A Rich Man's Relatives Volume I Part 8

"Ze dollars?" answered Paul. "You give! I pay."

"It's all right, Paul! The account, I mean. But you must pay your own bills, you know--defend your own family. She's your squaw, not mine."

Paul shot a fiery glance from under his gathered brows. "Zis my squaw sister! Done for you!--O.K? Squaw get dollars for fetch back papoose.

Easy fetch back."

"What do you mean, Paul? What will be so easy for you to fetch back?"

said Ralph wheeling round in his chair.

"Fetch papoose. Got no dollars for pay notaire."

"Man alive! Did I not pay you as I promised?"

"Fifty dollars! O.K! Squaw take papoose for pay. Notaire want sixty-five. Squaw bring back papoose. Get two hundred dollars. Pay notaire. O.K.!"

"Come now, Paul!" cried Ralph, not over well pleased, yet with a business man's pleasure in a bit of smartness, even when it told against himself. "You've euchred me, I allow it. But don't draw the string too tight in case it breaks. What do you want?"

"Two hundred dollars," said Paul.

"But the bill of costs is only sixty-five."

"How long live squaw and papoose on hundred dollars?"

"You leave thirty-five out of the reckoning. However, we will suppose that goes to you for your smartness. Well! I'm busy, Paul, I'll give you your two hundred dollars at once to get you away. Not, mind you, that I couldn't fight you off, if I cared to; but I have other things to think of."

"And for Fidele and the papoose?"

"That must suffice them for the present. When it is all spent--we will see--" and so Ralph got rid of his importunate visitor for the present, though not without misgiving.

CHAPTER IX.

AT SAINT EUPHRASE.

Saint Euphrase is a village of the usual Lower Canada type, with its big high-shouldered stone church, made stately in front by square towers capped with tin belfries, on which the light twinkles as the bell tinkles to call the people to ma.s.s. The village, like a brood of chickens, nestles around, a cl.u.s.ter of little low-browed wooden houses, with pillared porches and verandahs, the poorer ones roofed with weather-stained s.h.i.+ngles, the prosperous with red plates or tin; pierced here and there with little cas.e.m.e.nts, s.h.i.+ning yellow in the afternoon sun, like inquisitive eyes prying into their neighbours'

enclosures. A few tall poplars--sign of a French-speaking settlement--rise here and there above the roofs, and around are fields divided by picturesquely ill-kept fences, in whose corners the wild plum or the slippery elm entwined with brambles form belts of growth which might be hedges, grateful to the eye after the trim bald farming of the West. A broad river runs by at about a stone-cast's distance, but the place used to be too small to have traffic by water; and save to the boatman who got his living by ferrying people across the river, was but a desert barrier to the villagers, cutting them off from the West, whither Transatlantic prosperity ever tends--lonely waters down which a few rafts of timber pa.s.sed in the Spring, and peopled only by the duck and teal frequenting the reedy sh.o.r.es of an island down stream, a bank raised by opposing currents and gathered out of the flood by a thicket of ash and willow. The fields sloping upwards on the other three sides, end in bush, which would cover the general level of the country but for the farms, with their houses set by the roadsides and their narrow strips of land running for a mile or more back into the distance. Of late a good many country houses have been built by Montrealers desiring something less suburban than their own island affords. There is a railway, and a few modern shops; and gaily-dressed townspeople may be seen driving fast horses or playing lawn tennis in the cool of the afternoon; but these are recent innovations on the old time when M. le Cure in his long skirts walked down the street alone among the bowing _habitants_, smiling as he went and bestowing his blessing.

"General" Stanley was the earliest outsider to build himself a home in the sequestered neighbourhood, and not many as yet had followed his example, at the time we speak of. If it had been dull in his lifetime, his daughters found it doubly so after his death, and but for the horrors of moving they would have migrated back to the city. As we grow older it becomes ever more painful to root up formed habits, while new ones are less and less able to take their place; and Miss Stanley, at least, acknowledged that she had reached the age when change grows irksome. Therefore, while they amused themselves by talking of removal, and each Spring promised themselves the comforts of town life for the succeeding Winter, the years slid by and they found themselves still where they were. The years too made havoc among their circle of friends, and made the city seem a less desirable residence, just as the week works changes in our gardens, scarce noticeable from day to day, but so complete before the month is out.

