four days after churchill took his departure from quebec and its maple leaf, brock came striding into the dining-room, his head erect, his gray eyes shining.
“miss howard, you are going for a walk, this afternoon,” he said, as he drew back his chair.
“how do you know?”
“because i am counting on you. have you anything else to do?”
“i was going to the library,” she suggested. “the new magazines are just in.”
“let them wait,” he said coolly. “it is too fine a day to be wasted over a fire and a book. i’ll not only show you a new picture; but i promise to tell you a better story than any that ever was written into a magazine.”
nancy looked up into his happy eyes.
“then the week is over?” she questioned.
“at last.”
she laughed at his accent of relief.
“how impatient you were! your secret must have preyed upon you.”
“not so bad as that,” he began; but she interrupted him mockingly.
“and how many people have you been telling, in the meantime?”
“not one.”
“truthfully?”
“yes. i wanted to tell you, first of all.”
she smiled back at him fearlessly.
“thank you. i appreciate it.”
“and will you go?”
“of course,” she answered heartily. “did a woman ever refuse to listen to a secret?”
an hour later, she joined him in the hall. brock stared at her approvingly. her dark green cloth gown was the work of a tailor of sorts; the plumes of her wide hat made an admirable setting for her halo of ruddy hair. and nancy returned the approval in full measure. few men were better to look upon than was reginald brock, tall and supple, his well-set head thatched with crisp brown hair and lighted with those merry, clear gray eyes. no sinister thought had ever left its line on brock’s honest, manly face.
“come, then,” he said, as he opened the door. “you are in my hands, this afternoon.”
he led the way to the lower town. then, leaving notre dame des victoires far behind them, they passed the custom house, crossed to the louise embankment and, rounding the angle by the immigration sheds, came out on the end of the commissioners’ wharf.
“there!” brock said triumphantly. “what do you think of this?”
nancy drew a long breath of sheer delight.
“one can’t think; one can only feel,” she said slowly.
the river, lying deep blue in the yellow sunlight, slid past their very feet, its glittering wavelets crossed and recrossed with silvery reflections caught from the sky above. far down its course, the dark indigo laurentides seemed jutting out into the stream that washed their feet. above was the citadel, a crown of gray upon its purplish cliff. behind them, the noise of the city lost itself in the murmur of the hurrying tide. close at hand, a network of cables was lowering freight into the hold of an ocean-going steamer; and, out in the middle of the stream, a clumsy craft, loaded to the water’s edge, crawled sluggishly upward against current and tide, ready for the morrow’s market.
brock pointed to an unused anchor, close to the edge of the embankment.
“shall we sit down?” he asked.
nancy took her place in silence. silently he dropped down beside her. it was a long time before the stillness was broken, save by the lapping of the river at their feet and the hoarse cries of the men in the steamer’s hold. for the moment, they were as isolated as if they had been in some remote desert, rather than upon the edge of one of the busiest spots of the entire city.
brock’s impatience appeared to have left him. with his gaze on the river, he was whistling almost inaudibly to himself; but it was plain to nancy, as she watched him, that his thoughts were altogether pleasant ones. so were her own, for the matter of that. the past month had been a happy one to her, and brock had caused some of its happiest memories. she had trusted him completely, and she had never known him to fail her. his chivalry, his courtesy, his brother-like care had been for her, from the hour of their meeting. she could still recall the glad look in his eyes, as they had rested upon her when he entered the dining-room, that first night. from that hour onward, nancy howard and reginald brock had been sure, each of the other’s friendship.
“what about it?” brock asked, as he suddenly turned to face her.
“about what?”
“the subject of your thoughts.”
“all good things,” she answered unhesitatingly. “i was thinking about you, just then.”
“and wishing me good?”
“all good, even as you have been good to me,” she responded, with quiet dignity.
he smiled.
“nothing to count. but now for the picture.”
“it is beautiful beyond words.”
he smiled again.
“wait. you haven’t seen it yet.”
with a quick motion of his hand, he drew his watch from his pocket, opened the case and held it out to nancy. there was no cloud of reservation in the girl’s happy eyes, as she looked at the picture within.
“mr. brock!”
“yes?”
his accent was full of happy question. downright and prompt came nancy’s answer.
“she is adorable.”
gently he took the watch from her hand and looked steadily at the picture, a picture of a round girlish face set as proudly as brock’s own upon its shapely shoulders.
“yes,” he assented slowly. “better than that, she is good.”
there was no mistaking the gladness in nancy’s tone, as she responded,—
“i think i was never more delighted in all my life. you were good to tell me, first of all.”
“i wanted to,” brock replied, with boyish eagerness. “we’ve been such good chums, all this last month, that i was sure you would be interested. i want you to meet her. we weren’t going to announce it just yet; but i coaxed her to hurry it up a little, so i could bring her to call on you, before you go home.”
nancy still held the picture in her hand.
“is she really as pretty as this?” she asked.
“why,—yes, i suppose so. i used to think so. lately, i haven’t thought much about her looks, one way or the other,” he confessed. “she always seems to me about right, and she knows things, too. really, miss howard,” as he spoke, he faced nancy, with his eyes shining; “really, i’m in great luck. it isn’t every day that a girl of her sort falls in love with a fellow like me.”
there was no hint of coquetry in nancy’s manner. with a frankness his own sister might have shown, she held out her hand in token of congratulation.
“i am not so sure of that,” she answered, with a smile.
then the pause lengthened. brock’s thoughts were far afield; nancy’s were fixed upon the man at her side. in all sincerity, she did rejoice at his unexpected tidings. no sentimental regrets entered into her perfect content. her friendship for brock had been friendship pure and simple; on neither side had it ever been mingled with a thought of love. from chance playmates of an october holiday, they had grown into a loyal liking which was to outlast many a dividing year and mile. and brock deserved all good things, even the love of this dainty bit of girlhood whose eyes smiled bravely back into her own.
“tell me all about it,” she said at last.
brock roused himself from his reverie.
“there’s not so much to tell. i’ve known her always; we’ve always been good friends, but, last summer at cacouna, it was—different.”
nancy smiled at the pause which added explanatory force to the last word.
“and was it then?”
“no; not till two or three weeks ago. you see, it took me a good while to get to where i dared speak about it.”
“and when—?”
brock looked up suddenly.
“i don’t dare think of that yet, miss howard,” he answered a bit unsteadily. “the present is so perfect that i am afraid to tempt fate by asking anything more of the future. for the present, i am like the river out there,” he pointed to the shining stream before him; “just drifting along in the sunshine.”
and the sunshine found an answering light in nancy’s eyes, as, accepting his offered hand, she slowly rose to her feet and turned her face towards home.
