MY FIRST CHRISTMAS DINNER IN VICTORIA, 1860.
By D. W. H.
"Ask and it shall be given you; seek and ye shall find; knock and
it shall be opened unto you. For every one that asketh receiveth;
and he that seeketh findeth, and to him that knocketh it shall be
opened."--Matt. 7:7, 8.
On the 22nd day of December, 1860, nearly fifty-three years ago, I
sat in the editorial room of the _Colonist_ office on Wharf
Street, concocting a leading article. Mr. Amor De Cosmos, the able
editor and owner, had contracted a severe cold and was confined to
his room at Wilcox's Royal Hotel, so the entire work of writing up
the paper for that issue devolved upon me. The office was a rude,
one-story affair of wood. It had been erected for a merchant early in
1858, and when he failed or went away the building fell into Mr. De
Cosmos' hands. On the 11th December, 1858, Mr. De Cosmos established
the _Colonist_, which has ever since filled a prominent and
honorable position in colonial journalism. Our office, as I have
remarked, was a rude affair. The accompanying picture will convey a
better idea of its appearance than anything I might write. The
editorial room was a small space partitioned off from the composing
room, which contained also the little hand-press on which the
paper was printed. A person who might wish to see the editor was
forced to pick his way through a line of stands and cases at which
stood the coatless printers who set the type and prepared the forms
for the press.
[Portrait: Amor de Cosmos.]
The day was chill and raw. A heavy wind from the south-west stirred
the waters of the harbor and hurling itself with fury against the
front of the building made the timbers crack and groan as if in
paroxysms of pain. A driving rain fell in sheets on the roof and
drops of water which leaked through the shingles fell on the
editorial table, swelled into little rivulets, and, leaping to the
floor, chased each other over the room, making existence therein
uncomfortably damp. As I wrote away in spite of these obstacles I was
made aware by a shadow that fell across my table of the presence of
someone in the doorway. I raised my eyes and there stood a female--a
rare object in those days, when women and children were as scarce as
hen's teeth, and were hardly ever met upon the streets, much less in
an editorial sanctum. I rose to my feet at once, and removing my hat
awaited results. In the brief space of time that elapsed before the
lady spoke I took her all in. She was a woman of scarcely forty, I
thought; of medium height, a brunette, with large coal-black eyes, a
pretty mouth--a perfect Cupid's bow--and olive-hued cheeks. She was
richly dressed in bright colors with heavy broad stripes and
space-encircling hoops after the fashion of the day. When she spoke
it was in a rich, well-rounded tone--not with the nasal drawl which
we hear so much when across the line, and which some Victoria
school-girls and boys seem to delight in imitating in spite of the
efforts of their teachers. Taken all in all I sized the lady up as a
very presentable person.
Having explained to her, in response to an inquiry, that the editor
was ill, she said that she would call again and went away after
leaving her card. Two days later, on the 24th of December, the lady
came again.
"Is the editor still ill?" she asked.
"Yes; but he will be here in the course of a day or two."
"Ah! well, that is too bad," she said. "My business is of importance
and cannot bear delay. But I am told that you will do as well."
I assured the lady that I should be glad to assist her in any way.
Thanking me, she began:
"My name is Madame Fabre; my husband, who was French, is dead--died
in California. I am a Russian. In Russia I am a princess. (She paused
as if to watch the impression her announcement had made.) Here I am a
mere nobody--only Madame Fabre. I married my husband in France. We
came to California. We had much money and my husband went into quartz
mining at Grass Valley. He did not understand the business at all. We
lost everything. Then he died (and she drew a lace handkerchief from
her reticule, and pressing it to her eyes sighed deeply). Alas! Yes,
Emil passed from me and is now, I trust, in heaven. He left me a
mountain of debts and one son, Bertrand, a good child, as good as
gold, very thoughtful and obedient. May I call him in? He awaits your
permission without."
