“miss howard?”
nancy glanced up, as st. jacques appeared in the doorway with brock at his side. at the farther end of the room, barth also glanced up. the action was wholly involuntary, however, and barth sought to disguise with a yawn his ill-timed manifestation of interest.
“you look as if you had something of importance to announce,” nancy replied, as she rose and crossed the room to the door.
“so we have. what are you going to do, this evening?”
“that isn’t an announcement; it is a question,” she suggested.
st. jacques laughed. nancy always enjoyed the sudden lighting of his face. at rest, it was almost heavy in its dark, intent earnestness; at a chance word, it could turn mirthful as the face of a child, gentle with the sympathetic gentleness of a strong man. just now, the rollicking child was uppermost.
“how can i tell the difference? i am not english,” he answered.
nancy cocked the white of one eye towards the far corner of the room.
“neither am i,” she said demurely.
brock’s answer was enigmatic; but nancy held the key.
“it is always possible to be grateful to allah,” he said, low, but not so low as to keep the color from rising in barth’s cheeks.
st. jacques turned suddenly.
“good evening, mr. barth. is your ankle better?” he queried.
but barth was as yet unable to make any distinctions in measuring out his displeasure.
“thank you, mr. st. jacques,” he answered icily. “it is almost quite well.”
“o—oh. i am very glad,” st. jacques responded, in such vague uncertainty as to how great a degree of gain might be represented by the almost quite that he entirely missed the note of hostility in barth’s voice.
again the white of nancy’s eye moved towards the corner of the room, as brock said,—
“but you haven’t answered st. jacques’s question, miss howard.”
“i beg your pardon. i am not going to do anything, unless sitting in this room counts for something.”
“but it doesn’t.” barth took an unexpected plunge into the conversation.
“then what makes you do it?” brock inquired.
his intention had been altogether hostile, for he had been irritated by the discourtesy shown to his friend. nevertheless, his irritation gave place to good-tempered pity, as the young englishman answered quietly,—
“because there’s not so very much left that i can do. one doesn’t get much variety in a radius of half a mile a day.”
this time, nancy turned around.
“doesn’t that ligament grow strong yet?” she asked, in a wave of sympathy which swept her off her guard.
then she blushed scarlet, for barth was looking up at her in manifest astonishment. how could this impetuous young woman have discovered the fact that he owned a ligament? he had not considered it a fit subject for conversation. was there no limit to the unexpected workings of the american mind?
“i didn’t know—oh, it is better,” he answered.
then in a flash the situation dawned upon brock. he recalled barth’s unexplained illness; he remembered nancy’s story of the englishman and his golden guinea. back in the depths of his sinful brain he stored the episode, ready to be brought out for use, whenever the time should be ripe. and nancy, looking into those clear gray eyes, knew that he knew; knew, too, that it would be useless to beg for mercy for the unsuspecting britisher. moreover, she was not altogether sure that she wished to beg for mercy.
“but really, have you any plan for this evening?” st. jacques was urging.
dismissing the others from her mind, nancy smiled into the dark face which was almost on a level with her own.
“nothing at all.”
“that is good. there is a little opera at the auditorium, to-night; nothing great, but rather pretty. i saw it in saint john, last year. brock and i both thought—”
“what time is it now?” nancy asked.
“about seven.”
nancy reflected swiftly. then she said,—
“impromptu parties are always the best. go and ask the lady if she can come with us. if she will—”
but only barth in his corner heard the ending of her sentence.
half an hour later, nancy came rustling softly down the stairway, her shining hair framed in the white fur ruff of her cloak. two immaculate youths were pacing the hall; but barth had disappeared. she found him sitting in the office beside the lady. he rose, as nancy appeared in the doorway.
“don’t let me keep you,” he said regretfully. “you are going out?”
in his present mood of content, st. jacques felt that he could afford to be gracious.
“don’t we look it?” he asked boyishly.
experience had taught nancy what to expect when barth fell to fumbling about the front of his waistcoat. nevertheless, even she blushed at the prolonged stare which was too full of interest to be impertinent. then, without a glance at the others, barth let the glasses fall back again.
“oh, rather!” he answered, with unwonted fervor.
the lady laughed.
“is that the best you can say of us, mr. barth?” she inquired.
“rather is barth’s strongest superlative,” brock commented. “well, are we ready?”
the lady rose with some reluctance. during the few days of his imprisonment, she had been brought into closer contact with barth. she had watched him keenly, and she had come to the conclusion that, underneath all his haughty indifference, the young englishman was lonely, homesick and altogether likable.
“it is really too bad to turn you out, mr. barth,” she said kindly. “won’t you stay here and read? it is more cosy here, and you can be quite by yourself.”
the friendly words touched barth and, for an instant, he lost his poise. a sudden note of dejection crept into his voice, as he answered,—
“i seem to accomplish that end, wherever i go.”
brock was already leading the way to the door, and nancy was gathering up her long skirt. it was st. jacques who lingered.
“perhaps you would like to go with us,” he suggested.
