IX.

On my return to London, whither I went by mail direct, leaving the yacht

to follow after me, I drove straight to the Lathams' from Waterloo

Station. Mrs. Latham was out, the servant said, but Miss Irene was in

the drawing-room.

Irene was sitting at the window by herself, working quietly at a piece

of crewel work. She rose to meet me with her sweet simple little English

smile. I took her hand and pressed it like a brother.

"I got your telegram," she said simply. "Harry, I know she is dead; but

I know something terrible besides has happened. Tell me all. Don't be

afraid to speak of it before me. I am not afraid, for my part, to

listen."

I sat down on the sofa beside her, and told her all, without one word of

excuse or concealment, from our last parting to the day of Cesarine's

death in Haiti: and she held my hand and listened all the while with

breathless wonderment to my strange story.

At the end I said, "Irene, it has all come and gone between us like a

hideous nightmare. I cannot imagine even now how that terrible woman,

with all her power, could ever for one moment have bewitched me away

from you, my beloved, my queen, my own heart's darling."

Irene did not try to hush me or to stop me in any way. She merely sat

and looked at me steadily, and said nothing.

"It was fascination," I cried. "Infatuation, madness, delirium,

enchantment."

"It was worse than that, Harry," Irene answered, rising quietly. "It was

poison; it was witchcraft; it was sheer African devilry."

In a flash of thought, I remembered the cup of coffee at Seymour

Crescent, the curious sherry at Port-au-Prince, the cigarette with the

manchineal she had given me on the mountains, and I saw forthwith that

Irene with her woman's quickness had divined rightly. It was more than

infatuation; it was intoxication with African charms and West Indian

poisons.

"What a man does in such a woman's hands is not his own doing," Irene

said slowly. "He has no more control of himself in such circumstances

than if she had drugged him with chloroform or opium."

"Then you forgive me, Irene?"

"I have nothing to forgive, Harry. I am grieved for you. I am

frightened." Then bursting into tears, "My darling, my darling; I love

you, I love you!"

_LUCRETIA._

I will acknowledge that I was certainly a very young man in the year

'67; indeed, I was only just turned of twenty, and was inordinately

proud of a slight downy fringe on my upper lip, which I was pleased to

speak of as my moustache. Still, I was a sturdy young fellow enough, in

spite of my consumptive tendencies, and not given to groundless fears in

a general way; but I must allow that I was decidedly frightened by my

adventure in the Richmond Hotel on the Christmas Eve of that aforesaid

year of grace. It may be a foolish reminiscence, yet I dare say you

won't mind listening to it.

When I say the Richmond Hotel, you must not understand me to speak of

the Star and Garter in the town of that ilk situated in the county of

Surrey, England. The Richmond where I passed my uncomfortable Christmas

Eve stands on the banks of the pretty St. Francis River in Lower Canada.

I had gone out to the colony in the autumn of that year, to look after a

small property of my mother's near Kamouraska; and I originally intended

to spend the winter in Quebec. But as November and December wore away,

and the snow grew deeper and deeper upon the plains of Abraham, I became

gradually aware that a Canadian winter was not the best adapted tonic in

the world for a hearty young man with a slight hereditary

predisposition to consumption. I had seen enough of Arctic life in

Quebec during those two initial months to give me a good idea of its

pleasures and its drawbacks. I had steered by taboggan down the ice-cone

at the Falls of Montmorenci; I had driven a sleigh, _tete-a-tete_ with a

French Canadian belle, to a surprise picnic in a house at Sainte Anne; I

had skated, snow-shoed, and curled to my heart's content; and I had

caught my death of cold on the frozen St. Lawrence, not to mention such

minor misfortunes as getting my nose, ears, and feet frostbitten during

a driving party up the banks of the Chaudiere. So a few days before

Christmas, I determined to strike south. I would go for a tour through

Virginia and the Carolinas, to escape the cold weather, waiting for the

return of the summer sun to catch a glimpse of Niagara and the great

lakes.