I replied, "Certainly," and stepping to the door she called,
"Bertrand! Bertrand! my child, come here, and speak to the
gentleman."
I expected to see a boy of five or six years, wearing curls, in short
trousers, a beaded jacket and fancy cap, whom I would take on my
knee, toy with his curls, ask his name and age and give him a
"bit" with which to stuff his youthful stomach with indigestible
sweetmeats. Judge my surprise when, preceded by the noise of a heavy
tread, a huge youth of about seventeen, bigger and taller than
myself, and smoking a cigar, appeared at the opening, and in a deep,
gruff voice that a sea captain or a militia commander would have
envied, asked:
"Did you call, mamma?"
"Yes, my dear child," she sweetly responded; "I wish to introduce you
to this gentleman."
The "child" removed his hat, and I noticed that his hair was cut
close to the scalp. Having been duly introduced at my request he sat
down in my chair while I took a seat on the edge of the editorial
table, which was very rickety and would scarcely bear my weight at
the present day.
The parent gazed at her son fondly for a moment and then proceeded:
"Bertrand's fortune was swallowed up in the quartz wreck; but he is
very sweet and very patient, and never complains. Poor lad! It was
hard upon him, but he forgives all--do you not, dear?"
"Yes," rumbled the "child" from the pit of his stomach; but the
expression that flitted across his visage made me think that he would
rather have said "No," had he dared.
"That being the case I will now explain the object of my visit. As I
have said, we have lost everything--that is to say, our income is so
greatly reduced that it is now a matter of not more than $1,000 a
month. Upon that meagre sum my dear boy and I contrive to get along
by practising the strictest economy consistent with our position in
life. Naturally we wish to do better, and then go back to Russia
and live with the nobility. Do we not, Bertrand?"
"Yes," rumbled the "child" from his stomach again, as he lighted a
fresh cigar.
"Well, now, Mr. H.," the lady went on, "I want an adviser. I ask
Pierre Manciot at the French Hotel, and he tells me to see his
partner, John Sere; and Mr. Sere tells me to go to the editor of the
_Colonist_. I come here. The editor is ill. I go back to Mr.
Sere and he says, see D. W. H.; he will set you all right. So I come
to you to tell you what I want."
She paused for a moment to take a newspaper from her reticule and
then continued:
"After my husband died and left the debts and this precious child
(the "child" gazed abstractedly at the ceiling while he blew rings of
smoke from his mouth) we made a grand discovery. Our foreman, working
in the mine, strikes rich quartz, covers it up again, and tells no
one but me. All the shareholders have gone--what you call 'busted,' I
believe? We get hold of many shares cheap, and now I come here to get
the rest. An Englishman owns enough shares to give him control--I
mean that out of two hundred thousand shares I have got ninety-five
thousand, and the rest this Englishman holds. We have traced him
through Oregon to this place, and we lose all sign of him here." (Up
to this moment I had not been particularly interested in the
narration.) She paused, and laying a neatly-gloved hand on my arm
proceeded:
"You are a man of affairs."
I modestly intimated that I was nothing of the kind, only a reporter.
"Ah! yes. You cannot deceive me. I see it in your eye, your face,
your movements. You are a man of large experience and keen
judgment. Your conversation is charming."
As she had spoken for ten minutes without giving me an opportunity to
say a word, I could not quite understand how she arrived at an
estimate of my conversational powers. However, I felt flattered, but
said nothing.
Pressing my arm with her hand, which gave me a warm feeling in the
neighborhood of my heart, she went on:
"I come to you as a man of the world. (I made a gesture of dissent,
but it was very feeble, for I was already caught in the web.) I rely
upon you. I ask you to help me. Bertrand--poor, dear Bertie--has no
head for business--he is too young, too confiding--too--too--what you
English people call simple--no, too good--too noble--he takes after
my family--to know anything about such affairs--so I come to you."
