Imágenes de páginas
PDF
EPUB

fields, and the engines carried snowploughs, and the loungers about the station wore buffalo coats, Zilda was very happy. Gilby wore a dogskin cap and collar and cuffs; Zilda thought them very becoming. Then spring came, and Gilby wore an Inverness cape, which was the fashion in those days. Zilda thought that little Gilby looked very fascinating therein, although she remarked to her father that one could only know he was there because the cape strutted. Then summer came and Gilby wore light tweed clothes. The Frenchmen always wore their best black suits when they travelled. Zilda liked the light clothes best.

Then there came a time when Gilby did not come. No one noticed his absence at first but Zilda. Two weeks passed and then they all spoke of it. Then some one in St. Armand ascertained that Gilby had had a rise in the firm in which he was employed, that he sat in an office all day and did not travel any more. Zilda heard the story told, and commented upon, and again talked over, in the way in which such matters of interest are slowly digested by the country intellect.

Alas! then Zilda knew how far she had travelled along a flowery path which, as it now seemed to her, led to nowhere. It was not that she had wanted to marry Gilby; she had not thought of that as possible; it was only that her whole nature summed itself up in an ardent desire that things should be as they had been, that he should come there once a week, and talk politics with her father and other men, and set the boys jumping, and eat the muffins he had taught her to make for his tea. And if this might not be, she desired above all else to see him again, to have one more look at him, one more smile from him of which she could take in the whole value, knowing it to be the last. How carelessly she had allowed him to go, supposing that he would return! It was not her wish to express her affection or sorrow in any way; it was not her nature to put her emotions into words; but ah, holy

saints! just to see him again, and at least take leave of him with her eyes! It was very sad that he should simply cease to come, yet that she knew was just what was natural; a man does not bid adieux to a railway station, and Zilda knew that she was, as it were, only part of the station furniture. She resented nothing; she had nothing to resent.

So the winter came again, and Christmas, and again the days grew longer over the snowfields. Zilda always looked for the sunsets now, for she had been taught that they were beautiful. She cultivated geraniums and petunias in pots at her windows, just as she had done for many winters, but she would stop oftener to admire the flowers

now.

The men had taken again to congregating in the hot, close bar-room, or huddling together in their buffalo coats, smoking in the outer air. Zilda looked at the wood pile, from which no one jumped now, with weary eyes. It had grown intolerable to her that now no one ever mentioned Gilby; she longed intensely to hear his name or to speak it. She dared not mention him gravely, soberly, because she was conscious of her secret which no one suspected. But it was open to her to revive the mimicry. "Voici monsieur Geelby," she would cry, and pass along the station platform with consequential gait. A great laugh would break from the station loungers. "Encore," they cried, and Zilda gave the "encore."

There was only one other relief she found from the horrible silence which had settled down upon her life concerning the object of her affection. At times when she lay awake in the quiet night, or at such times as she found herself within the big stone church of St. Armand, she prayed that the good St. Anne would intercede for her that she might see monsieur Geelby once

more.

This big church of St. Armand had a great pointed roof of shining tin. It was a bright and conspicuous object always in that landscape; under summer and winter sun it glistened like

some huge lighthouse reflector. All her life afterwards, whenever Zilda went out on the station platform, for a breath of air, for a moment's rest and refreshing, or, on business intent, to chide the loungers there, the roof of this church, at a half mile's distance, twinkled brightly before her eyes, set in green fields or in a snow-buried world; and every time it caught her eye it brought to her mind more or less distinctly that she had in her own way tested religion and found it true, because the particular boon which she had demanded at this time had been granted.

In the midst of the babel Zilda slipped away to make muffins hastily for Gilby's breakfast. Her heart was singing within her, but it was a tremulous song, half dazed with delight, half frightened, fearing that with his great cleverness he would see some way to proceed on his journey although she

saw none.