For this purpose I must first go to Montreal; and, that being the case,

what could be more convenient than to spend Christmas Day itself with

the rector at Richmond, to whom I had letters of introduction, his wife

being in fact a first cousin of my mother's? Richmond lies half-way on

the Grand Trunk line between Quebec and Montreal, and it would be more

pleasant, by breaking my journey there, to eat my turkey and

plum-pudding in a friend's family than in that somewhat cheerless hotel,

the Dominion Hall. So off I started from the Point Levy station, at four

o'clock on the twenty-fourth of December, hoping to arrive at my

journey's end about one o'clock on Christmas morning.

Now, those were the days, just after the great American civil war, when

gold was almost unknown either in the States or Canada, and everybody

used greasy dollar notes of uncertain and purely local value. Hence I

was compelled to take the money for expenses on my projected tour in the

only form of specie which was available, that of solid silver. A hundred

and fifty pounds in silver dollars amounts to a larger bulk and a

heavier weight than you would suppose; and I thought it safer to carry

the sum in my own hands, loosely bundled into a large leather reticule.

_Hinc illoe lacrimoe_:--that was the real cause of my night's

adventure and of the present story.

When I got into the long open American railway-carriage, with its

comfortable stove and warm foot-bricks, I found only one seat vacant,

and that was a red velvet sofa, opposite to another occupied by a girl

of singular beauty. I can remember to this day exactly how she was

dressed. I dare say my lady readers will think it horribly old-fashioned

at the present time, but it was the very latest and most enchanting

style in the year '67. On her head was a coquettish little cheese-plate

bonnet, bound round with one of those warm, soft, fleecy woollen veils

or head-wraps which Canadian girls know as Nubias. Her dress was a short

winter walking costume of the period, trimmed with fur, and vandyked at

the bottom so as to show a glimpse of the quilted down petticoat

underneath. Her little high-heeled boots, displayed by the short

costume, were buttoned far above the ankle, and bound with fur to match

the dress; while a tiny tassel at the side added just a suspicion of

Parisian coquetry. Her cloak was lined with sable, or what seemed so to

my undiscriminating eyes; and her rug was a splendid piece of wolverine

skins. As to her eyes, her lips, her figure, I had rather not attempt

them. I can manage clothes, but not goddesses. Altogether, quite a dream

of Canadian beauty, not devoid of that indefinable grace which goes only

with the French blood.

I was not bold in '67, and I would have preferred to take any other seat

rather than face this divine apparition; but there was no help for it,

since all the others were filled: so I sat down a little sheepishly, I

dare say. Almost before we were well out of the station we had got into

a conversation, and it was she who began it.

"You are an Englishman, I think?" she said, looking at me with a frank

and pleasant smile.

"Yes," I answered, colouring, though why I should have been ashamed of

my nationality for that solitary moment of my life I cannot

imagine,--unless, perhaps, because _she_ was a Canadian; "but how on

earth did you discover it?"

"You would have been more warmly wrapped up if you had lived long in

Canada," she replied. "In spite of our stoves and hot bricks, you'll

find yourself very cold before you get to your journey's end."

"Yes," I said; "I suppose it's rather chilly late at night in these big

cars."

"Dreadfully; oh, quite terribly. You ought to have a rug, you really

ought. Won't you let me lend you one? I have another under the seat

here."

"But you brought that for yourself," I interposed. "You will want it

by-and-by, when it gets a little colder."

"Oh no, I shan't. This is warm enough for me; it's wolverine. You have a

mother?"

What an extraordinary question, I thought, and what an unusually

friendly girl! Was she really quite as simple-minded as she seemed, or

could she be the "designing woman" of the novels? Yes, I admitted to her

cautiously that I possessed a maternal parent, who was at that moment

safely drinking her tea in a terrace at South Kensington.

