One Day's Courtship, and The Heralds of Fame

“Yes,” hesitated Trenton, “I know him. I may say I know him very well. In fact, he is a namesake of mine.”

“Why, how curious it is I had never thought of that. Is your first name J—, the same as his?”

“Yes.”

“Not a relative, is he?”

“Well, no. I don’t think I can call him a relative. I don’t know that I can even go so far as to call him my friend, but he is an acquaintance.”

“Oh, tell me about him,” cried Miss Sommerton, enthusiastically. “He is one of the Englishmen I have longed very much to meet.”

“Then you forgave him his rude letter?”

“Oh, I forgave that long ago. I don’t know that it was rude, after all. It was truthful. I presume the truth offended me.”

“Well,” said Trenton, “truth has to be handled very delicately, or it is apt to give offence. You bought a landscape of his, did you? Which one, do you remember?”

“It was a picture of the Thames valley.”

“Ah, I don’t recall it at the moment. A rather hackneyed subject, too. Probably he sent it to America because he couldn’t sell it in England.”

“Oh, I suppose you think we buy anything here that the English refuse, I beg to inform you this picture had a place in the Royal Academy, and was very highly spoken of by the critics. I bought it in England.”

“Oh yes, I remember it now, ‘The Thames at Sonning.’ Still, it was a hackneyed subject, although reasonably well treated.”

“Reasonably well! I think it one of the finest landscape pictures of the century.”

“Well, in that at least Trenton would agree with you.”

“He is very conceited, you mean?”

“Even his enemies admit that.”

“I don’t believe it. I don’t believe a man of such talent could be so conceited.”

“Then, Miss Sommerton, allow me to say you have very little knowledge of human nature. It is only reasonable that a great man should know he is a great man. Most of our great men are conceited. I would like to see Trenton’s letter to you. I could then have a good deal of amusement at his expense when I get back.”

“Well, in that case I can assure you that you will never see the letter.”

“Ah, you destroyed it, did you?”

“Not for that reason.”

“Then you did destroy it?”

“I tore it up, but on second thoughts I pasted it together again, and have it still.”

“In that case, why should you object to showing me the letter?”

“Well, because I think it rather unusual for a lady to be asked by a gentleman show him a letter that has been written to her by another gentleman.”

“In matters of the heart that is true; but in matters of art it is not.”

“Is that intended for a pun?”

“It is as near to one as I ever allow myself to come, I should like very much to see Mr. Trenton’s letter. It was probably brutally rude. I know the man, you see.”

“It was nothing of the sort,” replied Miss Sommerton, hotly. “It was a truthful, well-meant letter.”

“And yet you tore it up?”

“But that was the first impulse. The pasting it together was the apology.”

“And you will not show it to me?”

“No, I will not.”

“Did you answer it?”

“I will tell you nothing more about it. I am sorry I spoke of the letter at all. You don’t appreciate Mr. Trenton’s work.”

“Oh, I beg your pardon, I do. He has no greater admirer in England than I am—except himself, of course.”

“I suppose it makes no difference to you to know that I don’t like a remark like that.”

“Oh, I thought it would please you. You see, with the exception of myself, Mr. Trenton is about the rudest man in England. In fact, I begin to suspect it was Mr. Trenton’s letter that led you to a wholesale condemning of the English race, for you admit the Englishmen you have met were not rude.”

“You forget I have met you since then.”

“Well bowled, as we say in cricket.”

“Has Mr. Trenton many friends in London?”

“Not a great number. He is a man who sticks rather closely to his work, and, as I said before, he prides himself on telling the truth. That doesn’t do in London any more than it does in Boston.”

“Well, I honour him for it.”

“Oh, certainly; everybody does in the abstract. But it is not a quality that tends to the making or the keeping of friends, you know.”

“If you see Mr. Trenton when you return, I wish you would tell him there is a lady in America who is a friend of his; and if he has any pictures the people over there do not appreciate, ask him to send them to Boston, and his friend will buy them.”

“Then you must be rich, for his pictures bring very good prices, even in England.”

“Yes,” said Miss Sommerton, “I am rich.”

“Well, I suppose it’s very jolly to be rich,” replied the artist, with a sigh.

“You are not rich, then, I imagine?”

“No, I am not. That is, not compared with your American fortunes. I have enough of money to let me roam around the world if I wish to, and get half drowned in the St. Maurice River.”

“Oh, is it not strange that we have heard nothing from those boatmen? You surely don’t imagine they could have been drowned?”

“I hardly think so. Still, it is quite possible.”

“Oh, don’t say that; it makes me feel like a murderer.”

“Well, I think it was a good deal your fault, don’t you know.” Miss Sommerton looked at him.

“Have I not been punished enough already?” she said.

“For the death of two men—if they are dead? Bless me! no. Do you imagine for a moment there is any relation between the punishment and the fault?”

Miss Sommerton buried her face in her hands.

“Oh, I take that back,” said Trenton. “I didn’t mean to say such a thing.”

“It is the truth—it is the truth!” wailed the young woman. “Do you honestly think they did not reach the shore?”

“Of course they did. If you want to know what has happened, I’ll tell you exactly, and back my opinion by a bet if you like. An Englishman is always ready to back his opinion, you know. Those two men swam with the current until they came to some landing-place. They evidently think we are drowned. Nevertheless, they are now making their way through the woods to the settlement. Then comes the hubbub. Mason will stir up the neighbourhood, and the men who are back from the woods with the other canoes will be roused and pressed into service, and some time to-night we will be rescued.”

“Oh, I hope that is the case,” cried Miss Sommerton, looking brightly at him.

“It is the case. Will you bet about it?”

“I never bet,” said Miss Sommerton.

“Ah, well, you miss a good deal of fun then. You see I am a bit of a mind reader. I can tell just about where the men are now.”

“I don’t believe much in mind reading.”

“Don’t you? Shall I give you a specimen of it? Take that letter we have spoken so much about. If you think it over in your mind I will read you the letter—not word for word, perhaps, but I shall give you gist of it, at least.”

“Oh, impossible!”

“Do you remember it?”

“I have it with me.”

“Oh, have you? Then, if you wish to preserve it, you should spread it out upon the ground to dry before the fire.”

“There is no need of my producing the letter,” replied Miss Sommerton; “I remember every word it.”

“Very well, just think it over in your mind, and see if I cannot repeat it. Are you thinking about it?”

“Yes, I am thinking about it.”

“Here goes, then. ‘Miss Edith Sommerton—‘”

“Wrong,” said that young lady.

“The Sommerton is right, is it not?”

“Yes, but the first name is not.”

“What is it, then?”

“I shall not tell you.”

“Oh, very well. Miss Sommerton,—‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter.’ Oh, by the way, I forgot the address. That is the first sentence of the letter, but the address is some number which I cannot quite see, ‘Beacon Street, Boston.’ Is there any such street in that city?”

“There is,” said Miss Sommerton. “What a question to ask.”

“Ah, then Beacon Street is one of the principal streets, is it?”

“One of them? It is the street. It is Boston.”

“Very good. I will now proceed with the letter. ‘I have some hesitation in answering your letter, because the sketches you send are so bad, that it seems to me no one could seriously forward them to an artist for criticism. However, if you really desire criticism, and if the pictures are sent in good faith, I may say I see in them no merit whatever, not even good drawing; while the colours are put on in a way that would seem to indicate you have not yet learned the fundamental principle of mixing the paints. If you are thinking of earning a livelihood with your pencil, I strongly advise you to abandon the idea. But if you are a lady of leisure and wealth, I suppose there is no harm in your continuing as long as you see fit.—Yours truly, JOHN TRENTON.’”

Miss Sommerton, whose eyes had opened wider and wider as this reading went on, said sharply—

“He has shown you the letter. You have seen it before it was sent.”

“I admit that,” said the artist.

“Well—I will believe all you like to say about Mr. John Trenton.”

“Now, stop a moment; do not be too sweeping in your denunciation of him. I know that Mr. Trenton showed the letter to no one.”

“Why, I thought you said a moment ago that he showed it to you.”

“He did. Yet no one but himself saw the letter.”

The young lady sprang to her feet.

“Are you, then, John Trenton, the artist?”

