to adopt the vernacular of the stables, nancy shied violently, for the apparition was both unexpected and unwelcome. she rallied swiftly, however, and, promptly resolving to make the best of a bad matter, she gave a little nod and smile of recognition. the next instant, both nod and smile went sliding away from the unresponsive countenance of mr. cecil barth and focussed themselves with an added touch of cordiality upon m. st. jacques, while the young frenchman bowed low in surprised pleasure at her friendly greeting.
even in her instantaneous glance, nancy saw that barth looked worn and ill; and, with unregenerate spite working in her heart, she told herself that she was glad of it. she had no idea that, unable to supply himself with new glasses before his return to the city, barth had gained absolutely no conception of the personal appearance of his quondam nurse. moreover, as nancy had neglected to inform him in regard to her normal pursuits and her future plans, he had spent the last week in regretfully picturing her, still in cap and pinafore, ministering to the needs of some invalid yankee in that vast unknown which he vaguely termed the states. accordingly, it came about that the dinner, that sunday noon, was finished in hot rage by nancy, in joyous anticipation by adolphe st. jacques, and in stolid unconcern by mr. cecil barth who was aware neither of the existence of an emotional crisis, nor of the fact that to him was due any share of its creation.
nancy sat alone in the parlor, after dinner, waiting for her father to join her, when barth came into the room. he halted on the threshold long enough to look her over in detail; then he limped past her and took possession of the chair beyond her own. as they sat there silent, elbow to elbow, nancy was conscious of a wayward longing to remind him that it was high time for his liniment. however, she refrained. two could play at that game of stolid disregard.
the lady looked puzzled, as she followed barth into the room, a few moments later. only a day or two before, nancy, moved by a spirit of iniquity, had confided to the lady the whole tale of her connection with barth, and the lady, who already adored nancy and, moreover, was discerning enough to see the inherent manliness of barth, had held her peace. a charming scene of recognition was bound to follow barth’s return to the maple leaf. no hint of a mystery to come should take from the glamor of that pleasant surprise. barth and nancy both were curiously alone; both were aliens, meeting upon neutral soil. already in her mind’s eye the lady foresaw romance and international complications.
with her bodily eye the lady saw the elements of her international complications sitting in close juxtaposition, but with their backs discreetly turned to an obtuse angle with each other. she made a swift, but futile, effort to account for the situation. then she gave nancy a merry nod of comprehension, if not of understanding, and passed on to speak to barth.
“you are better, to-day, i hope.”
“oh, yes.”
“i hope you didn’t feel obliged to come over to dinner. it was no trouble to send your meals to you.”
“oh, no. i was tired of stopping in my room.”
“you look as if you had been having rather a hard time of it,” the lady said kindly.
“yes. i never supposed an ankle could be so painful. still, i hope it is over now.”
“then it doesn’t trouble you to walk?”
“oh, rather! and, besides, it makes one such an object, you know, and then people stare. it won’t be long, though, i dare say, before i can walk without limping.”
a naughty impulse seized upon the lady.
“you were at sainte anne-de-beaupré, you said? and could you get proper care in so small a place?”
over the unconscious head of mr. cecil barth, nancy shook her fist at the lady. then she fled from the room; but not quickly enough to lose barth’s answer,—
“oh, so-so; nothing extra, but still quite tolerable. the doctor was clever; but the nurse, his daughter, was an american, a good-hearted sort of girl, but rather rude and untrained.”
all that sunday afternoon, nancy cherished her hopes of vengeance. plan after plan suggested itself to her fertile brain, was weighed and found wanting. planned hostility was totally inadequate; she would leave everything to chance. nevertheless, nancy tarried long at her mirror, that night; and she went down to supper with her head held high and a brilliant spot of color in either cheek. as she passed the parlor door, she saw barth, book in hand, seated exactly where she had left him, and she suddenly realized that, rather than endure the short walk to his room, he had chosen to spend his afternoon in the dreary solitude of a public sitting-room. for an instant, her heart smote her, and her step lagged a little; then she remembered the guinea, and recalled barth’s words, that noon, and her step quickened once more.
brock followed her back to the parlor.
“oh, let the basilica go, to-night,” he urged.
“but you told me it was a part of my itinerary.”
“no matter. you haven’t kept up your round, to-day, anyway. did you do the ursulines, this afternoon?”
“no. i was all ready to go; but something happened that put me in an unchurchly frame of mind,” nancy said vindictively.
“just as well. it makes people suspicious of your past habits, if you rush too violently into church-going.”
“but twice isn’t too violently.”
“two is too,” he retorted. “besides, st. jacques asked me to ask you if he might be formally introduced, to-night.”
nancy’s face brightened, and her voice lost the little sharp edge it had taken on with her reference to her encounter with barth.
“of course. both on account of his courtesy to me, and of your characterization of him, i shall be delighted to meet him. where is he?”
over in his corner by the window, barth glanced up from his book. voices rarely made any impression upon him; but something in nancy’s tone caught his fancy, reminded him, too, of an indefinite something in his past. with calm deliberation, he fumbled about for the string of his glasses, put them on and favored nancy with a second scrutiny, critical and prolonged. the girl’s cheeks reddened under his gaze, and instinctively she turned to brock for protection; but brock had gone in search of his friend. from across the room, one rose from a group of women and came to nancy’s rescue.