"_I_ have none," she said, with an emphasis on the personal pronoun, and

a sort of appealing look in her big eyes. "But you should take care of

yourself, for her sake. You really _must_ take my rug. _Hundreds_, oh,

_thousands_ of young Englishmen come out here, and kill themselves their

first winter by imprudence."

Thus adjured, I accepted the rug with many thanks and apologies, and

wrapped myself warmly up in the corner, with a splendid view of my

_vis-a-vis_.

Exactly at that moment, the ticket collector came round upon his

official tour. Now, on American and Canadian railways, you do not take

your ticket beforehand, but pay your fare to the collector, who walks up

and down through the open cars from end to end, between every station. I

lifted up my bag of silver, which lay on the seat beside me, and

imprudently opened it to take out a few dollars full in sight of my

enchanting neighbour. I saw her look with unaffected curiosity at the

heap of coin within, and I was proud at being able to give such an

unequivocal proof of my high respectability--for what better guarantee

of all the noblest moral qualities can any man produce all the world

over than a bag of dollars?

"What a lot of money!" she said, as the collector passed on. "What can

you want with it all in coin?"

"I'm going on a tour in the Southern States," I confided in reply, "and

I thought it better to take specie." (I was very proud ten or twelve

years ago of that word _specie_.)

"And I suppose those are your initials on the reticule? What a pretty

monogram! Your mother gave you that for a birthday present."

"You must be a conjurer or a clairvoyant," I said, smiling. "So she

did;" and I added that the initials represented my humble patronymic and

baptismal designations.

"My name's Lucretia," said my neighbour artlessly, as a child might have

said it, without a word as to surname or qualifying circumstances; and

from that moment she became to me simply Lucretia. I think of her as

Lucretia to the present day. As she spoke, she pointed to the word

engraved in tiny letters on her pretty silver locket.

I suppose she thought my confidence required a little more confidence in

return, for after a slight pause she repeated once more, "My name's

Lucretia, and I live at Richmond."

"Richmond!" I cried. "Why, that's just where I'm going. Do you know the

rector?"

"Mr. Pritchard? Oh yes, intimately. He's our greatest friend. Are you

going to stop with him?"

"For a day or two at least, on my way to Montreal. Mrs. Pritchard is my

mother's cousin."

"How delightful! Then we may consider ourselves acquaintances. But you

don't mean to knock them up to-night? They'll all be in bed long before

one o'clock."

"No, I haven't even written to tell them I was coming," I answered.

"They gave me a general invitation, and said I might drop in whenever I

pleased."

"Then you must stop at the hotel to-night. I'm going there myself. My

people keep the hotel."

Was it possible! I was thunderstruck. I had pictured Lucretia to myself

as at least a countess of the _ancien regime_, a few of whom still

linger on in Montreal and elsewhere. Her locket, her rugs, her eyes, her

chiselled features, all of them seemed to me redolent of the old French

_noblesse_. And here it turned out that this living angel was only the

daughter of an inn-keeper! But in that primitive and pleasant Canadian

society such things, I thought, can easily be. No doubt she is the

petted child of the house, the one heiress of the old man's savings; and

after spending a winter holiday among the gaieties of Quebec, she is now

returning to pass the Christmas season with her own family. I will not

conceal the fact that I had already fallen over head and ears in love

with Lucretia at first sight, and that frank avowal made me love her all

the more. Besides, these Canadian hotel-keepers are often very rich; and

was not her manner perfect, and was she not an intimate friend of the

rector and his wife? All these things showed at least that she was

accustomed to refined society. I caught myself already speculating as to

what my mother would think of such a match.

