In a flash of thought, I remembered the cup of coffee at Seymour
Crescent, the curious sherry at Port-au-Prince, the cigarette with the
manchineal she had given me on the mountains, and I saw forthwith that
Irene with her woman's quickness had divined rightly. It was more than
infatuation; it was intoxication with African charms and West Indian
poisons. "What a man does in such a woman's hands is not his own doing," Irene
said slowly. "He has no more control of himself in such circumstances
than if she had drugged him with chloroform or opium." "Then you forgive me, Irene?" "I have nothing to forgive, Harry. I am grieved for you. I am
frightened." Then bursting into tears, "My darling, my darling; I love
you, I love you!" _LUCRETIA._


I will acknowledge that I was certainly a very young man in the year
'67; indeed, I was only just turned of twenty, and was inordinately
proud of a slight downy fringe on my upper lip, which I was pleased to
speak of as my moustache. Still, I was a sturdy young fellow enough, in
spite of my consumptive tendencies, and not given to groundless fears in
a general way; but I must allow that I was decidedly frightened by my
adventure in the Richmond Hotel on the Christmas Eve of that aforesaid
year of grace. It may be a foolish reminiscence, yet I dare say you
won't mind listening to it. When I say the Richmond Hotel, you must not understand me to speak of
the Star and Garter in the town of that ilk situated in the county of
Surrey, England. The Richmond where I passed my uncomfortable Christmas
Eve stands on the banks of the pretty St. Francis River in Lower Canada. I had gone out to the colony in the autumn of that year, to look after a
small property of my mother's near Kamouraska; and I originally intended
to spend the winter in Quebec. But as November and December wore away,
and the snow grew deeper and deeper upon the plains of Abraham, I became
gradually aware that a Canadian winter was not the best adapted tonic in
the world for a hearty young man with a slight hereditary
predisposition to consumption. I had seen enough of Arctic life in
Quebec during those two initial months to give me a good idea of its
pleasures and its drawbacks. I had steered by taboggan down the ice-cone
at the Falls of Montmorenci; I had driven a sleigh, _tête-à-tête_ with a
French Canadian belle, to a surprise picnic in a house at Sainte Anne; I
had skated, snow-shoed, and curled to my heart's content; and I had
caught my death of cold on the frozen St. Lawrence, not to mention such
minor misfortunes as getting my nose, ears, and feet frostbitten during
a driving party up the banks of the Chaudière. So a few days before
Christmas, I determined to strike south. I would go for a tour through
Virginia and the Carolinas, to escape the cold weather, waiting for the
return of the summer sun to catch a glimpse of Niagara and the great
lakes. For this purpose I must first go to Montreal; and, that being the case,
what could be more convenient than to spend Christmas Day itself with
the rector at Richmond, to whom I had letters of introduction, his wife
being in fact a first cousin of my mother's? Richmond lies half-way on
the Grand Trunk line between Quebec and Montreal, and it would be more
pleasant, by breaking my journey there, to eat my turkey and
plum-pudding in a friend's family than in that somewhat cheerless hotel,
the Dominion Hall. So off I started from the Point Levy station, at four
o'clock on the twenty-fourth of December, hoping to arrive at my
journey's end about one o'clock on Christmas morning. Now, those were the days, just after the great American civil war, when
gold was almost unknown either in the States or Canada, and everybody
used greasy dollar notes of uncertain and purely local value. Hence I
was compelled to take the money for expenses on my projected tour in the
only form of specie which was available, that of solid silver. A hundred
and fifty pounds in silver dollars amounts to a larger bulk and a
heavier weight than you would suppose; and I thought it safer to carry
the sum in my own hands, loosely bundled into a large leather reticule. _Hinc illoe lacrimoe_:--that was the real cause of my night's
adventure and of the present story. When I got into the long open American railway-carriage, with its
comfortable stove and warm foot-bricks, I found only one seat vacant,
and that was a red velvet sofa, opposite to another occupied by a girl
of singular beauty. I can remember to this day exactly how she was
dressed. I dare say my lady readers will think it horribly old-fashioned
at the present time, but it was the very latest and most enchanting
style in the year '67. On her head was a coquettish little cheese-plate
bonnet, bound round with one of those warm, soft, fleecy woollen veils
or head-wraps which Canadian girls know as Nubias. Her dress was a short
winter walking costume of the period, trimmed with fur, and vandyked at
the bottom so as to show a glimpse of the quilted down petticoat
underneath. Her little high-heeled boots, displayed by the short
costume, were buttoned far above the ankle, and bound with fur to match
the dress; while a tiny tassel at the side added just a suspicion of
Parisian coquetry. Her cloak was lined with sable, or what seemed so to
my undiscriminating eyes; and her rug was a splendid piece of wolverine
skins. As to her eyes, her lips, her figure, I had rather not attempt
them. I can manage clothes, but not goddesses. Altogether, quite a dream
of Canadian beauty, not devoid of that indefinable grace which goes only
with the French blood. I was not bold in '67, and I would have preferred to take any other seat
rather than face this divine apparition; but there was no help for it,
since all the others were filled: so I sat down a little sheepishly, I
dare say. Almost before we were well out of the station we had got into
a conversation, and it was she who began it. "You are an Englishman, I think?" she said, looking at me with a frank
and pleasant smile. "Yes," I answered, colouring, though why I should have been ashamed of
my nationality for that solitary moment of my life I cannot
imagine,--unless, perhaps, because _she_ was a Canadian; "but how on
earth did you discover it?" "You would have been more warmly wrapped up if you had lived long in
Canada," she replied. "In spite of our stoves and hot bricks, you'll
find yourself very cold before you get to your journey's end." "Yes," I said; "I suppose it's rather chilly late at night in these big
cars." "Dreadfully; oh, quite terribly. You ought to have a rug, you really
ought. Won't you let me lend you one? I have another under the seat
here." "But you brought that for yourself," I interposed. "You will want it
by-and-by, when it gets a little colder." "Oh no, I shan't. This is warm enough for me; it's wolverine. You have a
mother?" What an extraordinary question, I thought, and what an unusually
friendly girl!