Part 11

"Amy," he said at last, "give me your hand, little woman! I want to know if you will marry me. Don't look surprised: this is no freak. You see if we are married I can leave you all my money--I am not poor, though I am not rich--and it's only right that you should have some comfort before you die. Then, too, I want to prevent Mrs. Julia from saying what she will say as soon as I am dead--that I always wanted her and died of grief as well as of my wound, because of her refusal. She shan't say that, by---- She spoilt my life and I'll not die till I've paid her back a little. It seems queer," he went on, with the radiant, mischievous smile that had made his listener's heart ache in the old days, "it seems queer to die a married man, Amy, after living a single one all my life. But it's never too late to mend. How thin your hand is, you poor little thing! You've had hard luck, haven't you?" He relapsed into silence, staring steadily at the wall at the foot of his bed. His eyes grew glazed and feverish.

"Don't leave me," he muttered. "Julia! Julia!"

Amy started and winced.

"You're a beastly little flirt," he went on, angrily, gripping her hand till she with difficulty refrained from crying out with pain, "a heartless, despicable little flirt and I despise you from the bottom of my soul--but, O God! I can't help loving you. No other woman has ever been to me what you were--and you--threw--me--over," he went on, slowly, with a hard, cruel expression, "for Greene. Greene! the miserable, worthless sot! Well, you made one mistake, my lady, didn't you? ... But don't turn away, Julia!" he went on, imploringly, "don't turn away from me! I can't stand it.... Your hand is cold--you don't care--O my God! you don't care!" His voice rose almost to a wail. "Julia!" he cried. "Julia! my darling, my darling!--say it's a mistake! You're not what you pretend to be--you can't be!--Julia!"

He sank back exhausted and his face relaxed. A look of intense relief overspread his features and his lips formed a smile of great beauty and tenderness.

"_Julia!_" he murmured softly. Then he died.

Amy sat quite unmoved and looked at the rigid figure. She showed no particular emotion; yet the peace which made the dead face so beautiful was lacking in the living. Some minutes elapsed. She rose at last and stood for a moment, looking down. About that lifeless thing on the bed had clustered all her poor, starved life had held of love and romance. She bent slowly toward it; then straightened, a faint red colour in her sallow cheek.

"No!" she said, almost proudly.

She rang the bell.

"The General has just died," she said in level, unemotional accents. "It was very sudden. It was impossible to call you. I am sorry."

The big-hearted nurse looked at her with hearty repulsion and dislike and burst into a flood of tears. There seemed no particular reason for waiting further; Amy moved mechanically to the door and down the steps; and so passed quietly into the bitter night.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE HOCKEY MATCH*

"The day is short, the evening cometh fast; The time of choosing, Love, will soon be past; The outer darkness falleth, Love, at last. Love, let us love ere it be late--too late! * * * * * Once, only, Love, may love's sweet song be sung, But once, Love, at our feet life's flower is flung; Once, Love, once only, Love, can we be young." --Anon.

The Montreal Arena is a building of considerable size, capable of accommodating many thousands. It has been the scene of many a revel; horses, prima donnas, vegetables, all have exhibited here at one time or another; from Calve, who raved with indignation at the idea of singing in such a place, to Emperor, the finest horse in Canada, who made no objection, whatever. Only a hockey match, however, can count positively on filling it from wall to wall.

To-night was the Wales-Conquerors match: and many a business man of mature years had sent his office boy days before to "stand in line" from nine to eleven on a bitter winter morning in order to procure tickets. Mrs. Hadwell had secured six seats and had organized a party to escort her American guests thither. She, however, had not accompanied them, frankly acknowledging the obvious fact that she was "no sport."

"I do love to be fin-de-siecle," she had said. "But, when it comes to hockey or pug dogs--well, I simply can't, that's all." Then she had told a plaintive tale of how, when a girl, she had been taken to a hockey match. Her escort had been an enthusiast of the most virulent type; and she had been obliged to feign a joy which she by no means felt.