When she came out of the kitchen with the muffins in her hand her sunshine suddenly clouded. Gilby, unconscious that a special breakfast was preparing for him, had hastily swallowed coffee and walked on to the site of the breakdown to see for himself how long the mending would take.

It was as if one, looking through long hours for the ending of night, had seen the sunrise, only to see the light go out suddenly again in darkness. Zilda felt that her heart was broken. Her dis

It was a happy morn of May; the snow had just receded from the land, leaving it very wet, and spring was pushing on all the business she had to do with almost visible speed. The early train came in from Montreal as usual, and who should step out of it but | appointment grew upon her for an

Gilby himself! He was a little stouter, a little more bald, but he skipped down upon the platform, radiant as to smile and the breadth of his gold watchchain, and attired in a check coat which Zilda thought was the most perfect thing in costume which she had ever beheld.

In a flash of thought it came to Zilda that there would be more than a momentary happiness for her. “Ah, monsieur Geelby, do you know that the river has cut into the line three miles away, and that this train can go no further till it is mended."

Gilby was distinctly annoyed; he had indeed left town by the earlier of the two morning trains in order to stop an hour and take breakfast at St. Armand; he had been glad of the chance of doing that, of seeing Chaplot and his daughter and the others; but to be stopped at St. Armand a whole day-he made exhibition of his anger, which Zilda took very meekly. Why had the affair not been telegraphed? Why were busy men like himself brought out of the city when they could not get on to do their work?

There were other voices besides Gilby's to rail; there were other voices besides Zilda's to explain the disaster.

hour, then she could no longer keep back the tears; because she had no place in which to weep, she began to walk away from the hotel down the line. There was no one to notice her going; she was as free to go and come as the wild canaries that hopped upon the budding bramble vines that grew upon the railway embankment, or the blue-breasted swallows that sat on the telegraph wire.

At first she only walked to hide her tears; then gradually the purpose formed within her to go on to the break in the road. There was no reason why she should not go to see the mishap. Truly there had been many a breakdown on this road before and Zilda had never stirred foot to examine them, but now she walked on steadily. Her fear told her that Gilby might find some means of getting on to the next station, some engine laden with supplies for the workmen from the other station might take him back with it. If so, what good would this journey do her? Ah, but perhaps the good God would allow her to see him first, or-well, she walked on, reason or no reason.

The sun was high, the blue of the sky seemed a hundred miles in depth, and not wisp or feather of cloud in it any

"You! mam'selle Zilda," he said in surprise; "how came you here?"

"I wished to see the broken road. monsieur." There was nothing in her voice or manner then or at any other time to indicate that she took a special interest in him.

"Do you often take such long walks?" he asked with curiosity.

Zilda shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes; why not?"

where! Where the flat fields were untilled they were very green, a green that was almost yellow, it was SO bright. The river which further on had done damage to the line, here ran close to it some distance, consequently Zilda came to the river before she reached the scene of the disaster. The river banks at this season were marshy green like plush or velvet when it is lifted dripping from green vats of the brightest dye. There were some trees by the river bank, maples and elms, and every twig was tipped with a crimson gem. Zilda did not see the beauty of the river; she regarded noth-less. "Look here," he said, "I slipped ing until she came to a place where a foot track was beaten down the side of the embankment, as if apparently to entice walkers to stray across a bit of the meadow and so cut off a large curve of the line. At this point Zilda heard a loud, chirpy voice calling, "Hi! hi! who's there? Is any one there?"

Zilda did not know from whence the voice came, but she knew from whom it came. It was Gilby's voice, and she stopped, her soul ravished by the music. All the way along, bobolinks, canaries, and song-sparrows had been singing to her, the swallows and red-throats had been talking; everywhere among the soft spongy mosses, the singing frog of the Canadian spring had been filling the air with its one soft, whistling note. Zilda had not heard them, but now she stopped suddenly, with head bent, listening eager, enraptured.

"Hi! hi!" called the voice again. "Is any one there?"