In five minutes it was all arranged about the hotel, and I had got into

the midst of a swimming conversation with Lucretia. She told me about

herself and her past; how she had been educated at a convent in

Montreal, and loved the nuns, oh so dearly, though she was a Protestant

herself, and only French on her mother's side. (This, I thought, was

well, as a safeguard against parental prejudice.) She told me all the

gossip of Richmond, and whom I should meet at the rector's, and what a

dull little town it was. But Quebec was delightful, and Montreal--oh, if

she could only live in Montreal, it would be perfect bliss. And so I

thought myself, if only Lucretia would live there with me; but I

prudently refrained from saying so, as I thought it rather premature. Or

perhaps I blushed and stammered too much to get the words out. "Had she

ever been in Europe?" No, never, but she would so like it. "Ah, it would

be delightful to spend a month or two in Paris," I suggested, with

internal pictures of a honeymoon floating through my brain. "Yes, that

would be most enjoyable," she answered. Altogether, Lucretia and I kept

chatting uninterruptedly the whole way to Richmond, and the other

passengers must have voted us most unconscionable bores; for they

evidently could not sleep by reason of our incessant talking. _We_ did

not sleep, nor wish to sleep. And I am bound to say that a more frankly

enchanting or seemingly guileless girl than Lucretia I have never met

from that day to this.

At last we reached Richmond Depot (as the Canadians call the stations),

very cold and tired externally, but lively enough as regards the

internal fires. We got out, and looked after our luggage. A sleepy

porter promised to bring it next morning to the hotel. There were no

sleighs in waiting--Richmond is too much of a country station for

that--so I took my reticule in my hand, threw Lucretia's rug across her

shoulders, and proceeded to walk with her to the hotel.

Now, the "Depot" is in a suburb known as Melbourne, while Richmond

itself lies on the other side of the river St. Francis, here crossed by

a long covered bridge, a sort of rough wooden counterpart of the famous

one at Lucerne. As we passed out into the cold night, it was snowing

heavily, and the frost was very bitter. Lucretia took my arm without a

word of prelude, as naturally as if she were my sister, and guided me

through the snow-covered path to the bridge. When we got under the

shelter of the wooden covering, we had to pass through the long dark

gallery, as black as night, heading only for the dim square of moonlight

at the other end. But Lucretia walked and chatted on as unconcernedly as

if she had always been in the habit of traversing that lonely

tunnel-like bridge with a total stranger every evening of her life. I

confess I was surprised. I fancied a prim English girl in a similar

situation, and I began to wonder whether all this artlessness was really

as genuine as it looked.

At the opposite end of the bridge we emerged upon a street of wooden

frame houses. In one of them only was there a light. "That's the hotel!"

said Lucretia, nodding towards it, and again I suffered a thrill of

disappointment. I had pictured to myself a great solid building like the

St. Lawrence Hall at Montreal, forgetting that Richmond was a mere

country village; and here I found a bit of a frame cottage as the whole

domain of Lucretia's supposed father. It was too awful!

We reached the door and entered. Fresh surprises were in store for me.

The passage led into a bar, where half-a-dozen French Canadians were

sitting with bottles and glasses, playing some game of cards. One rather

rough-looking young man jumped up in astonishment as we entered, and

exclaimed, "Why, Lucretia, we didn't expect you for another hour. I

meant to take the sleigh for you." I could have knocked him down for

calling her by her Christian name, but the conviction flashed upon me

that this was Lucretia's brother. He glanced up at the big Yankee clock

on the mantelpiece, which pointed to a quarter past twelve, then pulled

out his watch and whistled. "Stopped three quarters of an hour ago, by

Jingo," was his comment. "Why, I forgot to wind it up. Upon my word,

Lucretia, I'm awfully sorry. But who is the gentleman?"

"A friend of the Pritchards, Tom dear, who wants a bed here to-night. I

couldn't imagine why the sleigh didn't come for me. It's so unlike you

not to remember it." And she gave him a look to melt adamant.

Tom was profuse in his apologies, and made it quite clear that his

intentions at least had been most excellent; besides, he kissed Lucretia

with so much brotherly tenderness that I relented of my desire to knock

him down. Then brother and sister retired for a while, apparently to see

after my bedroom, and I was left alone in the bar.