"It was ghastly," she observed, "ghastly. There I sat, huddled in grandmother's sealskin which wasn't a bit becoming, and watched a lot of weird things dressed like circus clowns knocking a bit of rubber round a slippery rink. And all those poor misguided beings who had paid two, three and five dollars to see them do it yelled like mad whenever the rubber got taken down a little faster than usual--oh, you may laugh! but I can tell you that when one of those silly men whacked another silly man over the head when the umpire wasn't looking because the second ass had hit that absurd bit of rubber oftener than he, the first ass, had--why, I felt sorry to think that the human species to which I belonged was so devoid of sense. And that great goat who stood at one end and tried to stop the thing from getting between two sticks! why did everyone think he was a hero when he managed to get his two big feet together in time to stop the rubber from getting through? I don't see anything very clever in putting your feet together and letting a rubber thing come bang against your toes, do you?

"But what's the use of talking! You must think it clever. You must! or why should you go? Where is the attraction? Do you _like_ hearing those wild-looking men shouting insults at the men who don't play on their team? Does it amuse you to hear them snarling, 'Dirty Smith! Putimoff!' 'Butcher Brown! Knockiseadoff, Robinson!' It is incomprehensible to me. I shall always remember Alice Mann's proud face as she watched her brother chasing round while the crowd hailed him by the dignified and endearing title of 'Dirty Mann.' I think that, if I had a brother and heard him called 'Dirty Mann' in public, I should want to leave the city."

Accordingly Mrs. Hadwell had stayed at home; but a merry and expectant party had met at Hadwell Heights and had driven to the Arena, where they sat now, awaiting the fray. It would be some time before this began, so the young strangers had time to look about them and comment on the various spectators. Ladies wrapped in costly furs sat side by side with shabbily dressed men, who, in spite of the printed reminder that smoke was forbidden, ejected a constant stream in the air, the while they hoarsely sang the merits of their favourite team and the demerits of the opposing one. Small boys perched on the rafters, looking as though a finger touch would hurl them to instant destruction.

"If one of them did fall," inquired Bertie, with a shudder, "wouldn't he be instantly killed?"

"If he were lucky," returned her companion, a young McGill professor named Donovan, cheerfully. "Otherwise he might only injure himself for life."

"But"----

"But you see, Miss Hadwell, none of them ever do fall. Not one boy has ever lost his hold, as far as I know. If one of them did get killed of course it would be stopped."

"But don't they get awfully excited?"

"Excited! They go mad. But they don't fall."

"You see," interposed Gerald Amherst, "they never think about it. If one of them stopped clapping and wriggling and began to measure the space from his airy perch to the ice, below; and furthermore meditate on the consistency and solidity of the aforesaid ice and the probable fate of anyone whose head came in contact with it after a fall of seventy to a hundred feet--why, he would drop, that's all. They are occupied with more important matters, however; the merits of Smith as a goal-keeper, the demerits of Brown as a forward--they have no time to muse upon their latter end and the thin veil that lies between them and eternity."

"I'm glad they haven't; for my part I'm convinced that I shall have nightmare after seeing them. Is that your--what is the band playing for? Oh, is that the Vice-Regal party? Dear me! what is every one rising for? Must I get up, too?"

Her voice was drowned in the strains of the National Anthem which was howled enthusiastically by boxes and rafters, alike. As, "God save the King" died into silence the Governor-General bowed and took his seat; while his daughters gazed with interest about the Arena which they were visiting for the first time.

"Observe his coat," said Mr. Donovan. "Feast your American eyes on it. That coat was bought by Lord Dufferin, and left by him to be worn by his successors. The sleeves are quite out of style by this time; but you see 'This is a man!' What's your opinion of him, on the whole?"

"Why, I think--good gracious, what's that!"

A roar that shook the roof arose as the opposing teams emerged from the waiting room and skated upon the ice. The scarlet sweaters and caps of the Conquerors stained the crystal ice with daubs of blood: and the more sombre hues of the Wales showed with almost equal effect.

"Oh, are they beginning?" cried Bertie in ecstasy.

They were. The whistle blew and both sides skated to the centre to receive the customary warning.

"They both seem pretty cool," remarked Mr. Amherst. "No signs of nervousness that I can see."

"Not a particle. Look! who has won the toss? The Conquerors? Hurrah! You must say 'Hurrah!' too, Mr. Hadwell, whenever anything nice happens to the Conquerors. It's no fun unless you choose a team."

