"We must change all that, Jamie. Just give him leeway till I 've
looked about a bit and struck root into my--home." I noticed the
slight hesitation before the word "home". "By the way, it's early yet."
"Early!" Jamie was rousing himself from his private sulk. "You might
like to know that generally we have porridge at nine and are in bed by
half-past."
"We 'll change all that too, Mrs. Macleod--with the Doctor's
permission, of course," he said, sitting down beside her. "We 're not
going to lose the pleasure of these long winter evenings. After
porridge, we 'll have grand bouts of chess, Jamie, and a little
music--I see that Miss Farrell has not included a piano in her
furnishings--"
"Not for eighty-seven dollars," I said, hoping he would appreciate the
financial fact; but he only looked a little mystified, and went on:
"--And hours with the books, and some snowshoeing on fine moonlight
nights; you 'll see that the winter is none too long in Canada--_O pays
de mon amour_!" he said smiling. Clasping his hands behind his head,
he looked steadily at the leaping flames.
The tone in which he said all this would have heartened a confirmed
pessimist; upon Jamie Macleod it acted like new wine. His face grew
radiant, and the look he gave his friend held something of worship in
it.
Doctor Rugvie groaned audibly as he laid aside his pipe.
"What is it, _mon vieux_?" said Mr. Ewart.
"You make me envious," he said, rising and putting on another log; "but
if I can be with you only one week, I 'm going to make the most of it.
No turning in before eleven-thirty while I 'm here."
"I 'll make it one with you any time you say, John." Underneath the
banter we heard the undercurrent of deep affection. "You 'll be up
here two or three times during the winter, and next summer you 've
promised to camp with Jamie and the Andres, father and son, and me, for
two months on the Upper Saguenay. Speaking of Andre, pere, Jamie, have
you redeemed the promise you gave me last summer?"
Jamie twisted his long length in his chair before answering. "Yes, in
a way."
"What does 'in a way' mean? What promise?" asked the Doctor eagerly.
Mr. Ewart answered for him.
"It was about Andre--old Andre's story of his voyage to the Columbian
Exposition in 'ninety-three. Have you written it up?"
"In a way I have, yes."
"Well, Jamie Macleod," I exclaimed, half impatiently, "for lack of
originality, commend me to you to-night!"
I was afraid I should not hear the story. I exulted in the thought
that my intuition concerning a second R. L. Stevenson in Jamie Macleod,
was to prove correct. Jamie looked over at me and smiled provokingly.
"Come on, Boy, out with it!" said the Doctor encouragingly. "I 'm
willing to be bored with your literary style for the sake of hearing
dear old Andre's story rehashed by a young aspirant for honors."
"Have you seen anything of this?" Mr. Ewart turned to Mrs. Macleod.
"I 've neither seen nor heard anything of this kind," she replied with
an amazed look at her son. Jamie smiled again, this time quizzically.
"What's this you 've been keeping from your mother, Boy?"
"Oh, Jamie, do read it to us!" I begged.
Jamie laughed aloud then, much to the two men's delight, as I could
see, and said--tease that he is:
"I 've been waiting for Marcia to ask me; she is n't apt to ask favors
of any one; but I say,--" he looked half shamefacedly at his
friends,--"it's rough on me to read anything of mine before such
critics as you and Gordon, Doctor Rugvie."
"Do you good," growled the Doctor; "get you used to publicity. If we
have a genius in the family, it's best he should sprout his pin
feathers in our presence before he becomes a full-fledged Pegasus. We
could n't hold you down then, you know."
"You 've had a lot of faith in me, Doctor--you and Ewart; after all,
Oxford mightn't have done what that has for me. I 'll read it--but I
shall feel like a fool, I know."
"It won't hurt you to feel that way once in a while at twenty-three;
it's educative," said the Doctor dryly.
In the general laughter that followed, Jamie left the room. He was
gone but a minute. When he came in, I saw he was nervous. He cleared
his throat once or twice, after taking his seat at the left of the
fireplace, and glanced anxiously at the candles; but they were fresh at
nine, and good for two hours longer. Doctor Rugvie looked at his watch.
"Half-past ten; I 'll keep time, Jamie."
"What do you call it, Jamie?" Mr. Ewart asked, to ease the evident
embarrassment in which the young Scotsman found himself.
"'Andre's Odyssey'."
"Good! I like that," said the Doctor; "that's just what it was.
Nothing like a good title to work up to."
"Of course, I embellished a little here and there, but I stuck to the
facts and in many places to Andre's words; and I tried to make the
whole in Andre's spirit."
"Intentions all right, Boy--let us judge of the result," said the
Doctor. He settled comfortably in his chair, leaned his head on the
back and gazed steadily at the wooden ceiling; but I think he managed
to keep an eye on Jamie.
And, oh, that bright eager face, the firelight enhancing its
brightness! The hand that trembled despite his effort at control, the
slight flush on the high cheek bones from which the summer's tan had
not yet house-worn! The expressive unsteady voice that gradually
steadied itself as, in the interest of reading, self-consciousness was
forgotten!
I bent low over my crochet; I did not want to look again at him, for I
was glad, so glad for him, for his mother, for his two friends, who had
had such faith in him, for myself that I could count him as a friend.
This was, indeed, the beginning of fulfilment.