“Not too cross young lady,” repeated Joe with the aggravating inanity of a talking machine.
Dr. Camperdown almost lost patience, and felt inclined to indulge in one of his fits of ill-temper. But he restrained himself, only muttering under breath, “You rasping, unaccommodating Micmac, I’d like to thrash you.” Then he said aloud,[aloud,] “Young lady French, Joe. Her fathers and your fathers great friends.”
Joe replied to this statement by a non-committal grunt.
“Servants up at big house not like young lady much,” observed Dr. Camperdown.
The Micmac’s sleepy eyes lighted up. “Cook—fat porpoise—Jane one wild-cat. She not stay many moons.”
Dr. Camperdown laughed sarcastically. “You true prophet about servants, Joe. Shall I tell Mrs. Colonibel to search for new maids?”
Joe did not show any signs of confusion, except by withdrawing his eyes from Dr. Camperdown, and staring stolidly at the fire.
“You good servant, Joe,” remarked Dr. Camperdown cajolingly. “You serve Colonel Armour well. You can serve him and young lady too. She all alone. You watch, Joe, and if young lady wants a friend, you help her. You not let any one do anything to hurt her.”
Joe was a faithful servant to the House of Armour in his mistaken sense of the term, inasmuch as he was too ready to do the bidding of any members of the family, no matter how dishonorable a thing he might be required to do. If Vivienne Delavigne had been received kindly by the Armours and treated as one of themselves he would have had not the slightest hesitation in giving Dr. Camperdown the pledge he required. But with the keenness and sharp wit of an Indian, he had quickly divined the status of the young lady up at the big house, and thought that a promise of service to her might complicate his relations with the family of his employer. And still, he was under great obligations to Dr. Camperdown, and felt sure that the physician would not require him to attempt the impossible. So at last he said gravely, “If young lady need, I servum—if no need, I no servum.”
“That’s good, Joe,” said the Doctor with immense satisfaction. “You’ve given me your word, and being only a poor Micmac and not a clever white man, you won’t break it. Here’s a roll of tobacco. Good-night to you,” and he swung himself out of the cottage as precipitately as he had come, hurrying along the winding path muttering contentedly, “That’s done. Stargarde would be pleased, if she knew,” and listening with pleasure to the faint song of the snowshoers who were just leaving the house: