“Well, she’s in the best parlour, and the door’s just at top of the stairs.”
Francis flew up the stairs, half a dozen steps at a time, and found Mrs. Vincent sitting before a table well spread with Yankee dainties. She was a sharp, shrewish, affected-looking personage, and was sipping the bitter decoction of common green tea, which Mrs. Abbott had made for her, with many a wry face and bitter complaint.
But she was doomed to experience something still more bitter, and have the cup, which was better than none, snatched from her lips.
“Vincent, if you wish to return with me to Quebec, there is not a moment to lose; I’m going off instantly.”
“My good gracious, sir! what can you mean? I can’t believe you are in earnest. I protest I’m not able to stir hand or foot. I never heard of such unreasonable conduct in my life. Of course, I couldn’t expect much consideration from you, but I think it shows very little for Miss Lennox to drag her off this way at a moment’s notice.”
“Miss Lennox—the devil!” exclaimed Francis, furiously. “Either get up, and come away this instant, or get back to Quebec as you can, for I’ll leave you behind me.”
Though greatly indulged by Mrs. Coryton, Vincent stood very much in awe of her young master’s fits of passion, and seldom liked to provoke them, but she could not control her indignation now.
“She had never heard of such barbarous conduct. After all the miseries she had suffered coming to that horrid place, all endured for his sake and the sake of her mistress, was she to be treated in this way? No better than a dog! But it was the way of the world. However, she wouldn’t sufFer it, not she; she knew what was due to herself better, thank God.”
Francis was now taking some dollars out of his pocket-book to pay Mrs. Abbott’s bill, but he looked up.
“Mrs. Vincent, you’d better make haste!”
“Well, they’re setting the sails, at any rate,” said Mrs. Abbott.
“And where’s the young lady?” screamed Vincent. “I don’t understand a word about it. Where’s Miss Lennox?”
“Don’t mention Miss Lennox,” cried Francis, in a paroxysm of rage, “or it shall be the worse for you.”
“I’d like to see you do anything to me!” cried the lady’s-maid, in a fury; “you’re not going to commit murder, I suppose? I’d like to know why I’m not to mention Miss Lennox. I’ve a whole lot of parcels and boxes for her, and if she’s not coming with us I suppose I must deliver them to her. It’s my duty to see Miss Lennox myself, and I’m sure my mistress would wish it. I only hope, Mr. Francis, you’ll be able to account for your conduct, that’s all!”
Throwing some money on the table, Francis walked up to the sofa on which Vincent was seated, took up her bonnet and shawl which lay beside her, thrust one on her head, and twisted the other round her throat to the imminent danger of choking her; then, seizing her by the arm, he dragged her down stairs, out of the house, and down to the wharf, to the infinite amusement of Mrs. Abbott and the rest of the spectators. At first the poor woman was really too much frightened to resist, and afterwards her dread of being left behind, of which she began now to think there was some danger, kept her silent and passive. So much subdued was she, that when two or three women came running after her from the tavern—one with her parasol, another with her handkerchief, and a third with her gloves, quite as anxious, probably, to see the end of the scene as to restore the goods left behind, she suffered Francis to send the women away with orders to throw the trash into the lake, or the fire, without making a single protest.
“Help this woman on board!” said Francis, as soon as they reached the boat.
“Ay, ay, sir!” said one of the sailors, grinning. “I guess that squall came on kinder sudden, ma’am,” he said, as he placed his charge safely on deck. “I expect it took all your sails aback.”
Speechless with rage and terror, poor Mrs. Vincent passed into the cabin to nurse her wrath, a and prepare a mental memorial of her grievances for the benefit of Mrs. Coryton.
The evening breeze now sprung up, and the schooner moved out from the wharf. The wind freshened, and ere long Francis lost sight of Long Arrow; wishing, as the last glimpse faded from his view, that all recollection of the pain and mortification he had endured there could vanish as easily from his memory.
But the wound his vanity had received went a long way towards curing his slighted love before I he reached Quebec.
“Helen,” said Keefe, that evening, as the lovers stood together by the lake, watching the silver light of a new moon blend with the golden light the sunset had left behind, and reflect their mingled tints in the glassy waters. “How is it that I receive the sacrifice of wealth and luxury, and position, you have made for me, so quietly? Is it presumptuous in me to feel I have that within me which can more than compensate to you for their loss?”
“Dear Keefe, you know they are as worthless and despicable in my eyes as in yours. Even if I had never known you, I could not have loved Francis; he is not false or bad, but he is vain, cold, and selfish; the world is his highest divinity, its decisions the strongest law. All that is highest and best in my nature would only meet with mockery and doubt from him, while from you I would be sure of sympathy and help.”
“And yet, if it had not been for you, Helen, all the finer faculties of my nature would have been shut up for ever.”
“Impossible, Keefe; in some way or other a soul so strong as your’s would have worked out its own deliverance. If I had not brought the key something else would have opened the lock.”
“More likely evil companions and example would have destroyed every germ of higher things before they could have reached the light. But now Helen is mine, and with her purity, love, and truth have become a part of my being,—never to be divided again from it.”