People die and marry and move away, and the ladies' shopping expeditions to Montreal grew briefer and less frequent as time went on, till from lasting over weeks and ending in tender partings from regretful friends, they dwindled into excursions accomplished between a morning and an afternoon. Soon, too, there came into the neighbourhood a sprinkling of English-speaking settlers, which, productive in the end of life and spirit, was like yeast turbid and disturbing at first, when dropped into that sweet but stagnant reservoir of old-world manners; and soon there was on the outskirts of the village a Protestant mission, a meek little clap-boarded structure, without spire or bell, but sufficient for the needs of its few wors.h.i.+ppers, and enough to rouse the watchfulnesss of the cure and the jealous wrath of his flock. However, the parson proved to be a peace-loving man, and the zeal which at first threatened to become flagrant, simmered down for want of provocation, into armed neutrality, if not into more neighbourly feelings. These changes brought the ladies at least the feeling of a less complete isolation than they had experienced at first, and eventually, as the grade of new-comers improved, a little society; while the earlier polemical excitement pa.s.sed them by, they being persons content to say their own prayers in their own fas.h.i.+on, and to leave their neighbours to do likewise.

"Oh, Tookey!" said Miss Matilda, when the sisters met at breakfast on the morning after the arrival of the baby, "the little darling is simply delightful! When I took her upstairs Smithers most obligingly offered to keep her through the night; but it looked so pretty lying fast asleep in my bed with nothing on but a large pocket handkerchief, that I really had not the heart to disturb it. We bathed it, you know, and you cannot think what a dear, soft, plump little morsel it looked in its bath; and it crowed--positively crowed and smiled to me myself, for I do not think it minded Smithers much, though it was she who did the bathing. I daresay her hands felt rough, you know, on its tender little skin. We laid it in my bed and covered it with a pocket-handkerchief--dear little morsel--while I went to look for something small enough to dress it in. I thought of the clothes for my immense wax doll I was so proud of once, and kept so long after I grew up; but alas! I gave that to my G.o.dchild, and apparently every rag of its wardrobe; I thought I might find a little s.h.i.+rt or a wrapper--I am certain they would have been quite large enough for this one--but Tilly Martindale seems to have got them every one. Is it not a pity?

But, as I was saying, we laid baby in the bed while I was looking for the things, and she just dropped asleep the moment Smithers laid her down. So I just sent Smithers off to bed, and lay down beside the dear little duck, and it has nestled in my arms all night, as soft as a ball of silk; and oh, Tookey! I don't think I ever slept as pleasantly before; and in the morning it woke me by stroking my cheeks with its soft little hands. Did you notice its hands? I never saw anything so lovely, with a crease round the wrist, a dimple at each knuckle, and pink little finger-tips like rosebuds."

"But what are we to do with the infant?" asked the practical Penelope.

"Do? The first thing to do is to give it some bread and milk! But I daresay Smither's has done that already. I should have liked to do it myself but was afraid to try. I remember so well how I hurt my kitten's mouth, trying to feed it with a teaspoon, and I would'nt make this little beauty cry for all the world. But I know what I will do. I have some cambric for pocket-handkerchiefs upstairs, I shall make it a chemise! Smithers will know how big to make it, or rather how little--the dear wee love!"

"Matilda, dearest, let us be sensible. The child must have a _parent_, and if _we_ can become attached to it so warmly in a few hours what must the feelings of that parent be to be deprived of her? Ought we not to endeavour to return the child?"

"If the parents valued it so highly why did they leave it here, without asking leave or saying a word? No! They forsook it! I shall always say so. Besides, how can we give it back, even if we would try?

How find the discreditable parents? And if we could, what a life we might be giving up the little lamb to!"