Zilda went down the bank half way among the bushes and looked over. She saw Gilby sitting at the edge of the meadow almost in the river water. She saw at once that something was wrong. His attitude was as natural as he could make it, such an attitude as a proud man might assume when pain is chaining him in an awkward position, but Zilda saw that he was injured. Her heart gave a great bound of pleasure. Ah! her bird was wounded in the wing; she had him now, for a time at least.

She could not have told why she dissembled; it was instinct just as it was the instinct of his proud little spirit to hate to own that he was help

on the bank, and I-I think I have sprained my ankle."

"Oui, monsieur," said Zilda. Her manner evinced no surprise; her stolidity was grateful to him.

Stooping down, she took his foot in her hand, gently, but as firmly as if it had been a horse's hoof. She straightened it, unlaced his muddy boot, and with strong hands tore the slit further open until she could take it off.

"Look here," he said, with a little nervous shout of laughter, "do you not know you are hurting me?" It was the only wince he gave, although he was faint with pain.

"Oui, monsieur"-with a smile as firm and gentle as her touch.

She took off her hat, and, heedless of the ribbon upon it, filled it with water again and again and drenched the swollen leg. It was so great a relief to him that he hardly noticed that she stood ankle-deep in the river to do ît. She wore a little red tartan shawl upon her shoulders, and she dipped this also in the river, binding it round and round the ankle, and tying it tight with her own bootlace.

"Thank you," said he; "you are really very good, mam'selle Zilda."

She stood beside him; she was radiantly happy, but she did not show it much. She had him there very safe; it mattered less to her how to get him away; yet in a minute she said:

"Monsieur had better move a little higher up; he is very uncomfortable." He knew that much better than she,

but he had borne all the pain he could just then. He nodded as if in dismissal of the idea. "Presently. But, in the mean time, Zilda, sit down and see what a beautiful place this is; you have not looked at it."

So she found a stone to sit on, and immediately her eyes were opened and she saw the loveliness around her.

The river was not a very broad one, but ah! how blue it was, with a glint of gold on every wave. The trees that stood upon either bank cast a lacework of shadow upon the carpet of moss and violets beneath them. The buds of the maples were red. On a tree near them a couple of male canaries, bright gold in the spring season, were hopping and piping; then startled, they flew off in a straight line over the river to the other shore.

"See them," said Gilby; "they look like streaks of yellow light!"

where he sat-a stalwart young woman in homespun gown, stooping and rising with regular toilsome movement as she worked the rattling machine that came swiftly nearer.

When the carriage thus provided for him was close at hand, the almost breathless Zilda actually proposed to exert her strength to carry Gilby up to it. He insisted upon hopping on one foot supported by her arms; he did not feel the slightest inclination to lean upon her more than was needful, he was too self-conscious and proud. Even after she had placed him on the car, he kept up an air of offence for a long time just because she had proved her strength to be so much greater than his own. His little rudenesses of this sort did not disturb Zilda's tranquillity in the least.

Gilby sat on the low platform of the hand-car. He looked like a bantam

"I see," said Zilda, and she did see for cock whose feathers were much ruffled. the first time.

Now Gilby had a certain capacity for rejoicing in the beauties of nature; it was overlaid with huge conceit in his own taste and discernment and a love of forcing his observations on other people, but the flaws in his character Zilda was not in a position to see: The good in him awakened in her a higher virtue than she would otherwise have known; she was unconscious of the rest, just as eyes which can see form and not color are unconscious of the bad blending of artificial hues.

Presently Zilda rose up. "I will make monsieur more comfortable," she said, and she lifted him to a drier place upon the bank.

This was mortifying to little Gilby; his manner was quite huffy for some minutes after.

Zilda had her own ideas of what she would do. She presently left him alone and walked on swiftly to the place of the breakdown. There she borrowed a hand-car; it was a light one that could be worked easily by two men, and Zilda determined to work it alone. While she was coming back along the iron road on the top of the narrow embankment, Gilby could see her from

Zilda worked at the handles of the machine; she was very large and strong, all her attitudes were statuesque. The May day beamed on the flat spring landscape through which they were travelling; the beam found a perfect counterpart in the joy of Zilda's heart.