Was it possible that because I was considered unredeemably bad I was
selected for this woman's purpose? As I mused, half disposed to get
angry, I raised my head and my eyes encountered the burning orbs of
the Madame, gazing full into mine. They seemed to bore like gimlets
into my very soul. A thrill ran through me like the shock from an
electric battery, and in an instant I seemed bound hand and foot to
the fortunes of this strange woman. I felt myself being dragged along
as the Roman Emperors were wont to draw their captives through the
streets of their capital. I fluttered for a few seconds like a bird
in the fowler's net and then I gave up. The contest was too unequal.
God help me! The eyes had conquered and I lay panting at the feet, as
it were, of the conqueror. I have only a hazy recollection of what
passed between us after that; but I call to mind that she asked
me to insert as an advertisement a paragraph from a Grass Valley
newspaper to the effect that the mine (the name of which I forget)
was a failure and that shares could be bought for two cents.
When she took her leave I promised to call upon her at the hotel.
When the "child" extended a cold, clammy hand in farewell I felt like
giving him a kick--he looked so grim and ugly and patronizing. I
gazed into his eyes sternly and read there deceit, hypocrisy and
moral degeneration. How I hated him!
* * * * *
The pair had been gone several minutes before I recovered my mental
balance and awoke to a realization of the fact that I was a young
fool who had sold himself (perhaps to the devil) for a few empty
compliments and a peep into the deep well of an artful woman's
blazing eyes. I was inwardly cursing my stupidity while pacing up and
down the floor of the "den" when I heard a timid knock at the door.
In response to my invitation to "come in" a young lady entered. She
was pretty and about twenty years of age, fair, with dark blue eyes
and light brown hair. A blush suffused her face as she asked for the
editor. I returned the usual answer.
"Perhaps you will do for my purpose," she said timidly. "I have here
a piece of poetry."
I gasped as I thought, "It's an ode on winter. Oh, Lord!"
"A piece of poetry," she continued, "on Britain's Queen. If you will
read it and find it worthy a place in your paper I shall be glad to
write more. If it is worth paying for I shall be glad to get
anything."
Her hand trembled as she produced the paper.
I thanked her and telling her that I would look it over she withdrew.
I could not help contrasting the first with the last visitor. The one
had attracted me by her artful and flattering tongue, the skilful use
of her beautiful eyes and the pressure of her hand on my coat sleeve;
the other by the modesty of her demeanor. The timid shyness with
which she presented her poem had caught my fancy. I looked at the
piece. It was poor, not but what the sentiment was there and the
ideas were good, but they were not well put. As prose it would have
been acceptable, but as verse it was impossible and was not worth
anything.
* * * * *
The next was Christmas Day. It was my first Christmas in Victoria.
Business was suspended. All the stores were closed. At that time in
front of every business house there were wooden verandahs or sheds
that extended from the fronts of the buildings to the outer edges of
the sidewalks. One might walk along any of the down-town streets and
be under cover all the way. They were ugly, unsightly constructions
and I waged constant warfare against them until I joined the
aldermanic board and secured the passage of an ordinance that
compelled their removal. Along these verandahs on this particular
Christmas morning evergreen boughs were placed and the little town
really presented a very pretty and sylvan appearance. After church I
went to the office and from the office to the Hotel de France for
luncheon. The only other guest in the room was a tall, florid-faced
young man somewhat older than myself. He occupied a table on the
opposite side of the room. When I gave my order M. Sere remarked,
"All the regular boarders but you have gone to luncheon and dinner
with their friends. Why not you?"
"Why," I replied, with a quaver in my voice, "the only families that
I know are dining with friends of their own, whom I do not know. I
feel more homesick to-day than ever before in my life and the idea of
eating my Christmas dinner alone fills me with melancholy thoughts."
The man on the other side of the room must have overheard what I
said, for he ejaculated:
"There's two of a kind. I'm in a similar fix. I have no friends
here--at least with whom I can dine. Suppose we double up?"
"What's that?" I asked.
