“Yes—yes—and that dear good man, the missionary. When the Reverend Mr. Morton comes to Fort Prince George, precious love, you must embroider for him a sermon-case or a silk poor-bag.”
“I fancy a man who wants to save Indians’ souls doesn’t care for gauds of embroidery, and the poor don’t get much comfort from a fine silk bag,” said Arabella, with sudden contumacy.
Mrs. Annandale swiftly put her in the wrong.
“Oh, my own, don’t reflect on the minister for trying to save the souls of Indians. God made them, child, God made them. Humanly speaking, He might have done better. But everything has a purpose. Perhaps Providence created them with souls, and no manners, to give the Mr. Mortons of this life something to do, to keep them going up and down in the waste places where the Indians are safely out of sight of civilized people—except fools who journey from London to see how near they can come to being scalped without losing hair or hide. Oh, no, my dear; realize human limitations and never, never reflect on the purposes of creation.”
Mervyn, noticing the frowning cogitation on Arabella’s fair brow as she listened, interposed in his own interest—“All this is aside from the question. May I come in to dinner?”
Once again Mrs. Annandale vacillated, and Arabella, marking her hesitation, was a little ashamed of a suspicion she had entertained. She had fancied that, although her aunt had said that Mervyn was far too highly placed and too richly endowed with worldly goods to make a possible parti for her, there had been some scheme in Mrs. Annandale’s mind, nevertheless, to try for his capture. Now as he fairly begged for an hour of her society the old lady doubted, and hesitated, and was hardly hospitable to her old friend’s grandson and her neighbor. She even began to make terms with him.
“You won’t want to fetch over with you any of the villains at the mess-hall? For I don’t know what is the state of the larder—or if we have anything to eat.”
“No—no, only myself, madam. And I’ll bring my own dinner, if you like.”
“What have you got for dinner?” Mrs. Annandale asked as she stood on the step of the commandant’s quarters, and looked over her shoulder with a benign jocosity.
“The finest trout you ever tasted, madam,” he protested. “Do let me send them in to you.”