I cannot say I liked the look of it. The men were drinking whiskey and

playing _ecarte_--two bad things, I thought in my twenty-year-old

propriety. My dear mother hated gambling, which hatred she had instilled

into my youthful mind, and this was evidently a backwoods

gambling-house. Moreover, I carried a bag of silver coin, quite large

enough to make it well worth while, to rob me. The appearances were

clearly against Lucretia's home; but surely Lucretia herself was a

guarantee for anything.

Presently Tom returned, and told me my room was ready. I followed him up

the stairs with a beating heart and a heavy reticule. At the top of the

landing Lucretia stood smiling, my candle in her hand, and showed me

into the room. Tom and she looked around to see that all was

comfortable, and then they both shook hands with me, which certainly

seemed a curious thing for an inn-keeper and his sister. As soon as they

were gone, I began to look about me and consider the situation. The room

had two doors, but the key was gone from both. I opened one towards the

passage, but found no key outside; the other, which probably

communicated with a neighbouring bedroom, was locked from the opposite

side. Moreover, there had once been a common bolt on this second door,

but it had been removed. I looked close at the screw-holes, and was sure

they were quite fresh. Could the bolt have been taken off while I was

waiting in the bar? All at once it flashed upon my mind that I had been

imprudently confiding in my disclosures to Lucretia. I had told her that

I carried a hundred and fifty pounds in coin, an easy thing to rob and a

difficult thing to identify. She had heard that nobody was aware of my

presence in Richmond, except herself and her brother. I had not written

to tell the Pritchards I was coming, and she knew that I had not told

any one of my whereabouts, because I did not decide where I should go

until I talked with her about the matter. No one in Canada would miss

me. If these people chose to murder me for my money (and inn-keepers

often murder their guests, I thought), nobody would think of inquiring

or know where to inquire for me. Weeks would elapse before my mother

wrote from England to ask my whereabouts, and by that time all traces

might well be lost. I left Quebec only telling the people at my hotel

that I was going to Montreal. Then I thought of Lucretia's eagerness to

get into conversation, her observation about my money, her suggestion

that I should come to the Richmond Hotel. And how could she, a small

inn-keeper's daughter, afford to get all those fine furs and lockets by

fair means? Did she really know the Pritchards, or was it likely,

considering her position? All these things came across me in a moment.

What a fool I had been ever to think of trusting such a girl!

I got up and walked about the room. It was evidently Lucretia's own

bedroom; "part of the decoy," said I to myself sapiently. But could so

beautiful a girl really hurt one? A piece of music was lying on the

dressing-table. I took it up and looked at it casually. Gracious

heavens! it was a song from "Lucrezia Borgia!" Her very name betrayed

her! She too was a Lucretia. I walked over to the mantelpiece. A little

ivory miniature hung above the centre: I gave it a glance as I passed.

Incredible! It was the Beatrice Cenci! Talk of beautiful women! Why,

they poison one, they stab one, they burn one alive, with a smile on

their lips. Lucretia must have a taste for murderesses. Evidently she is

a connoisseur.

At least, thought I, I shall sell my life dearly. I could not go to bed;

but I pulled the bedstead over against one of the doors--the locked

one--and I laid the mattress down in front of the other. Then I lay down

on the mattress, my money-bag under my head, and put the poker

conveniently by my side. If they came to rob and murder me, they should

at least have a broken head to account for next day. But I soon got

tired of this defensive attitude, and reflected that, if I must lie

awake all night, I might as well have something to read. So I went over

to the little book-case and took down the first book which came to hand.

It bore on the outside the title "OEuvres de Victor Hugo. Tome I'er.

Theatre." "This, at any rate," said I to myself, "will be light and

interesting." I returned to my mattress, opened the volume, and began to

read _Le Roi s'amuse_.