So she brought Gilby safely to the hotel and installed him in the best room there. The sprain was a very bad one. Gilby was obliged to lie there for a month. Sometimes his friends came out from the town to see him, but not very often, and they did not stay long. Zilda cooked for him, Zilda waited upon him, Zilda conversed with him in the afternoons when he needed amusement. This month was the period of her happiness.

When he was going home, Gilby felt really very grateful to the girl. He had not the slightest thought of making love to her; he felt too strongly on the subject of his dignity and his principles for that; but although he haggled with Chaplot over the bill, he talked in a bombastic manner about making Zilda a present.

It did not distress Zilda that he should quarrel with her father's bill; she

had no higher idea in character than that each should seek his own in all things; but when Gilby talked of giving her a present she shrank instinctively with an air of offence. This air of offence was the one betrayal of her affection which he could observe, and he did not gather very much of the truth from it.

"I will give you a watch, Zilda," he said, "a gold watch; you will like that."

"No, monsieur." Zilda's face was flushed and her head was high in the air.

From The Nineteenth Century. THE DEVELOPMENT OF LORD SALISBURY.

An extant letter from Gifford, the first conductor of the Quarterly Review, to Hookham Frere, the friend of Canning and the translator of Aristophanes, is instructively suggestive of the literary associations or traditions of the political party which is led to-day by Lord Salisbury. The editor, anxious to secure an article from the statesman who, whether in prose or verse, wielded a pen brilliant beyond his contemporaries, had hinted to his confidant the scholar, then under secretary at the

"I will give you a ring; you would like Foreign Office, "that Mr. Canning that a golden ring."

might find himself confined with a

"No, monsieur; I would not like it at slight cold to the house; might dine off all."

Gilby retired from the discussion that day feeling some offence and a good deal of consternation. He thought the best thing would be to have nothing more to do with Zilda; but the next day, in the bustle of his departure, remembering all she had done for him, he relented entirely, and he gave her a kiss.

Afterwards, when the train was at the station, and Chaplot and Zilda had put his bags and his wraps beside him on a cushioned seat, Gilby turned and with great politeness accosted two fine ladies who were travelling in the same carriage and with whom he had a slight acquaintance. His disposition was at once genial and vain; he had been so long absent from the familiar faces of the town that his heart warmed to the first townsfolk he saw; but he was also ambitious; he wished to appear on good terms with these women, who were his superiors in social position.

They would not have anything to do with him, which offended him very much; they received his greeting coldly and turned away; they said within themselves that he was an intolerably vulgar little person.

But all her life Zilda Chaplot lived a better and happier woman because she had known him.

L. DOUGALL.

a chicken and a pint of wine, and might amuse himself afterwards with preparing, secundum artem, an essay which would dazzle and instruct the world in the next issue of the Tory trimestrial." Of the Conservative premiers since Canning to this day, Lord Salisbury is perhaps the only one whose connection with the Albemarle Street periodical is a fact that it would be affectation to ignore. The latest of Mr. Disraeli's novels is in some respects the most autobiographical. It is well known to all possessed of any acquaintance with the conditions of its composition that Mr. Neuchatel, the banker, was not more the reproduction of the famous and popular head of the New Court firm, the great Baron Rothschild, than that the father of the hero was a literary reflection of the erewhile Lord Robert Cecil; while the author's own image must be sought for less in the eponymous figure of the book than in his sister Myra. A Disraelian study of Robert Cecil is to be found in Julian

Ferrars, brilliant, haughty, reserved, industrious, who, when straitened in his private circumstances, still contrives to supply his wife's wardrobe not less splendidly than in their pros perous days, out of the proceeds of his writing in that periodical, "an organic law of which it is that the most opulent contributor should be paid as liberally as the neediest." Canning, more

« AnteriorContinuar »