“Miss Sommerton, I have to plead guilty.”

Chapter VI

Miss Eva Sommerton and Mr. John Trenton stood on opposite sides of the blazing fire and looked at each other. A faint smile hovered around the lips of the artist, but Miss Sommerton’s face was very serious. She was the first to speak.

“It seems to me,” she said, “that there is something about all this that smacks of false pretences.”

“On my part, Miss Sommerton?”

“Certainly on your part. You must have known all along that I was the person who had written the letter to you. I think, when you found that out, you should have spoken of it.”

“Then you do not give me credit for the honesty of speaking now. You ought to know that I need not have spoken at all, unless I wished to be very honest about the matter.”

“Yes, there is that to be said in your favour, of course.”

“Well, Miss Sommerton, I hope you will consider anything that happens to be in my favour. You see, we are really old friends, after all.”

“Old enemies, you mean.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. I would rather look on myself as your friend than your enemy.”

“The letter you wrote me was not a very friendly one.”

“I am not so sure. We differ on that point, you know.”

“I am afraid we differ on almost every point.”

“No, I differ with you there again. Still, I must admit I would prefer being your enemy—”

“To being my friend?” said Miss Sommerton, quickly.

“No, to being entirely indifferent to you.”

“Really, Mr. Trenton, we are getting along very rapidly, are we not?” said the young lady, without looking up at him.

“Now, I am pleased to be able to agree with you there, Miss Sommerton. As I said before, an incident like this does more to ripen acquaintance or friendship, or—” The young man hesitated, and did not complete his sentence.

“Well,” said the artist, after a pause, “which is it to be, friends or enemies?”

“It shall be exactly as you say,” she replied.

“If you leave the choice to me, I shall say friends. Let us shake hands on that.”

She held out her hand frankly to him as he crossed over to her side, and as he took it in his own, a strange thrill passed through him, and acting on the impulse of the moment, he drew her toward him and kissed her.

“How dare you!” she cried, drawing herself indignantly from him. “Do you think I am some backwoods girl who is flattered by your preference after a day’s acquaintance?”

“Not a day’s acquaintance, Miss Sommerton—a year, two years, ten years. In fact, I feel as though I had known you all my life.”

“You certainly act as if you had. I did think for some time past that you were a gentleman. But you take advantage now of my unprotected position.”

“Miss Sommerton, let me humbly apologise!”

“I shall not accept your apology. It cannot be apologised for. I must ask you not to speak to me again until Mr. Mason comes. You may consider yourself very fortunate when I tell you I shall say nothing of what has passed to Mr. Mason when he arrives.”

John Trenton made no reply, but gathered another armful of wood and flung it on the fire.

Miss Sommerton sat very dejectedly looking at the embers.

For half an hour neither of them said anything.

Suddenly Trenton jumped up and listened intently.

“What is it?” cried Miss Sommerton, startled by his action.

“Now,” said Trenton, “that is unfair. If I am not to be allowed to speak to you, you must not ask me any questions.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Miss Sommerton, curtly.

“But really I wanted to say something, and I wanted you to be the first to break the contract imposed. May I say what I wish to? I have just thought about something.”

“If you have thought of anything that will help us out of our difficulty, I shall be very glad to hear it indeed.”

“I don’t know that it will help us out of our difficulties, but I think it will help us now that we’re in them. You know, I presume, that my camera, like John Brown’s knapsack, was strapped on my back, and that it is one of the few things rescued from the late disaster?”

He paused for a reply, but she said nothing. She evidently was not interested in his camera.

“Now, that camera-box is water-tight. It is really a very natty arrangement, although you regard it so scornfully.”

He paused a second time, but there was no reply.

“Very well; packed in that box is, first the camera, then the dry plates, but most important of all, there are at least two or three very nice Three Rivers sandwiches. What do you say to our having supper?”

Miss Sommerton smiled in spite of herself, and Trenton busily unstrapped the camera-box, pulled out the little instrument, and fished up from the bottom a neatly-folded white table-napkin, in which were wrapped several sandwiches.

