A Cry in the Wilderness Part 31

There was decided command in these words; they irritated me as well as the look he gave me. But I remembered in time that, after all, the old manor of Lamoral was his house, not mine, and it would be best for me to obey orders.

"Very well; I 'll ask Marie and little Pete to help me."

Marie appeared with the porridge, a little earlier than usual on Jamie's account, and Mr. Ewart asked her to bring a lighted candle.

"Come into the office for a moment," he said, leading the way with the light.

He stopped at the threshold to let me pa.s.s. The room was warm; the soapstone heater was doing effective work. The snow gleamed white beneath the curtainless windows, and the crowding hemlocks showed black pointed ma.s.ses against the moonlight. There was some frost on the panes.

"It looks bare enough now," he said, raising the candle at the full stretch of his arm that I might see the oak panels of the ceiling; "I leave it to you to make it cheery. Here 's something that will help out in this room and in the living-room."

He took a large pasteboard box from the floor, and we went back into the other room. Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were there.

"Now, what have you there, Gordon?" said the former, frankly showing the curiosity that is a part of his make-up.

"Something that should delight your inner man's eye," he replied.

Going to the table, he opened the box and took from it some of the exquisite first and second proofs of those wonderful etchings by Meryon.

We looked and looked again. Old Paris, the Paris of the second republic, lay spread before us: bridges, quays, chimney-pots, roofs, river and the cathedral of Notre Dame were there in black and white, and the Seine breathing dankness upon all! I possessed myself of one, the Pont Neuf, and betook myself to the sofa to enjoy it.

"You know these, Miss Farrell?"

"Only as I have seen woodcuts of them in New York."

"They are my favorites; I want nothing else on my walls. Will you select some for this room and some for the den? I will pa.s.separtout them; they should have no frames."

"You 're just giving me the best treat you could possibly provide," I said, still in possession of the proof, "and how glad I am that I 've had it--"

"What, Marcia?" This from Jamie.

"I mean the chance to extract a little honey from the strong."

Mrs. Macleod and Jamie looked thoroughly mystified, not knowing New York; but Mr. Ewart smiled at my enthusiasm and scripture application.

He understood that some things during the years of my "scrimping" had borne fruit.

"I believe you 're more than half French, Ewart," said Jamie, looking up from the proof he was examining; "I mean in feeling and sympathy."

"No, I am all Canadian."

"You mean English, don't you?"

"No, I mean Canadian."

This was said with a fervor and a decision which had such a snap to it, that Jamie looked at him in surprise. Without replying, he continued his examination of the proof, whistling softly to himself.

Mr. Ewart turned to Mrs. Macleod and said, smiling:

"I want all members of my household to know just where I stand; in the future we may have a good many English guests in the house.--Please, give me an extra amount of porridge, Mrs. Macleod."

XV

With the coming of the furniture and the furnishing of the office, my hands were full for the next week. During the time, Mr. Ewart was in Ottawa on business, and I worked like a Trojan to have everything in readiness on his return. I was determined he should be the first to see the transformation of his special room, and forbade Jamie to open the door so much as a crack that might afford him a peep.

"It does n't seem much like the manor with Ewart away and you invisible except at meals," he growled from the arm-chair he had placed just outside the sill of the office door. He begged me to leave the door open just a little way, enough to enable him to have speech with me--a privilege I granted, but reluctantly, for I was putting the books on the shelves and giving the task my whole attention. The last day of the week was with us, and Mr. Ewart was expected in a few hours. I stopped long enough, however, to peep at him through the inch-wide opening. He was drawing away at a cold pipe and looked wholly disconsolate.

"A new version of Omar Khayyam," I said.

"'A pipe, you know ... and Thou Beside me, chatting in the wilderness.'"

"I suppose you 'll let me in when Ewart comes."

"I 've nothing to say about that; it is n't my den."

"I was under the impression it was wholly yours, judging from your possession of it."

"Now, no sarcasm, Jamie Macleod; work is work, and there 's been a lot to do in here--not but what I 've taken solid comfort in putting this room into shape."

"Oh, yes, we have seen that; even Cale remarked to me the other night that he 'guessed' Mr. Ewart knew a good thing when he saw it, as he had a general furnisher and library a.s.sistant all in one, who was working for his interest about as hard as she could."

"Good for Cale, he is a discerning person. But he seems to be following suit pretty closely along his lines."

"I hear you 're to catalogue the books that are in the den."

"That is my order."

"Don't you want me to help you? Old French is n't so easy sometimes,"

he asked, coaxing.

"Oh, no; I 've help enough in Mr. Ewart. He knows it a good deal better than you do."

"'Sa.s.s'," was Jamie's sole reply, a word he had borrowed from Cale's vocabulary; he used it to characterize my att.i.tude towards his acquirements.

I worked on in silence till the books were housed; then I drew a long breath of satisfaction.

"What's that sigh for?" was the demand from the other side of the door.

"For a n.o.ble deed accomplished, my friend."

"Humph!"

"Now move away your chair, I 'm coming out."

"Come on."