"Why, let us eat our Christmas dinner together and have a good time.
Here's my card and here's a letter of credit on Mr. Pendergast, Wells
Fargo's agent, to show that I am not without visible means of
support."
The card read, "Mr. George Barclay, Grass Valley."
"Why," I said, "you are from Grass Valley. How strange. I saw two
people yesterday--a lady and her 'child'--who claimed to have come
from Grass Valley."
"Indeed," he asked; "what are they like?"
"The mother says she is a Russian princess. She calls herself Mme.
Fabre and says she is a widow. She is very handsome and intelligent
and"--I added with a shudder--"has the loveliest eyes--they bored me
through and through."
My new friend faintly smiled and said, "I know them. By and bye, when
we get better acquainted, I shall tell you all about them. Meantime,
be on your guard."
After luncheon we walked along Government to Yates Street and then to
the _Colonist_ shack. And as I placed the key in the lock I saw
the young lady who had submitted the poetry walking rapidly towards
us. My companion flushed slightly and raising his hat, extended
his hand, which the lady accepted with hesitation. They exchanged
some words and then the lady addressing me asked, "Was my poem
acceptable?"
"To tell you the truth, Miss--Miss--"
"Forbes," she interjected.
"I have not had time to read it carefully." (As a matter of fact I
had not bestowed a second thought upon the poem, but was ashamed to
acknowledge it.)
"When--oh! when can you decide?" she asked with much earnestness.
"To-morrow, I think"--for I fully intended to decline it.
She seemed deeply disappointed. Her lip quivered as she held down her
head and her form trembled with agitation. I could not understand her
emotion, but, of course, said nothing to show that I observed it.
"Could you not give me an answer to-day--this afternoon?" the girl
urged.
"Yes," I said, "as you seem so very anxious, if you will give me your
address I shall take or send an answer before four o'clock. Where do
you reside?"
"Do you know Forshay's cottages? They are a long way up Yates Street.
We occupy No. 4."
Forshay's cottages were a collection of little cabins that had been
erected on a lot at the corner of Cook and Yates Streets. They have
long since disappeared. They were of one story and each cottage
contained three rooms--a kitchen and two other rooms. I could
scarcely imagine a refined person such as the lady before me
occupying those miserable quarters; but then, you know, necessity
knows no law.
The girl thanked me and Barclay accompanied her to the corner of
Yates Street. He seemed to be trying to induce her to do
something she did not approve of, for she shook her head with an air
of determination and resolve and hurried away.
Barclay came back to the office and said: "I am English myself, but
the silliest creature in the world is an Englishman who, having once
been well off, finds himself stranded. His pride will not allow him
to accept favors. I knew that girl's father and mother in Grass
Valley. The old gentleman lost a fortune at quartz mining. His
partner, a Mr. Maloney, a Dublin man and graduate of Trinity College,
having sunk his own and his wife's money in the mine, poisoned his
wife, three children and himself with strychnine three years ago. By
the way, I met a Grass Valley man this morning. His name is Robert
Homfray, a civil engineer. He tells me he is located here
permanently. He and his brother lost a great deal of money in the
Grass Valley mines, and we talked over the Maloney tragedy, with the
circumstances of which he was familiar, but the strangest part of the
story is that three months ago the property was reopened and the very
first shot that was fired in the tunnel laid bare a rich vein. Had
Maloney fired one more charge he would have been rich. As it was he
died a murderer and a suicide. Poor fellow! In a day or two I will
tell you more. But let us return to the poetry. What will you do with
it?"
"I fear I shall have to reject it."
"No, no," he cried. "Accept it! This morning I went to the home of
the family, which consists of Mr. Forbes, who is crippled with
rheumatism, his excellent wife, the young lady from whom we have just
parted and a little boy of seven. They are in actual want. I offered
to lend them money to buy common necessaries and Forbes rejected
the offer in language that was insulting. Go immediately to the
cottage. Tell the girl that you have accepted the poem and give her
this (handing me a twenty-dollar gold piece) as the appraised value
of her production. Then return to the Hotel de France and await
developments."