“Now,” he continued, “I have a folding drinking-cup and a flask of sherry. It shows how absent-minded I am, for I ought to have thought of the wine long ago. You should have had a glass of sherry the moment we landed here. By the way, I wanted to say, and I say it now in case I shall forget it, that when I ordered you so unceremoniously to go around picking up sticks for the fire, it was not because I needed assistance, but to keep you, if possible, from getting a chill.”

“Very kind of you,” remarked Miss Sommerton.

But the Englishman could not tell whether she meant just what she said or not.

“I wish you would admit that you are hungry. Have you had anything to eat to-day?”

“I had, I am ashamed to confess,” she answered. “I took lunch with me and I ate it coming down in the canoe. That was what troubled me about you. I was afraid you had eaten nothing all day, and I wished to offer you some lunch when we were in the canoe, but scarcely liked to. I thought we would soon reach the settlement. I am very glad you have sandwiches with you.”

“How little you Americans really know of the great British nation, after all. Now, if there is one thing more than another that an Englishman looks after, it is the commissariat.”

After a moment’s silence he said—

“Don’t you think, Miss Sommerton, that notwithstanding any accident or disaster, or misadventure that may have happened, we might get back at least on the old enemy footing again? I would like to apologise”—he paused for a moment, and added, “for the letter I wrote you ever so many years ago.”

“There seem to be too many apologies between us,” she replied. “I shall neither give nor take any more.”

“Well,” he answered, “I think after all that is the best way. You ought to treat me rather kindly though, because you are the cause of my being here.”

“That is one of the many things I have apologised for. You surely do not wish to taunt me with it again?”

“Oh, I don’t mean the recent accident. I mean being here in America. Your sketches of the Shawenegan Falls, and your description of the Quebec district, brought me out to America; and, added to that—I expected to meet you.”

“To meet me?”

“Certainly. Perhaps you don’t know that I called at Beacon Street, and found you were from home—with friends in Canada, they said—and I want to say, in self-defence, that I came very well introduced. I brought letters to people in Boston of the most undoubted respectability, and to people in New York, who are as near the social equals of the Boston people as it is possible for mere New York persons to be. Among other letters of introduction I had two to you. I saw the house in Beacon Street. So, you see, I have no delusions about your being a backwoods girl, as you charged me with having a short time since.”

“I would rather not refer to that again, if you please.”

“Very well. Now, I have one question to ask you—one request to make. Have I your permission to make it?”

“It depends entirely on what your request is.”

“Of course, in that case you cannot tell until I make it. So I shall now make my request, and I want you to remember, before you refuse it, that you are indebted to me for supper. Miss Sommerton, give me a plug of tobacco.”

Miss Sommerton stood up in dumb amazement.

“You see,” continued the artist, paying no heed to her evident resentment, “I have lost my tobacco in the marine disaster, but luckily I have my pipe. I admit the scenery is beautiful here, if we could only see it; but darkness is all around, although the moon is rising. It can therefore be no desecration for me to smoke a pipeful of tobacco, and I am sure the tobacco you keep will be the very best that can be bought. Won’t you grant my request, Miss Sommerton?”

At first Miss Sommerton seemed to resent the audacity of this request. Then a conscious light came into her face, and instinctively her hand pressed the side of her dress where her pocket was supposed to be.

“Now,” said the artist, “don’t deny that you have the tobacco. I told you I was a bit of a mind reader, and besides, I have been informed that young ladies in America are rarely without the weed, and that they only keep the best.”

The situation was too ridiculous for Miss Sommerton to remain very long indignant about it. So she put her hand in her pocket and drew out a plug of tobacco, and with a bow handed it to the artist.

“Thanks,” he replied; “I shall borrow a pipeful and give you back the remainder. Have you ever tried the English birdseye? I assure you it is a very nice smoking tobacco.”

“I presume,” said Miss Sommerton, “the boatmen told you I always gave them some tobacco when I came up to see the falls?”

“Ah, you will doubt my mind-reading gift. Well, honestly, they did tell me, and I thought perhaps you might by good luck have it with you now. Besides, you know, wasn’t there the least bit of humbug about your objection to smoking as we came up the river? If you really object to smoking, of course I shall not smoke now.”