I had never before dipped into that terrible drama, and I devoured it

with a horrid avidity. I read how Triboulet bribed the gipsy to murder

the king; how the gipsy's sister beguiled him into the hut; how the plot

was matured; and how the sack containing the corpse was delivered over

to Triboulet. It was an awful play to read on such a night and in such a

place, with the wind howling round the corners and the snow gathering

deeply upon the window-panes. I was in a considerable state of fright

when I began it: I was in an agony of terror before I had got half-way

through. Now and then I heard footsteps on the stairs: again I could

distinguish two voices, one a woman's, whispering outside the door; a

little later, the other door was very slightly opened and then pushed

back again stealthily by a man's hand. Still I read on. At last, just as

I reached the point where Triboulet is about to throw the corpse into

the river, my candle, a mere end, began to sputter in its socket, and

after a few ineffectual flickers suddenly went out, leaving me in the

dark till morning.

I lay down once more, trembling but wearied out. A few minutes later the

voices came again. The further door was opened a second time, and I saw

dimly a pair of eyes (_not_, I felt sure, Lucretia's) peering in the

gloom, and reflecting the light from the snow on the window. A man's

voice said huskily in an undertone, "It's all right now;" and then there

was a silence. I knew they were coming to murder me. I clutched the

poker firmly, stood on guard over the dollars, and waited the assault.

The moment that intervened seemed like a lifetime.

A minute. Five minutes. A quarter of an hour. They are evidently trying

to take me off my guard. Perhaps they saw the poker; in any case, they

must have felt the bedstead against the door. That would show them that

I expected them. I held my watch to my ear and counted the seconds, then

the minutes, then the hours. When the candle went out it was three

o'clock. I counted up till about half-past five.

After that I must have fallen asleep from very weariness. My head glided

back upon the reticule, and I dozed uneasily until morning. Every now

and then I started in my sleep, but the murderers hung back. When I

awoke it was eight o'clock, and the dollars were still safe under my

head. I rose wearily, washed myself, and arranged the tumbled clothes in

which I had slept, for my portmanteau had not yet arrived from the

Depot. Next, I put back the bed and mattress, and then I took the

dollars and went downstairs to the bar, hardly knowing whether to laugh

at my last night's terror, or to congratulate myself on my lucky escape

from a den of robbers. At the foot of the stairs, whom should I come

across but Lucretia herself!

In a moment the doubt was gone. She was enchanting. Quite a different

style of dress, but equally lovely and suitable. A long figured gown of

some fine woollen material, giving very nearly the effect of a plain

neat print, and made quite simply to fit her perfect little figure. A

plain linen collar, and a quiet silver brooch. Hair tied in a single

broad knot above the head, instead of yesterday's chignon and

cheese-plate. Altogether, a model winter morning costume for a cold

climate. And as she advanced frankly, holding out her hand with a smile,

I could have cut my own throat with a pocket-knife as a merited

punishment for daring to distrust her. Such is human nature at the ripe

age of twenty!

"We were so afraid you didn't sleep, Tom and I," she said with a little

tone of anxiety; "we saw a light in your room till so very late, and Tom

opened the door a wee bit once or twice to see if you were sleeping; but

he said you seemed to have pulled the mattress on the floor. I _do_ hope

you weren't ill."

What on earth could I answer? Dare I tell this angel how I had suspected

her? Impossible! "Well," I stammered out, colouring up to my eyes, "I

_was_ rather over-tired, and couldn't get to rest, so I put the candle

on a chair, took a book, and lay on the floor so as to have a light to

read by. But I slept very well after the candle went out, thank you."

"There were none but French books in the room, though," she said

quickly: "perhaps you read French?"

"I read _Le Roi s'amuse_, or part of it," said I.

"Oh, what a dreadful play to read on Christmas Eve!" cried Lucretia,

with a little deprecating gesture. "But you must come and have your

breakfast."