* * * * *
I repaired to the cottages. The road was long and muddy. There were
neither sidewalks nor streets and it was a difficult matter to
navigate the sea of mud that lay between Wharf and Cook Streets. The
young lady answered my knock. She almost fainted when I told her the
poem had been accepted and that the fee was twenty dollars. I placed
the coin in her hand.
"Mamma! Papa!" she cried, and running inside the house I heard her
say, "My poem has been accepted and the gentleman from the
_Colonist_ office has brought me twenty dollars."
"Thank God!" I heard a woman's voice exclaim. "I never lost faith,
for what does Christ say, Ellen, 'Ask and it shall be given you, seek
and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened.' On this holy
day--our Saviour's birthday--we have sought and we have found."
This was followed by a sound as of someone crying, and then the girl
flew back to the door.
"Oh! sir," she said, "I thank you from the bottom of my heart for
your goodness."
"Not at all," I lied. "You have earned it and you owe me no thanks. I
shall be glad to receive and pay for any other contributions you may
send." I did not add, though, that they would not be published,
although they would be paid for.
A little boy with a troubled face and a pinched look now approached
the front door. He was neatly but poorly dressed.
"Oh! Nellie, what is the matter?" he asked anxiously.
"Johnnie," answered Nellie. "I have earned twenty dollars, and we
shall have a Christmas dinner, and you shall have a drum, too." As
she said this she caught the little fellow in her arms and kissed him
and pressed his wan cheek against her own.
"Shall we have a turkey, Nellie?" he asked.
"Yes, dear," she said.
"And a plum pudding, too, with nice sauce that burns when you put a
match to it, and shall I have two helpings?" he asked.
"Yes, and you shall set fire to the sauce and have two helpings,
Johnnie."
"Won't that be nice," he exclaimed gleefully. "But, Nellie, will papa
get medicine to make him well again?"
"Yes, Johnnie."
"And mamma--will she get back all the pretty things she sent away to
pay the rent with?"
"Hush, Johnnie," said the girl with an apologetic look at me.
"And you, Nellie, will you get back your warm cloak that the man with
a long nose took away?"
"Hush, dear," she said. "Go inside now; I wish to speak to this
gentleman." She closed the front door and asked me, all the stores
being closed, how she would be able to get the materials for the
dinner and to redeem her promise to Johnnie.
"Easily enough," said I. "Order it at the Hotel de France. Shall I
take down the order?"
"If you will be so kind," she said. "Please order what you think is
necessary."
"And I--I have a favor to ask of you."
"What is it?" she inquired eagerly.
"That you will permit me to eat my Christmas dinner with you and the
family. I am a waif and stray, alone in the world. I am almost a
stranger here. The few acquaintances I have made are dining out and I
am at the hotel with Mr. Barclay, whom you know and, I hope, esteem."
"Well," she said, "come by all means."
"And may I bring Mr. Barclay with me? He is very lonely and very
miserable. Just think, that on a day like this he has nowhere to go
but to an hotel."
She considered a moment before replying; then she said, "No, do not
bring him--let him come in while we are at dinner, as if by
accident."
I hastened to the Hotel de France and Sere and Manciot soon had a big
hamper packed with an abundance of Christmas cheer and on its way
upon the back of an Indian to the Forbes house.
I followed and received a warm welcome from the father and mother,
who were superior people and gave every evidence of having seen
better days. The interior was scrupulously clean, but there was only
one chair. A small kitchen stove at which the sick man sat was the
only means of warmth. There were no carpets and, if I was not
mistaken, the bed coverings were scant. The evidence of extreme
poverty was everywhere manifest. I never felt meaner in my life, as I
accepted the blessings that belonged to the other man. Mr. Forbes,
who was too ill to sit at the table, reclined on a rude lounge near
the kitchen stove. Just as dinner was being served there came a knock
at the door. It was opened and there stood Barclay.
