The Intriguers | Page 6

I had to make them often in those days; but it was
on the evening we were speaking of that my eyes were first opened,
and I was startled. But you must understand that it was not by my
father's wish that I came to London and stayed with him--until the end.
He urged me to go away; but his health had broken down and he had no
one else to care for him. When he was no longer able to get about,
everybody deserted him, and he felt it."
"I was truly sorry to hear of his death," Blake said. "Your father was
once a very good friend to me. But, if I may ask, how was it he let you
come to his flat?"
"I forced myself upon him. My mother died long ago, and her
unmarried sisters took care of me. They lived very simply in a small
secluded country house: two old-fashioned Evangelicals, gentle but
austere, studying small economies, giving all they could away. In
winter we embroidered for missionary bazaars; in summer we spent the
days in a quiet, walled garden. It was all very peaceful, but I grew
restless; and when I heard that my father's health was failing I felt that I
must go to him. My aunts were grieved and alarmed, but they said they
dare not hinder me if I thought it my duty."
Stirred by troubled memories and perhaps encouraged by the sympathy
he showed, she had spoken on impulse without reserve, and Blake
listened with pity. The girl, brought up, subject to wholesome
Puritanical influences, in such surroundings as she had described, must
have suffered a cruel shock when suddenly plunged into the society of
the rakes and gamblers who frequented her father's flat.
"Could you not have gone back when you were no longer needed?" he
asked.
"No," she said; "it would not have been fair. I had changed since I left
my aunts. They were very sensitive, and I think the difference they
must have noticed in me would have jarred on them. I should have
brought something alien into their unworldly life. It was too late to
return; I had to follow the path I had chosen."

Blake mused a while, watching the lights of Three Rivers fade astern
and the broad white wake of the paddles stream back across the glassy
surface of the lake. The girl must have learned much of human failings
since she left her sheltered home, but he thought the sweetness of
character which could not be spoiled by knowledge of evil was greatly
to be admired. He was, however, a man of action and not a philosopher.
"Well," he said, "I appreciate your letting me talk to you; but it's cold
and getting late, and you have sat on deck long enough. I'll see that
somebody looks after the animals."
Millicent felt dubious, though she was sleepy and tired.
"If anything happened to her pets, Mrs. Keith would not forgive me."
"I'll engage that something will happen to some of them very soon
unless you promise to go to your room," Blake laughed. Then he called
a deckhand. "What have you to do?"
"Stand here until the watch is changed."
"Then, you can keep an eye on these baskets. If any of the beasts makes
an alarming noise, send to my room, the second, forward, port side.
Look me up before we get to Montreal."
"That's all right, sir," replied the man.
Blake turned to Millicent and held out his hand as she rose.
"Now," he said, "you can go to rest with a clear conscience."
She left him with a word of thanks, wondering whether she had been
indiscreet, and why she had told him so much. She knew nothing to his
advantage except one chivalrous action, and she had not desired to
arouse his pity, but he had an honest face and had shown an
understanding sympathy which touched her, because she had seldom
experienced it. He had left the army with a stain upon his name; but she
felt very confident that he had not merited his disgrace.

CHAPTER III
THE COUSINS
Dinner was over at the Windsor, in Montreal, and Mrs. Keith was
sitting with Mrs. Ashborne in the square between the hotel and St.
Catharine's Street. A cool air blew uphill from the river, and the patch
of grass with its fringe of small, dusty trees had a certain
picturesqueness in the twilight. Above it the wooded crest of the
mountain rose darkly against the evening sky; lights glittered behind
the network of thin branches and fluttering leaves along the sidewalk,
and the dome of the cathedral bulked huge and shadowy across the
square. Downhill, toward St. James's, rose towering buildings, with the
rough-hewn front of the