“Oh, I haven’t the least objection to it. I am sorry I have not a good cigar to offer you.”

“Thank you. But this is quite as acceptable. We rarely use plug tobacco in England, but I find some of it in this country is very good indeed.”

“I must confess,” said Miss Sommerton, “that I have very little interest in the subject of tobacco. But I cannot see why we should not have good tobacco in this country. We grow it here.”

“That’s so, when you come to think of it,” answered the artist.

Trenton sat with his back against the tree, smoking in a meditative manner, and watching the flicker of the firelight on the face of his companion, whose thoughts seemed to be concentrated on the embers.

“Miss Sommerton,” he said at last, “I would like permission to ask you a second question.

“You have it,” replied that lady, without looking up. “But to prevent disappointment, I may say this is all the tobacco I have. The rest I left in the canoe when I went up to the falls.”

“I shall try to bear the disappointment as well as I may. But in this case the question is of a very different nature. I don’t know just exactly how to put it. You may have noticed that I am rather awkward when it comes to saying the right thing at the right time. I have not been much accustomed to society, and I am rather a blunt man.”

“Many persons,” said Miss Sommerton with some severity, “pride themselves on their bluntness. They seem to think it an excuse for saying rude things. There is a sort of superstition that bluntness and honesty go together.”

“Well, that is not very encouraging, However, I do not pride myself on my bluntness, but rather regret it. I was merely stating a condition of things, not making a boast. In this instance I imagine I can show that honesty is the accompaniment. The question I wished to ask was something like this: Suppose I had had the chance to present to you my letters of introduction, and suppose that we had known each other for some time, and suppose that everything had been very conventional, instead of somewhat unconventional; supposing all this, would you have deemed a recent action of mine so unpardonable as you did a while ago?”

“You said you were not referring to smoking.”

“Neither am I. I am referring to my having kissed you. There’s bluntness for you.”

“My dear sir,” replied Miss Sommerton, shading her face with her hand, “you know nothing whatever of me.”

“That is rather evading the question.”

“Well, then, I know nothing whatever of you.”

“That is the second evasion. I am taking it for granted that we each know something of the other.”

“I should think it would depend entirely on how the knowledge influenced each party in the case. It is such a purely supposititious state of things that I cannot see how I can answer your question. I suppose you have heard the adage about not crossing a bridge until you come to it.”

“I thought it was a stream.”

“Well, a stream then. The principle is the same.”’

“I was afraid I would not be able to put the question in a way to make you understand it. I shall now fall back on my bluntness again, and with this question, are you betrothed?”

“We generally call it engaged in this country.”

“Then I shall translate my question into the language of the country, and ask if—”

“Oh, don’t ask it, please. I shall answer before you do ask it by saying, No. I do not know why I should countenance your bluntness, as you call it, by giving you an answer to such a question; but I do so on condition that the question is the last.”

“But the second question cannot be the last. There is always the third reading of a bill. The auctioneer usually cries, ‘Third and last time,’ not ‘Second and last time,’ and the banns of approaching marriage are called out three times. So, you see, I have the right to ask you one more question.”

“Very well. A person may sometimes have the right to do a thing, and yet be very foolish in exercising that right.”

“I accept your warning,” said the artist, “and reserve my right.”

“What time is it, do you think?” she asked him.

“I haven’t the least idea,” he replied; “my watch has stopped. That case was warranted to resist water, but I doubt if it has done so.”

“Don’t you think that if the men managed to save themselves they would have been here by this time?”

“I am sure I don’t know. I have no idea of the distance. Perhaps they may have taken it for granted we are drowned, and so there is one chance in a thousand that they may not come back at all.”

“Oh, I do not think such a thing is possible. The moment Mr. Mason heard of the disaster he would come without delay, no matter what he might believe the result of the accident to be.”

“Yes, I think you are right. I shall try to get out on this point and see if I can discover anything of them. The moon now lights up the river, and if they are within a reasonable distance I think I can see them from this point of rock.”

The artist climbed up on the point, which projected over the river. The footing was not of the safest, and Miss Sommerton watched him with some anxiety as he slipped and stumbled and kept his place by holding on to the branches of the overhanging trees.