So the days wore on till August. One morning Cyril Harkness lay in wait
for Eliza. It was early; none of the boarders at the hotel were down
yet. Eliza, who was always about in very good time, found him in the
corridor on the first floor. He did not often attempt to speak to her
now.
"Say," said he, gloomily, "come into my office. I've something to tell."
The gloom of his appearance, so unusual to him, gave her a presage of
misfortune. She followed him into the room of dental appliances.
He told her to sit down, and she did so. She sat on a stiff sofa against
the wall. He stood with one elbow on the back of the adjustable chair.
Behind him hung a green rep curtain, which screened a table at which he
did mechanical work. They were a handsome pair. The summer morning
filled the room with light, and revealed no flaw in their young
comeliness.
"Look here! It's January, February, March"--he went on enumerating the
months till he came to August--"that I've been hanging on here for no
other earthly reason than to inspire in you the admiration for me that
rises in me for you quite spontaneous."
"Is that all you have to say?"
"Isn't that enough--eight months out of a young man's life?"
"It's not enough to make me waste my time at this hour in the morning."
"Well, it's _not_ all, but it's what I'm going to say first; so you'll
have to listen to it for my good before you listen to the other for your
own. I've done all I could, Miss White, to win your affection."
He paused, looking at her, but she did not even look at him. She did
appear frightened, and, perceiving this, he took a tone more gentle and
pliant.
"I can't think why you won't keep company with me. I'm a real lovable
young man, if you'd only look at the thing fairly."
He had plenty of humour in him, but he did not seem to perceive the
humour of acting as showman to himself. He was evidently sincere.
"Why, now, one of my most lovable qualities is just that when I do
attach myself I find it awful hard to pull loose again. Now, that's just
what you don't like in me; but if you come to think of it, it's a real
nice characteristic. And then, again, I'm not cranky; I'm real amiable;
and you can't find a much nicer looking fellow than me. You'll be sorry,
you may believe, if you don't cast a more favourable eye toward me."
She did not reply, so he continued urging. "If it's because you're stuck
up, it must have been those poor English Rexfords put it into your head,
for you couldn't have had such ideas before you came here. Now, if
that's the barrier between us, I can tell you it needn't stand, for I
could have one of those two pretty young ladies of theirs quick as not.
If I said 'Come, my dear, let's go off by train and get married, and ask
your father's blessing after,' she'd come."
"How dare you tell me such a falsehood!" Eliza rose magnificently.
"Oh," said he, "I meet them occasionally."
She looked at him in utter disdain. She did not believe him; it was only
a ruse to attract her.
"How do you know," she asked fiercely, "what ideas I could have had or
not before I went to the Rexfords?"
"That's a part of what I was going to say next"--she sat down
again--"but I don't _want_ to hurt you, mind. I'd make it real easy for
you if you'd let me cherish you."
"What have you to say?"
"Just this--that it'll all have to come out some time; you know to what
I allude."
She did not look as if she knew.
"Upon my word!" he ejaculated admiringly, "you do beat all."
"Well, what are you talking of?" she asked.
"In this world or the next, all you've done will be made public, you
know," he replied, not without tone of menace. "But what I want to speak
about now is Father Cameron. I've got him here, and I've never regretted
the bread and shelter I give him, for he's a real nice old gentleman;
but I can't help him going to people's houses and putting ideas into
their heads--no more than the wind, I can't keep him. He's crazed, poor
old gentleman, that's what he is."
"You ought never to have brought him here."
"_You'd_ rather he'd been stoned in Quebec streets?" He looked at her
steadily. "It's because they all more than half believe that he got his
ideas when dead, and then came to life again, that he gets into harm. If
it wasn't for that tale against him he'd not have been hurt in Quebec,
and he'd not be believed by the folks here."
"I thought you believed that too."
He gave her a peculiar smile. "If you was to say right out now in public
that you knew he wasn't the man they take him for, but only a poor
maniac who don't know who he is himself, you'd put an end to the most
part of his influence."
"What do I know about it?" she asked scornfully; but, in haste to
divert him from an answer, she went on, "I don't see that he does any
harm, any way. You say yourself he's as good as can be."
"So he is, poor gentleman; but he's mad, and getting madder. I don't
know exactly what's brewing, but I tell you this, there's going to be
trouble of some sort before long."
"What sort?"
"Well, for one thing, drunken Job is calling out in the rum-hole that
he'll kill his wife if he finds her up to any more religious nonsense;
and she is up to something of that sort, and he's quite able to do it,
too. I heard him beating her the other night."
Eliza shuddered.
"I'm a kind-hearted fellow, Miss White," he went on, with feeling in his
voice. "I can't bear to feel that there's something hanging over the
heads of people like her--more than one of them perhaps--and that
they're being led astray when they might be walking straight on after
their daily avocations."
"But what can they be going to do?" she asked incredulously, but with
curious anxiety.
"Blest if I know! but I've heard that old man a-praying about what he
called 'the coming of the Lord,' and talking about having visions of
'the day and the month,' till I've gone a'most distracted, for otherwise
he does pray so beautiful it reminds me of my mother. He's talking of
'those poor sheep in the wilderness,' and 'leading them' to something.
He's mad, and there's a dozen of them ready to do any mad thing he
says."
"You ought to go and tell the ministers--tell the men of the town."
"Not I--nice fool I'd look! What in this world have I to accuse him of,
except what I've heard him praying about? I've done myself harm enough
by having him here."
"What do you want me to do then?"
"Whatever you like; I've told you the truth. There was a carter at
Turrifs drunk himself to death because of this unfortunate Mr. Cameron's
rising again--that's one murder; and there'll be another."
With that he turned on his heel and left her in his own room. He only
turned once to look in at the door again. "If _you're_ in any trouble,
I'm real soft-hearted, Eliza; I'll be real good to you, though you've
been crusty to me."
If she was in trouble then, she did not show it to him.