The days that followed were happy ones for me. Reggie was with me
constantly, and I even got off several afternoons from the studio and
spent the time with him.
One day we made a little trip up the St. Lawrence, Reggie rowing all the
way from the wharf at Montreal to Boucherville. We started at noon and
arrived at six. There we tied up our boat and went to look for a place
for dinner. We found a little French hotel and Reggie said to the
proprietor:
“We want as good a dinner as you can give us. We’ve rowed all the way
from Montreal and are famished.”
“Bien! You sall have ze turkey which is nearly cook,” said the hotel
keeper. “M’sieu he row so far. It is too much. Only Beeg John, ze
Indian, row so far. He go anny deestance. Also he go in his canoe down
those Rapids of Lachine. Vous connais dat man--Beeg John?”
Yes, we knew about him. Every one in Montreal did.
We waited on the porch while he prepared our dinner. The last rays of
the setting sun were dropping down in the wood, and away in the distance
the reflections upon the St. Lawrence were turning into dim purple the
brilliant orange of a little while ago. Never have I seen a more
beautiful sunset than that over our own St. Lawrence. I said wistfully:
“Reggie, the sunset makes me think of this poem:
“The sunset gates were opened wide,
Far off in the crimson west,
As through them passed the weary day
In rugged clouds to rest.”
Before I could finish the last line, Reggie bent over and kissed me
right on the mouth.
“Funny little girl,” he said. “Suppose instead of quoting poetry you
speak to me, and instead of looking at sunsets, you look at me.”
“Reggie, don’t you like poetry then?”
“It’s all right enough, I suppose, but I’d rather have straight English
words. What’s the sense of muddling one’s language? Silly, I call it,”
he said.
I felt disappointed. Our family had always loved poetry. Mama used to
read Tennyson’s “Idyls of the King,” and we knew all of the characters,
and even played them as children. Moreover, papa and Ada and Charles and
even Nora could all write poetry. Ada made up poems about every little
incident in our lives. When papa went to England, mama would make us
little children all kneel down in a row and repeat a prayer to God that
she had made up to send him back soon. Ada wrote a lovely poem about God
hearing us. She also wrote a poem about our Panama hen who died. She
said the wicked cock hen, a hen we had that could crow like a cock, had
killed her. How we laughed over that poem. I was sorry Reggie thought it
was nonsense, and I wished he would not laugh or sneer at all the things
we did and liked.
“Dinner is ready pour m’sieu et madame!”
Gracious! That man thought I was Reggie’s wife. I colored to my ears,
and I was glad Reggie did not understand French.
He had set the table for two and there was a big sixteen pound turkey on
it, smelling so good and looking brown and delicious. I am sure our
Canadian turkeys are better than any I have ever tasted anywhere else.
They certainly are not “cold-storage birds.”
They charged Reggie for that whole sixteen-pound turkey. He thought it a
great joke, but I wanted to take the rest home. The tide being against
us, we left the rowboat at the hotel with instructions to return it,
and we took the train back to Montreal.
Coming home on the train, the conductor proved to be a young man who had
gone to school with me and he came up with his hand held out:
“Hallo, Marion!”
“Hallo, Jacques.”
I turned to Reggie to introduce him, but Reggie was staring out of the
window and his chin stuck out as if it were in a bad temper. When
Jacques had passed along, I said crossly to Reggie:
“You needn’t be so rude to my friends, Reggie Bertie.”
“Friends!” he sneered. “My word, Marion, you seem to have a passion for
low company.”