“oh, i—” barth was beginning, when the frenchman interrupted,—
“we shall be very glad to have you, and i can easily telephone for another seat. it is not a great opera; but it will be better than sitting alone in your room.”
the unexpected addition to their party was by no means to nancy’s liking. nevertheless, her eyes rested upon st. jacques with full approval. the deed had been a gracious one, and nancy felt that, with brock and st. jacques to help her, she could easily man?uvre barth to the outer seat beyond the lady.
the event justified her belief. barth demurred, then yielded to a second invitation which was cordially echoed by the lady; and it was at the lady’s side that he limped down the aisle. nancy, in the rear with the others, told herself that he had no need for his profuse apologies regarding his dress. even in morning clothes, barth showed that both his figure and his tailor were irreproachable. she also told herself that, until then, she had had no notion of the way the man must have suffered. it is not without reason that a man of the early twenties allows himself to hobble ungracefully into a strange theatre, or gets white at the lips, by the time he is finally seated.
as st. jacques had said, the opera was by no means a great one. however, nancy, sitting in that dull green interior, looking about her at the half-veiled lights and at the dainty gowns, was absolutely content. barth, at the farther end of the row, was talking dutifully to the lady, and nancy had no idea that his position, bending forward with his hands clasped over his knee, was taken for the sole purpose of being able to watch herself. brock was for the moment wholly absorbed in a scrutiny of the audience, and nancy settled back at her ease and fell into idle talk with st. jacques.
already the young frenchman was assuming a prominent place in her thoughts. he was serious without being dull, merry without being frivolous; and nancy rarely found it needful to explain to him the unexpected workings of her somewhat inconsequent mind. even brock was sometimes left gasping in the rear. st. jacques, although by different and far less devious paths, was generally waiting to meet her, when she reached her new viewpoint.
little by little, she had come to know much of his history. the strong habitant blood of two hundred years before had brought forth a line of sturdy, earnest professional men. true to their ancestry, they had made no effort to shake off its customs or its tongue. highly educated, first at laval, then at paris, they had gone back to the simple life of their own people, to give to them the fruits of what, generations before, had been taken from them. because the primeval st. jacques had wrested supremacy from his neighbors, there was no reason that his son’s sons should turn their backs upon their less fortunate brothers, and seek wealth and fame in the luxury-loving cities to the southward. st. jacques was of the physical type of the old-time habitant; but developed far towards the level of all that is best in manhood. the defensive instincts of a young girl are not always unreliable. nancy trusted adolphe st. jacques implicitly. she was sure that he never stopped to question how to show himself loyal and courteous; it came to him quite as a matter of course.
“but you speak english at home?” she asked him.
“no; only french.”
“then you surely have been trained in an english school,” she persisted.
he shook his head.
“the school was like laval, all french.”
“and yet, you speak as we do.”
his lower lip rolled out into his odd little smile.
“as you do, but more slowly. of course, i understand; but i think in french, and it takes a little time to put it into english. but my english is not like mr. barth’s.”
“nor mine,” she assured him merrily.
but he met her merriment with a curiously grave face.
“miss howard, i do not see why i can’t like that fellow,” he said thoughtfully.
“nor i. and yet, he isn’t half bad,” nancy replied, with unexpected loyalty.
“i know. he is intelligent, and he means to be a gentleman,” st. jacques answered, frowning gravely as he argued out the position. “i think i see his good points; but i have nothing that—that is in common with any of them. our worlds are different, and we can never bring them into connection.”
for the moment, nancy lost her own gayety and spoke with a seriousness which matched his own.
“i think i understand you. i have felt it, myself. it is not anything he does consciously, yet he leaves me feeling that we have absolutely no common ground. by all rights, we americans ought to feel kinship with the english; but—”
st. jacques turned to face her.
“but?” he echoed.
however, nancy’s eyes were fastened on her fan, and she answered, with the fearless honesty of a boy,—
“but now and then i have felt, since i came here, that my likeness was entirely to the french.”
and st. jacques bowed in silence, as the curtain rose for the final act.
just then, there came an unexpected scene and one not down upon the programme. the soprano was already in place and the tenor, in the wings, was preparing to rush in to kneel at her feet, when the manager came out across the stage. in the midst of the gaudy costumes, his black-clothed figure made an instantaneous impression, an impression which was heightened by his level voice.
“ladies and gentlemen, i regret to be obliged to announce to you—”
brock never knew from what corner of the upper gallery came that shrill, insistent cry of fire. when he realized his surroundings, he was bracing himself against the seat in front of him, his whole tall figure tense in the effort to keep nancy from being crushed by the mad rush for the doors. then, with a bound, the young frenchman vaulted over the seat towards the other end of the row.
“look out for the lady, brock,” he ordered, as he dashed past. “some one must help barth. his foot is giving out, and he will drop, in a minute.”
then, as swiftly as it had arisen, the panic died away. again and again the orchestra pounded out god save the king with an energetic rhythm which could not fail to be reassuring. the tumult in the galleries subsided; one by one, in shamefaced fashion, the people came straggling back to their seats. brock was mockingly recounting the list of his bruises, while the manager completed his ill-timed announcement of the sudden illness of one of the singers. then the curtain was rung down and rung up again for a fresh start. just as it shivered and began to rise, barth bent forward.
“oh, mr. st. jacques.”
“yes?”
“i have to thank you for your help. i needed it, and it was given in a most friendly way.”
st. jacques had no idea of what those few words cost the dignity of the taciturn young englishman. otherwise, he would have framed his answer in quite another fashion. as it was, he shook his head.
“you count it too highly,” he said, with dry courtesy. “in our language we call such things, not friendship, but just mere chivalry.”
and nancy, though unswerving in her loyalty to st. jacques, felt a sudden pity for mr. cecil barth, as he shut his lips and leaned back again in his chair.
