“Certainly, dear.”
Vivienne sat down near the bewildered man who was spinning his hat through his hands like a teetotum. “Yes, yes,” he ejaculated; “I knew him. A beautiful gentleman he was; never gave me the cross word. It was a sad grief to the colonel to lose him—a sad grief.”
“Were you here when my father died?” asked Vivienne softly.
Stargarde gazed at her in deep anxiety while MacDaly gabbled on, “When he died, my dear—I mean my revered young lady—oh yes, I was here; he is dead—of course not being alive and present is to be dead and buried, otherwise interred and sepulchred.”
“Vivienne,” said Stargarde in a pained voice, “your father did not die here.”
“Did he not?” said the girl; “I thought that both he and my mother did, and that they were sent to their French home to be buried.”
“No,” said Stargarde, “your mother died in the French village; I do not know where your father’s body lies. MacDaly, I think that you had better go home.”
“May I not just ask him a few things more?” said Vivienne pleadingly. “I want to know whether he remembers my father when he first came here.”
“Do you, MacDaly?” asked Stargarde.
“Perfectly and most harmoniously; a youth fitted in every way to attract and embosom in himself the affections of the master who, progressing at a nimble pace through a settlement inhabited by the curious people known as the French, thrusts his white hand in the gutter and picks out the treasure-trove, enunciating and proclaiming with his accustomed clearness, ‘What’ll you take for him?’ throws the money and brings him home and his fortune’s made. Stamp-licker, office lad, confidential man, and keeper of the rolls to the master, and to top, crown, and in every way ornament his bliss, joins himself in joyful matrimony and dwells in peaceful and well-to-do habitation with his greatly-esteemed spouse, while at the same time some of us poor lads had nothing but a hut and a housekeeper,” and concluding his long sentence with a groan MacDaly looked with a dull and melancholy eye about him.