used to admiration, and her other suitors have, no
doubt, deferred to her. It's a change to be defied instead of courted,
and though it makes her angry I imagine it strengthens his hold. If he
shows his is the firmer hand, she'll give in."
"You're taking it for granted that she's in love with him."
"It looks like it," Mrs. Keith replied. "He has his attractions and
has done one or two dashing things of the kind that catches the public
eye. However, I have some English letters to write, and I think we'll
go in."
Next evening, about an hour before sunset, Challoner and his wife
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 colleges 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 grey 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 it, I hated the army; 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 and repaid my tormentors by caricaturing
them. On the whole, they were very good-natured."
"I expect they admired the drawings; they ought to have done. 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," Challoner replied. "It's as
much to the purpose that you don't know my father very well. Though
he's fond of pictures, he looks upon artists and poets as a rather
effeminate and irresponsible set, and I must own that he has met one or
two unfavourable 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
these 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 neighbouring cable
railway. The newcomer was about thirty years of age, 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 careless through life and
could be readily 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 of "Dick!"
The newcomer moved towards him, and Blanche knew he was the man who had
brought dishonour upon her husband's family.
"This is a fortunate meeting," Bertram said, and his voice was cordial,
though rather strained. Then he turned to his wife. "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 very good fellow; I have much
to thank him for."
There was a sincerity and a hint of affection in his tone which touched
Blanche. She had been prepared to suspend her judgment and be
charitable, but she found that she pitied the man. He had failed in
his duty in time of stress, but he had suffered for it and it must be
hard to be an outcast. Blake saw her compassion and was moved by it.
"But how did you come here?" Bertram asked. "Where have you been
since----"
He stopped abruptly and Blake laughed. "Since you surreptitiously said
good-bye 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 came 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. Travelling about as you
have done is expensive."
"Not to me," Blake rejoined 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 traveller 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, who had been watching him, 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 his
Irish father, which explained something. They talked a while about
English friends and relatives; and then Blake said rather abruptly--
"And the Colonel?"
"Well," said Bertram. "I heard that you saw him, Dick."
"I did, for half an hour. I felt it was my duty, though the interview
was hard on 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, Colonel Challoner is a man I have a
sincere respect for, 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
honourable career." Then his tone grew lighter. "It's one of my few
virtues that I don't forget my debts."
He made as if he would leave them. "And now 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.