"Why is the Conquerors your team?"

"Because--oh, because the captain's father was baptized by my grandfather, I believe. There is some such reason, but, for the moment, I forget just what it is. Any reason will do, you know; the point is that you must have a favourite team and shout whenever it scores and groan with indignation whenever the other team does. Do you see?"

"I see. When am I to begin? and how am I to let the public know what I am groaning about?"

"Oh, the public will know if you groan in the right place--that is, when the other team does well. Oh, look! there goes the puck!"

It dashed across the ice, followed by a mass of skimming, pursuing forms; and, for the next few moments, silence reigned. Then a shout arose, "Off-side!"

"Off-side" it was; and the indignant audience hurled insults impartially at both teams; no one seeming very sure as to which was "off-side," but each assuming that it could not be a member of his favourite team. The Conquerors lost to the Wales this time and the latter passed to one of his team who succeeded in sending the puck flying toward the goal. Intense excitement reigned: would he succeed in getting the puck past the goal-keeper? No: the latter deftly turned it aside; and a roar of mingled delight and disappointment arose which made the American girl start and put her hands to her ears.

"Do they often make such a noise?" she asked, involuntarily.

"I should think so," answered Donovan, staring. "You don't mind it, do you? Oh, shame on you, Parton! what are you thinking about, Umpire?--don't mind me, Miss Hadwell, I'm just--Hurray! Bully for you, Marsh! oh, good work, old boy. You're the stuff! Push it along--_Hurray!_"

The puck had passed and the Conquerors had drawn first blood. In the first wild shriek that rose Bertie was conscious chiefly of one thing--everybody's mouth was wide open. No individual shriek could be distinguished, yet, judging from appearances, every one, from the Governor-General in his box to the smallest imp on the highest rafter, was shouting himself hoarse. Slowly the excitement subsided; slowly the spectators sank back into the seats which they had vacated; and, after a minute or two of preparation, the game recommenced.

"Never tell me again that the English are a cold race," Bertie remarked solemnly as the party took their seats in Mrs. Hadwell's carriage at the close of the evening. "I have read of such things, but I never expected to see them in Canada. I could go to a hockey match every night in the week. It's grand! And, Mr. Donovan, if the Wales had won--as I thought at one time they would--I believe I should have cried myself to sleep. Oh, you needn't laugh! I mean it."

An hour or so later, after the assembled guests had partaken of a supper at Hadwell Heights, Lynn and Gerald Amherst left together and walked slowly in the direction of the city. It was midnight and the streets were practically deserted. For a short time they walked on in silence, neither caring to speak of anything except the subject which was uppermost in the minds of both. Finally, however, Gerald broke the silence.

"Lynn," he said, very quietly, "I have tried to tell you something several times. You have always turned the subject in one way or another. This has been going on now for a long time, for a very long time. I can't have it. I must know to-night, what it is to be. You don't understand, I think, how hard this is on me; if you did, you wouldn't be vexed with me for speaking so plainly." He paused.

"I--am not vexed with you. I had rather you spoke, plainly--but"--

"But--there it is, again. You seem uneasy, almost unhappy about the matter. Yet I don't think you altogether dislike me; in fact--in fact there have been times when I was sure you cared--then when I saw you next, you were quite different, altogether different. You seemed to avoid me. I know it is quite impossible to understand a woman, but, some way, I can't help hoping. You are so sincere in other ways that I think you would be sincere even about a thing like this. Now tell me! There is some trouble, some difficulty, I know. Won't you tell me what it is?"

"Oh, no--I can't."

"Why not? Is it that you are thinking of some one else--of Harold Lighton, for instance--and that you can't be sure as to which you prefer"--

"No, that is not it. You have been frank; and I will be frank in return. I prefer you to any other man that I have ever known."

"Then"--

"No, stop! You don't understand me. I did not say that I wanted to marry you and"--

"You mean that you--don't care enough, is that it?"

"N-no. I can't say that, exactly."

"What then?" he asked, eagerly; but Lynn was silent, staring at the lights of the distant city.

"Lynn!--what in God's name do you mean? Think! Think of what you have said. In one breath you almost allow that you care for me; and, in the next, you say, practically, that you can't marry me. What does it all mean?"