I followed her into the dining-room, a pretty little bright-looking

room behind the bar. Frightened as I was during the night, I could not

fail to notice how tastefully the bedroom was furnished; but this little

_salle-a-manger_ was far prettier. The paper, the carpet, the furniture,

were all models of what cheap and simple cottage decorations ought to

be. They breathed of Lucretia. The Montreal nuns had evidently taught

her what "art at home" meant. The table was laid, and the white

table-cloth, with its bright silver and sprays of evergreen in the vase,

looked delightfully appetising. I began to think I might manage a

breakfast after all.

"How pretty all your things are!" I said to Lucretia.

"Do you think so?" she answered. "I chose them, and I laid the table."

I looked surprised; but in a moment more I was fairly overwhelmed when

Lucretia left the room for a minute, and then returned carrying a tray

covered with dishes. These she rapidly and dexterously placed upon the

table, and then asked me to take my seat.

"But," said I, hesitating, "am I to understand.... You don't mean to

say.... Are you ... going ... to _wait upon me_?"

Lucretia's face was one smile of innocent amusement from her white

little forehead to her chiselled little chin. "Why, yes," she answered,

laughing, "of course I am. I always wait upon our guests when I'm at

home. And I cooked these salmon cutlets, which I'm sure you'll find nice

if you only try them while they're hot." With which recommendation she

uncovered all the dishes, and displayed a breakfast that might have

tempted St. Anthony. Not being St. Anthony, I can do Lucretia's

breakfast the justice to say that I ate it with unfeigned heartiness.

So my princess was, after all, the domestic manager and assistant cook

of a small country inn! Not a countess, not even a murderess (which is

at least romantic), but only a prosaic housekeeper! Yet she _was_ a

princess for all that. Did she not read Victor Hugo, and play "Lucrezia

Borgia," and spread her own refinement over the village tavern? In no

other country could you find such a strange mixture of culture and

simplicity; but it was new, it was interesting, and it was piquant.

Lucretia in her morning dress officiously insisting upon offering me the

buckwheat pancakes with her own white hands was Lucretia still, and I

fell deeper in love than ever.

After breakfast came a serious difficulty. I must go to the Pritchards,

but before I went, I must pay. Yet, how was I to ask for my bill? I

_couldn't_ demand it of Lucretia. So I sat a while ruminating, and at

last I said, "I wonder how people do when they want to leave this

house."

"Why," said Lucretia, promptly, "they order the sleigh."

"Yes," I answered sheepishly, "no doubt. But how do they manage about

paying?"

Lucretia smiled. She was so absolutely transparent, and so accustomed to

her simple way of doing business, that I suppose she did not comprehend

my difficulty. "They ask _me_, of course, and I tell them what they owe.

You owe us half-a-dollar."

Half-a-dollar--two shillings sterling--for a night of romance and

terror, a bed and bedroom, a regal breakfast, and--Lucretia to wait upon

one! It was _too_ ridiculous. And these were the good simple Canadian

villagers whom I had suspected of wishing to rob and murder me! I never

felt so ashamed of my own stupidity in the whole course of my life.

I must pay it somehow, I supposed, but I could not bear to hand over two

shilling pieces into Lucretia's outstretched palm. It was desecration,

it was sheer sacrilege. But Lucretia took the half-dollar with the

utmost calmness, and went out to order the sleigh.

I drove to the rector's, after saying good-bye to Lucretia, with a

clear determination that before I left Richmond she should have

consented to become my wife. Of course there were social differences,

but those would be forgotten in South Kensington, and nobody need ever

know what Lucretia had been in Canada. Besides, she was fit to shine in

the society of duchesses--a society into which I cannot honestly pretend

that I habitually penetrate.

The rector and his wife gave me a hearty welcome, and I found Mrs.

Pritchard a good motherly sort of body--just the right woman for helping

on a romantic love-match. So, in the course of the morning, as we walked

back from church, I managed to mention to her casually that a very nice

young woman had come down in the train with me from Quebec.

