“Hello, Blockhead!” one of the big boys would greet me. “Still hanging around Muriel? She makes us sick.”
I am naturally fond of children, but they need not have the manners of a playful bear.
I went to Riviere du Loup for a short holiday towards the end of the summer, with Mason’s consent, but without the knowledge of my father. My reception by Muriel was all that I dreamed it would be; but that of Mrs. Joseph was frosty and forbidding. She had, however, to make the best of my presence, and did so with a bad grace. In the freedom of country life, without the backing of the Doctor’s countenance, Muriel and I had her rather at a disadvantage. We were young and selfish, and neither generous nor thoughtful for her feelings. Morning, noon and night we were together, which, of course, caused talk among busybodies. That any one would dare even to whisper about the conduct of her daughter was gall and wormwood to Mrs. Joseph. Lizette was careful to keep her informed of all the disagreeable and mean remarks made about Wesblock, and was not too particular how she repeated such things. Consequently, a more or less painful scene took place between Muriel and her mother at nearly every meal and with great regularity every night.
“Where have you been, miss, till this hour of night, nearly twelve o’clock?” Mrs. Joseph would ask when Muriel appeared at about half-past ten at night.
“Why, mother, it’s only half-past ten,” Muriel would reply.
“Don’t dare to discuss the matter of time, Muriel. Answer my question. Where have you been? I need hardly ask with whom.”
“I’ve only been in the orchard with Mr. Wesblock.”
“Oh! only in the orchard till after midnight with a perfect stranger.”
“Now, don’t be foolish, mother.”
“Foolish! You dare to call your mother a fool. I’ll write to your father and have you sent to the convent at once.”