"It does not seem right, our keeping it."

"And whom, pray, would you give it up to? Would you give it to the village priest?--to be carried to some convent and brought up for a nun?--fasting, and scrubbing all her life long for the sisterhood?

Just look at the tiny hands, like little flowers, and the plump little person. Work and fasting, indeed! Not if _I_ can help it."

"But there is the parson. Naturally we would give it in charge to our own church."

"And how much better would that be? What could an old bachelor do, but make his housekeeper wrap it in a shawl, and carry it to the Protestant Orphan Home? A very good place you know--I have been through it--quite proper for children such as it is meant for--rough little squalling things, quite tough and hardy. They are cared for, and taught and brought up to service. A most useful inst.i.tution and I shall double my subscription, but it would be no home for _our_ little fairy. Why, it is a blossom! It would wither away in that rough place within a week. And better so, than the desecration of rearing it there! No, no! I shall keep it for my own, if it is not claimed. Of course if we knew its parents, and they were proper people, it would be wrong not to let them know; but even then I would pay them money to let me adopt it. And if they wanted to keep the child, why did they bring it here? It seems nonsense to think about the parents at all."

"I do not like the idea of keeping a stray baby whom n.o.body knows anything about, Tilly! We should ask advice, at any rate. I think I had better go over to Montreal and ask Mr. Jordan what we should do."

"And have yourself laughed at for a fussy old maid, saddled with a baby! You will make us a laughing stock to all our friends. Just think how ridiculous it sounds! Besides, what can he advise? I know quite well what he will say, and can save you your consultation fee. He will ask you to 'be seated' in his clients' chair--_I_ know, for I visited him several times about my steamboat shares, and it was always the same performance--then he lies back in his own chair and takes his foot upon his knee. After that he takes off his spectacles, wipes them with his handkerchief and puts them on again, rests his elbows on the chair arms, clears his voice and begins, ticking off the items of advice with the fingers of one hand upon those of the other. He makes it very clear, and it sounds most wise; but when you go away and think it over, you will find he has told you just what you might have told yourself, if you had only thought calmly and sensibly about it. There is no witchcraft in Mr. Jordan's advice. Perhaps that is why people say he is a sound lawyer. Remember, too, he is apt to divulge the secrets of her dear friends to his wife. She spoke to _me_ about my steamboat shares, I remember; and congratulated me upon selling at the right time. You know how dearly she loves a good story, and if your dilemma should strike her in an absurd light, she will soon have it known all over the town. Our dear Amelia has a very long tongue."

"I only want to do what is right," said Penelope, a little dismayed at the suggestion, "right to ourselves, and right to this baby. I feel for the little waif, Tilly, though I do not become rapturous like you."

"As to the baby, then, just think. It seems unlikely that it would have been laid on our verandah if its friends had wanted to keep it at home. Even if we could return it to them we could not make them keep it, or use it kindly; and there seem to be only three other ways of disposing of it--the Protestant Orphans' Home, the Grey Nunnery, or to adopt it ourselves. Now, suppose we were to do the last--I do not propose it, mind; but, after there seems no more likelihood of its being claimed, if we should--would it be nice to have our _protegee_ spoken of as a foundling, and n.o.body's child? Would it not tell against her when she grew up, and we took her into society with us, as of course we should if we reared her ourselves?"

"But, my dear, the child has not been twelve hours in the house yet, and to hear you, one would say you are already dreaming of bringing it up! I have known you all your life, Tilly, and I never heard you discuss at such length before; but what you say seems reasonable enough. It would _not_ be nice to have Amelia making fun of our perplexities, and yet there is no one else we can go to, whose advice we could trust in like Mr. Jordan's. For yourself, now, what do you think we should do?"

"I think we should do nothing! n.o.body can blame us for doing that. It is no affair of ours, and if only we are kind to the little one till a claimant appears, or till we see more plainly what we should do, we can get nothing but praise and thanks for our charity."