“mr. barth?” she said interrogatively, in her pretty broken french. “i think it is mr. cecil barth; is it not? my friend, mrs. vivian, has written to me about you. i believe you brought a letter, introducing yourself to her.”
instantly, though a little stiffly, barth rose to his feet. this acquaintance, at least, could show its proper credentials.
“and have you met miss howard?” she continued, after a moment’s talk. “miss howard, like yourself, is a stranger among us. perhaps she will allow me to introduce mr. cecil barth.”
“howard appears to be rather a common name, here in canada,” barth observed.
“really? i’ve not met any one else by the name,” nancy answered rashly.
“yes. it was the name of my nurse.”
“your—nurse?”
“yes. i don’t mean the nurse who took care of me when i was a little chap,” barth explained elaborately. “i’ve just been ill, you know, sprained my ankle out here at sainte anne-de-beaupré and was laid up for two weeks. my nurse out there was a miss howard, miss nancy howard; but she was an american.”
something in the cadence of the final word was displeasing to nancy, and the edge came back into her voice.
“what a coincidence!” she observed quietly. “i am an american, myself, mr. barth.”
barth’s answer was refreshingly na?ve.
“oh, really? but nobody would ever think it, i am sure.”
it was two days before nancy met barth again. from her window, she watched with pitiless eyes as he hobbled to and from his meals, and her strategic position enabled her to avoid the dining-room while he was in it. meanwhile, her acquaintance with the lady and st. jacques had made rapid strides and, together with brock, omnipresent and always jovial, they formed a merry group in the tiny office where the lady mothered them all by turns. nancy shunned the parlor in these latter days. dr. howard was increasingly absorbed in his studies; and nancy felt the increasing need of a duenna, as it dawned upon her more and more clearly that, wherever she went, there brock and st. jacques were sure to follow. nancy looked at life simply; these healthy-minded boys were only a pair of excellent playmates. nevertheless, all things considered, nancy preferred to play in the society of an older person. furthermore, for long hours at a time, mr. cecil barth sat enthroned in the parlor; and, by this time, nancy was resolved to avoid mr. cecil barth at any cost.
the gray october noon was cool and sweet, two days later, when nancy came tramping down the grand allée. the exhilaration of a long walk was upon her, and her step was as energetic as when she had left the maple leaf, early that morning. starting at random by way of the chien d’or and the ramparts, she had skirted the upper town and come out by saint john’s gate to the saint foye road which she had followed until the monument aux braves was left far behind and the glimpses of the dark blue laurentides were lost in the nearer trees. then, turning sharply to the eastward, she came into the grand allée not far from the shady entrance to mount hermon. a glance at her watch assured her that the morning was nearly over, and she sped along the interminable plank sidewalk at a pace which should bring her back to the tollgate in time for the short detour to the wolfe monument. once in sight of that inscription, grand in its simple brevity, nancy invariably forgot the present, forgot the gray wall of the jail close by, forgot even the insistent voices that hailed her from the cab-stand at the gate. for the moment, she stood alone in the presence of the past and of that daring leader whose destiny forbade his entering the stronghold he had conquered.
her breath coming quickly and her lower lip caught between her teeth, nancy stood leaning against the rail, looking out across the plains. so absorbed was she in her day-dream of the past that she paid no heed to a cab which halted at her side.
“oh, miss howard?”
starting abruptly, she turned to face barth. tired of his solitary drive, the young fellow’s eyes were smiling down into the familiar face as, hat in hand, he bent forward in eager greeting.
nancy’s day-dream vanished like a broken prince rupert’s drop.
“good morning, mr. barth,” she said grimly.
“it is a jolly sort of morning; isn’t it? you are paying homage to my countryman?” he inquired.
the allusion was unfortunate. it recalled his last words to nancy, and she grew yet more grim.
“brave gentlemen belong to no country,” she answered, with what seemed to her a swift burst of eloquence.
barth laughed.
“poor beggars! must they all be expatriated? if that’s the case, it’s better to be whimpering over a sprained ankle than to die victorious on the plains of abraham.”
“that wasn’t what i meant at all,” nancy interposed hastily. then she took out her watch and looked at it a little ostentatiously. “it is a glorious day, mr. barth, and i wish you a pleasant drive. it is nearly dinner time, and i must hurry on.”
“why not let me take you in?” he urged. “i am going directly back to the maple leaf.”
but nancy’s answer permitted no argument.
“thank you, no. i am out for the exercise, and you are going on farther. it is impossible for me to interfere with your drive.” and, with a curt bow, she turned away and stalked off in the direction of the grand allée.
the light died out of barth’s eyes and the friendly smile fled from his lips, as he realized that, for the first time in his life, he had had his overtures rejected. worst of all, the rejection was by an american and, from his point of view, totally without cause. mr. cecil barth dropped back in his seat, stretched out his lame foot into a position of comparative comfort, and then said things to himself.
he passed nancy just outside the saint louis gate. head up, shoulders thrown back, she was swinging along with the free step of perfect health and equally perfect content. from the solitary dignity of his cab, barth eyed her askance.
“wait a bit, though,” he apostrophized her, with a sudden burst of prophecy. “the time will come, miss howard, when you don’t rush off and leave me alone like this.”
but nancy, rosy and flushed with exercise, entered the dining-room, that noon, without a glance in his direction. barth kept his own eyes glued to his plate; but, from over his right shoulder, he could hear every word of her merry talk with reginald brock. as he listened, barth began to question whether england might not have allowed too great a share of independence to certain of her western colonies.