"I can't tell you."

"You must. Try."

"I know that I must sound ridiculous and unreasonable to you, but the fact remains. I do love you; I can't bear to let you go away without telling you so. But for reasons which--which I can't explain--I don't think that I can marry you."

"But, Lynn, what in the world can you mean? You have no ties! nothing that can bind you down or prevent you from doing as you please. What do you mean?"

Lynn walked on in silence for a little while, then turned. Her face was white.

"I can't marry you, Gerald," she said, distinctly.

"Why not? There's some one else?"

"No--not in the way you mean."

"Then it's just that you don't care enough. It must be."

She said nothing, but bit her lips and quivered.

"You do care," he burst forth, suddenly. "Lynn, you do care. I know it. I feel it. You have taken some crazy notion in your head, some fanatical idea or other. Tell me! I insist on knowing what it is. If you care for me you will confide in me about this. You must see how cruelly unfair it is to tell me that you can't marry me and to refuse to even let me know the reason. Tell me! Even if it is something which prevents our marrying now, the difficulty may be surmounted in a few years' time. Tell me."

Lynn started and turned toward firm, her face suddenly illuminated.

"Do you?" she cried, breathlessly, "do you--oh, it isn't right, I oughtn't to ask it--but do you care enough to wait--to wait--perhaps, for a year, or even two years and keep our--the engagement secret?"

"Why, of course I do. What's two years against a life-time? But, Lynn, I don't like secrecy. Can't you tell me what all this means?"

She paused, then spoke, weighing each word, carefully.

"I have a trouble, a care; something which prevents me from even thinking of marriage. It concerns other people and I can tell you nothing about it. But, at any time, I--may be released from it. Perhaps in a week--perhaps not for years--but eventually--I shall be free--broken-hearted and old with grief--but free. Till then. And even then, understand clearly, Gerald, I can explain, nothing--nothing. Now I have told you the truth so far as I am able; and you see for yourself how hopeless it is. Leave me. I am plain and sad and old. Marry some one else, Gerald, and forget me."

"Some one else! Lynn, my dear, dear girl, you don't know what nonsense you're talking. Only say that you'll marry me--promise me that--and everything else may slide. To-morrow--a year--three years--what does it matter, as long as you come to me in the end?"

"But--no one must know--oh, Gerald, it can't be right to hold you. I shouldn't."

"Perfectly right and perfectly wise; if, for any reason, you are obliged to keep it secret. Only, Lynn, you must promise me one thing. The moment that you are released from your obligation, whatever it may be, you must tell me. Promise me that you will let no false motives of delicacy stand in your way, but will come and tell me that you are ready to marry me, the instant that the obstacle is removed. I won't even ask what it is; I shall only ask that you promise me this."

And Lynn promised.

*CHAPTER XVII*

*A SCANDAL VERIFIED*

"I'm not denying that women are foolish: God Almighty made 'em to match the men."--_George Eliot_.

"Gracious, man! do give those unfortunate eyes of yours a rest. I should think they would ache, the way you roll them. Besides, it's such a waste of time to make eyes at me."

"I don't think so."

"I suppose it keeps you in practice," Miss Bent remarked, sardonically.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," repeated Miss Bent, slowly and deliberately, "that I supposed that--it--kept--you--in practice--to--make--eyes--at--me!"

"It does. But that's not the only reason I do it."

Miss Bent eyed him with extreme disfavour.

"How silly you are," she said, snubbingly.

"Now that's unworthy of you," her companion returned. "Its rudeness is worthy of you, but not its stupidity. Ordinarily your remarks are witty, even when they are rude, but this"--

"Has only truth to recommend it."

"I don't care for verbal gymnastics."

"Your likes and dislikes are not"--

"A matter of interest to you? no, I suppose not. And you see that relieves me from considering yours. Take the present case, for instance. I feel like making eyes, as you rudely call it, at you: therefore I make them"--

"And make them very badly!" interpolated the well-bred Miss Bent.

"You are no judge, being by nature incapable of doing anything in the eye-making way at all."

"Ah!" said Miss Bent, reflectively, "there is no saying how well I might make eyes if I saw anything worth making eyes at. But, I say, don't be cross."