"I have come," he said, "to ask you to take me in. I cannot eat
my dinner alone at the hotel. You have taken my only acquaintance
(pointing to me) from me, and if Mr. Forbes will forgive my
indiscretion of this morning I shall be thankful."
"That I will," cried the old gentleman from the kitchen. "Come in and
let us shake hands and forget our differences."
So Barclay entered and we ate our Christmas dinner in one of the
bedrooms. It was laid on the kitchen table, upon which a tablecloth,
sent by the thoughtful hosts at the hotel, was spread. There were
napkins, a big turkey and claret and champagne, and a real, live,
polite little Frenchman to carve and wait. Barclay and I sat on the
bed. Mrs. Forbes had the only chair. Johnnie and his sister occupied
the hamper. Before eating Mrs. Forbes said grace, in which she again
quoted the passage from Scripture with which I began this narration.
Oh! for a catchup meal it was the jolliest I ever sat down to, and I
enjoyed it, as did all the rest. Little Johnnie got two helpings of
turkey and two helpings of pudding and then he was allowed to sip a
little champagne when the toasts to the Queen and the father and
mother and the young and rising poetess of the family were offered.
Then Johnnie was toasted and put to bed in Nellie's room. Next it
came my turn to say a few words in response to a sentiment which the
old gentleman spoke through the open door from his position in the
kitchen, and my response abounded in falsehoods about the budding
genius of the daughter of the household. Then I called Barclay to his
feet, and he praised me until I felt like getting up and relieving my
soul of its weight of guilt, but I didn't, for had I done so the
whole affair would have been spoiled.
Barclay and I reached our quarters at the Hotel de France about
midnight. We were a pair of thoroughly happy mortals, for had we not,
after all, "dined out," and had we not had a royal good time on
Christmas Day, 1860?
The morrow was Boxing Day and none of the offices were opened. I saw
nothing of the Princess; but I observed Bertie, the sweet "child," as
he paid frequent visits to the bar and filled himself to the throttle
with brandy and water and rum and gin and bought and paid for and
smoked the best cigars at two bits each. As I gazed upon him the
desire to give him a kicking grew stronger.
By appointment Barclay and I met in a private room at the hotel,
where he unfolded his plans.
"You must have seen," he began, "that Miss Forbes and I are warm
friends. Our friendship began six months ago. I proposed to her and
was accepted subject to the approval of the father. He refused to
give his consent because, having lost his money, he could not give
his daughter a dowry. It was in vain I urged that I had sufficient
for both. He would listen to nothing that involved an acceptance of
assistance from me, and he left for Vancouver Island to try his
fortunes here. He fell ill and they have sold or pawned everything of
value. The girl was not permitted to bid me good-bye when they left
Grass Valley. After their departure the discovery of which I have
informed you was made in the Maloney tunnel and as Mr. Forbes has
held on to a control of the stock in spite of his adversities, he is
now a rich man. I want to marry the girl. As I told you, I proposed
when I believed them to be ruined. It is now my duty to acquaint the
family with their good fortune and renew my suit. I think I ought
to do it to-day. Surely he will not repel me now when I take that
news to him, as he did on Christmas morning when I tendered him a
loan."
I told him I thought he should impart the good news at once and stand
the consequences. He left me for that purpose. As I walked into the
dining-room, I saw the dear "child" Bertrand leaning over the bar
quaffing a glass of absinthe. When he saw me he gulped down the drink
and said:
"Mamma would like to speak to you--she thought you would have
called."
I recalled the adventure with the eyes and hesitated. Then I decided
to go to room 12 on the second flat and see the thing out. A knock on
the door was responded to by a sweet "Come in." Mme. Fabre was seated
in an easy chair before a cheerful coal fire.