To do nothing is always an inviting course, in times of perplexity, especially when it is the interest of another rather than our own which is most deeply involved; we cannot then be blamed for doing the wrong thing, even if we have failed to do the right one. Time, too, has a way of winding up affairs left open, which is often more satisfactory than the half-wise efforts of meddlesome mortals. Miss Stanley accepted the invitation to inaction and let things take their course.

That day was a royal one for Miss Matilda. Instead of loitering between her flowers and her sofa, fanning herself and dropping asleep, a new interest had come into her life; and such a pretty one! It crept and rolled and tumbled about on the matting at her feet; while she sat at her worktable in the bay window with scissors and cambric, sewing strange garments, and p.r.i.c.king her fingers a good deal, for the needle was an unfamiliar implement in her hands; but she went bravely on with unflagging industry, stopping only to get fresh bread and milk, when she imagined the little one must be hungry, or to find a pillow when it wanted to sleep.

The newspapers came in the afternoon as usual, but she had no leisure to waste on them; the plaything at her feet was far too engrossing.

Even Penelope only glanced over the column of "Born," "Died" and "Married"--there is no "Divorced" in a Canadian paper, as in American ones--in search of any known name, and then sat down to wonder at Matilda's new-born energy and admire the baby.

These ladies were not very thorough-going newspaper readers, although they lived in the country and saw few visitors. The two city newspapers they received each day were always torn open, the marriages and deaths glanced at, and sometimes the fas.h.i.+ons, if it was their time for getting new bonnets; but politics bewildered them, and the local gossip had ceased to be interesting, it was so long since they had lived in town. Their bookseller sent them magazines and boxes of books, their home was comfortable, and life moved on smoothly, like a door on well-oiled hinges. They forgot to crave for outside interests and excitements, and the energies which in town life might have found scope in arranging or disarranging their neighbours' concerns, took gentler exercise over roses, geraniums, chickens, bees, or a rheumatic habitant, especially if he spoke prettily and was respectful.

It was only as might be expected, then, that nothing in the newspapers relating to their little waif ever met their eyes. The parson--their only visiting neighbour at that time--was away for his summer vacation; the friends who sometimes came to them from Montreal were at the seaside, so there was no one to talk with, and they heard nothing; which indeed was as they liked it best. All through the remainder of that Summer and Golden Fall, these two women, not very young, revelled in a new-found joy--the sudden awakening within them of the holy instinct of motherhood--the double living, living in another life besides their own, the joyous wondering progressive life of childhood--re-entering anew a world still dew-bright in the morning freshness which it loses as life wears on; and their hearts grew purer and their thoughts simpler, in this unlooked for return to the Eden of long ago.

Before two months had pa.s.sed they had come to recognize their little visitor as a member of the household and one of the family--"of our own family, sister," Matilda said one day. "Let us make her a Stanley and call her our niece--Muriel Stanley. What do you say?"

"But how can we, with neither brother nor sister, call her that?" said Penelope the business-minded and literal. "Think of the stories we should have to make up; and if anybody asked questions we should have to make some more, and there would be discrepancies, and the most dreadful things might be said."

"And pray," cried Matilda the impetuous, "who will presume to ask questions when we look them in the eye and calmly state the--the fact that she is our brother's child, and he is dead? Some people are not very polite, but I never met any one who would dare to disbelieve a lady to her face; and if we give no particulars and change the subject at once, there will be no opportunity to ask questions, If we call it a niece there will be no more to say, and as soon as it is generally known it will interest n.o.body. They are all too full of their own affairs."

"But, Tilly, we never had a brother."

"But, Tookey dear, who knows that? Papa married in this country, and you were born here, but you know he was sent to Bermuda soon after, and we remained there till you and I were grown. n.o.body in Montreal knows even that mamma was Canadian. n.o.body asks anything about the connections of the military or commissariat. There they are. The Service is a voucher for their respectability. It is taken for granted that they are English with no relations in this country, so n.o.body troubles to inquire."

"But our mother's relations, Tilly, in Upper Canada; what are we to say to _them?_"