"I'm not!"

"No, of course not: but don't, anyway, for I want to tell you something and some way I can't talk to cross people"--

"But I tell you I'm not"--

"Dear, dear! there you are again with a face flaming with rage, interrupting me and contradicting me."

Mr. Ogden opened his mouth; then shut it with an air of determination, as though he really might have replied, had he chosen.

"And now you're glaring at me as if you were beside yourself with rage. Why don't you try to be reasonable?"

The unhappy Mr. Ogden stared wildly but ventured no remark.

"I suppose I may go on now," Miss Bent said in a rather pointed manner when a moment of silence had elapsed. "What I began to tell you half an hour ago--only you would keep interrupting me--was that Mrs. Hadwell is giving all sorts of things for those cousins, or whatever they are, of hers from the States. And she has asked me to a theatre party and a tobogganing party, so I think I ought to give something for them. What would you suggest?"

Mr. Ogden looked perplexed.

"Surely you're not sulking all this time!" said Miss Bent, rather sadly.

"I don't know what you mean. I never sulk."

"Then, perhaps, instead of sulking, you will answer my question," said Miss Bent with asperity.

Mr. Ogden laughed.

"I should suggest a drive," he hazarded. "A drive by moonlight and a supper afterwards."

"Perhaps that would be the best plan," said Miss Bent, thoughtfully. "Who would you ask?"

"Me, for one."

"Oh, yes, I suppose so, but--O dear! has my snowshoe come off, again?"

"Let me fix it."

"What do you suppose is the reason?"

"The reason? You didn't let me do it at the start."

"I suppose you think you can attend to my snowshoes better than I can myself."

"I do, indeed."

"Well, don't start to argue about that, please don't. I haven't seen you for such a long time and there are such a lot of things that I want to say, but some way, whenever I am going to start, something happens to prevent me."

"Your snowshoe, for instance?"

"Yes, or you. You begin to argue about something. Now don't be cross! I suppose I really shouldn't have said that, but"--

"Oh, it's quite true that I occasionally make a remark."

"Occasionally!"

"Very occasionally, yes. When people are with you they don't talk much as a rule. Queer, isn't it?"

"I suppose," said his companion after thinking deeply for a moment, "that what you mean is that they don't get much chance."

"That was my meaning, exactly."

"I can't help talking a little sometimes, you know," said Miss Bent, icily----

"You can't, indeed!"

"No. I come by it honestly. _My own father was a man!_"

Silence reigned, unbroken and long. The snowshoers trudged on in silence, the lady chuckling delightedly to herself.

"I had two things to tell you," she remarked, presently, perceiving that her companion was unmoved by her silence and getting very tired of preserving it.

"Yes?"

"Yes. The second one is gossip, so I suppose I shouldn't"--

"Oh, but you will."

"Not," said Miss Bent, impressively, "not unless you promise solemnly never to tell a living soul about it--especially not Agatha!"

"Why is Agatha to be debarred from hearing what no living soul may know?"

"Because," said his companion, seriously, "Agatha is not to be trusted. She can't keep a secret. Oh, you needn't laugh. The person who told me this said the same thing to me. 'Don't tell anyone about this,' she said, most earnestly, 'and whoever you tell, don't tell Agatha.'"

"What lack of confidence you two secretive people do show in Agatha. Why is it?"

"In the first place because she's a cat."

"Doesn't seem conclusive. I've known cats who talked less than some ladies."

"--And in the second because she's her cousin."

"Whose? The cat's?"

"No. Lynn Thayer's."

"My golf-balls! Where are we at?"

"Why, I'm sure I've made myself plain enough," said Miss Bent, looking surprised.

"On the contrary you've made yourself awfully pretty in your sporting togs but you have _not_ made yourself explicit."

"You silly thing! Don't you see what I mean? It's Lynn Thayer that the gossip's about."

"Oh, Miss Thayer," said Ogden. "Then I hardly think it's true."

"Oh, it must be. This person saw her. It seemed so queer she could hardly believe her eyes."

"What did?"

"Why, Lynn's being there alone at that time of night. Not that it was a proper place for a lady at any time"----

"What place wasn't?"