She arose at once and extended a plump and white hand. As we seated
ourselves she flashed those burning eyes upon me and said:
"I am so glad you have come! I do want your advice about my mining
venture. In the first place I may tell you that I have found the man
who owns the shares. He is here in Victoria with his family. He is
desperately poor. A hundred dollars if offered would be a great
temptation. I would give more--five hundred if necessary."
"The property you told me of the other day is valuable, is it not?" I
asked.
"Yes--that is to say, we think it is. You know that mining is the
most uncertain of all ventures. You may imagine you are rich one day
and the next you find yourself broke. It was so with my husband. He
came home one day and said, 'We are rich'; and the next he said, 'We
are poor.' This Maloney mine looks well, but who can be sure?
When I came here I thought that if I found the man with the shares I
could get them for a song. I may yet, but my dear child tells me that
he has seen here a man from Grass Valley named Barclay who is a
friend of that shareholder, and," she added, bitterly, "perhaps he
has got ahead of me. I must see the man at once and make him an
offer. What do you think?"
"I think you might as well save yourself further trouble. By this
time the shareholder has been apprised of his good fortune."
"What!" she exclaimed, springing to her feet and transfixing me with
her eyes. "Am I, then, too late?"
"Yes," I said, "you are too late. Forbes--that is the man's
name--knows of his good fortune and I do not believe he would sell
now at any price."
The woman gazed at me with the concentrated hate of a thousand
furies. Her great eyes no longer bore an expression of pleading
tenderness--they seemed to glint and expand and to shoot fierce
flames from their depths. They no longer charmed, they terrified me!
How I wished I had left the door open.
"Ah!" she screamed. "I see it all. I have been betrayed--sold out.
You have broken my confidence."
"I have done nothing of the kind. I have never repeated to a soul
what you told me."
"Then who could have done it?" she exclaimed, bursting into a fit of
hysterical tears. "I have come all this way to secure the property
and now find that I am too late. Shame! shame!"
"I will tell you. Barclay is really here. He knew of the strike as
soon as you did. He is in love with Miss Forbes and followed the
family here to tell them the good news. He is with the man at this
moment."
"Curse him!" she cried through her set teeth.
I left the woman plunged in a state of deep despair. I told her son
that he should go upstairs and attend to his mother, and proceeded to
the Forbes cottage. There I found the family in a state of great
excitement, for Barclay had told them all and already they were
arranging plans for returning to California and taking steps to
reopen the property.
Miss Forbes received me with great cordiality and the mother
announced that the girl and Barclay were engaged to be married, the
father having given his consent at once. The fond mother added that
she regretted very much that her daughter would have to abandon her
literary career which had begun so auspiciously through my discovery
of her latent talent.
I looked at Barclay before I replied. His face was as blank as a
piece of white paper. His eyes, however, danced in his head as if he
enjoyed my predicament.
"Yes," I finally said, "Mr. Barclay has much to be answerable for. I
shall lose a valued contributor. Perhaps," I ventured, "she will
still continue to write from California, for she possesses poetical
talent of a high order."
"I shall gladly do so," cried the young lady, "and without pay, too.
I shall never forget your goodness."
I heard a low chuckling sound behind me. It was Barclay swallowing a
laugh.
* * * * *
They went away in the course of a few days and we corresponded for a
long time; but Mrs. Barclay never fulfilled her promise to cultivate
the muse; nor in her several letters did she refer to her poetical
gift. Perhaps her husband told her of the pious fraud we practised
upon her on Christmas Day, 1860. But whether he did so or not,
I have taken the liberty, fifty-three years after the event, of
exposing the part I took in the deception and craving forgiveness for
my manifold sins and wickednesses on that occasion.
What became of the Russian princess with the pretty manners, the
white hands and the enchanting eyes and the sweet "child" Bertie?
They were back at Grass Valley almost as soon as Forbes and Barclay
got there, and from my correspondence I learned that they shared in
the prosperity of the Maloney claim, and that Mme. Fabre and her son
returned to Russia to live among her noble kin.