"You don't mean Lucretia?" cried good Mrs. Pritchard.

"Lucretia," I answered in a cold sort of way, "I think that _was_ her

name. In fact, I remember she told me so."

"Oh yes, everybody calls her Lucretia--indeed, she's hardly got any

other name. She's the dearest creature in the world, as simple as a

child, yet the most engaging and kind-hearted girl you ever met. She was

brought up by some nuns at Montreal, and being a very clever girl, with

a great deal of taste, she was their favourite pupil, and has turned out

a most cultivated person."

"Does she paint?" I asked, thinking of the Beatrice.

"Oh, beautifully. Her ivory miniatures always take prizes at the Toronto

Exhibition. And she plays and sings charmingly."

"Are they well off?"

"Very, for Canadians. Lucretia has money of her own, and they have a

good farm besides the hotel."

"She said she knew you very well," I ventured to suggest.

"Oh yes; in fact, she's coming here this evening. We have an early

dinner--you know our simple Canadian habits--and a few friends will drop

in to high tea after evening service. She and Tom will be among

them--you met Tom, of course?"

"I had the pleasure of making Tom's acquaintance at one o'clock this

morning," I answered. "But, excuse my asking it, isn't it a little odd

for you to mix with people in their position?"

The rector smiled and put in his word. "This is a democratic country,"

he said; "a mere farmer community, after all. We have little society in

Richmond, and are very glad to know such pleasant intelligent people as

Tom and Lucretia."

"But then, the _convenances_," I urged, secretly desiring to have my own

position strengthened. "When I got to the hotel last night, or rather

this morning, there were a lot of rough-looking hulking fellows drinking

whiskey and playing cards."

"Ah, I dare say. Old Picard, and young Le Patourel from Melbourne, and

the Post Office people sitting over a quiet game of _ecarte_ while they

waited for the last train. The English mail was in last night. As for

the whiskey, that's the custom of the country. We Canadians do nothing

without whiskey. A single glass of Morton's proof does nobody any harm."

And these were my robbers and gamblers? A party of peaceable farmers and

sleepy Post officials, sitting up with a sober glass of toddy and

beguiling the time with _ecarte_ for love, in expectation of Her

Majesty's mails. I shall never again go to bed with a poker by my side

as long as I live.

About seven o'clock our friends came in. Lucretia was once more

charming; this time in a long evening dress, a peach-coloured silk with

square-cut boddice, and a little lace cap on her black hair. I dare say

I saw almost the full extent of her wardrobe in those three changes; but

the impression she produced upon me was still that of boundless wealth.

However, as she had money of her own, I no longer wondered at the

richness of her toilette, and I reflected that a comfortable little

settlement might help to outweigh any possible prejudice on my mother's

part.

Lucretia was the soul of the evening. She talked, she flirted innocently

with every man in the room (myself included), she played divinely, and

she sang that very song from "Lucrezia Borgia" in a rich contralto

voice. As she rose at last from the piano, I could contain myself no

longer. I must find some opportunity of proposing to her there and then.

I edged my way to the little group where she was standing, flushed with

the compliments on her song, talking to our hostess near the piano. As I

approached from behind, I could hear that they were speaking about me,

and I caught a few words distinctly. I paused to listen. It was very

wrong, but twenty is an impulsive age.

"Oh, a very nice young man indeed," Lucretia was saying; "and we had a

most enjoyable journey down. He talked so simply, and seemed such an

innocent boy, so I took quite a fancy to him." (My heart beat about two

hundred pulsations to the minute.) "Such a clever, intelligent talker

too, full of wide English views and interests, so different from our

narrow provincial Canadian lads." (Oh, Lucretia, I feel sure of you now.

Love at first sight on both sides, evidently!) "And then he spoke to me

so nicely about his mother. I was quite grieved to think he should be

travelling alone on Christmas Eve, and so pleased when I heard he was to

spend his Christmas with you, dear. I thought what I should have felt

if----"