Mrs. Colonibel unaware of the visit in store for her, had after lunch donned a dressing-gown of her favorite shade of red, had put on a pair of bedroom slippers and had made her way to the smoking-room, an apartment that was unoccupied at that time of day.
It was a constant source of chagrin to her that she had neither a maid of her own nor a boudoir. A number of times she had hinted to her cousin Stanton the desirability of bestowing on her these privileges, but so far he had listened in unresponsive silence. Of the delight that would fill her soul could she but speak of “my maid” and “my boudoir” while engaging in conversation with her friends, that unsympathetic man had not the slightest idea.
With brows drawn together she looked discontentedly about the little room, which however, had a certain gaudy comfort of its own. A wood fire was burning merrily in the grate, a big easy-chair by the window held out inviting arms toward her. She had been at a sleighing party the evening before and was tired, and she had a novel and a box of sweets with which to console herself; so at last she sighed contentedly and subsiding among soft cushions was soon deep in a tale of love and sorrow.
At one of the most harrowing passages in the story, where the heroine involved in a hundred embarrassments sees no chance of escape and where her sad condition compelled Mrs. Colonibel to apply her handkerchief to her eyes, she was startled by hearing in a deep voice,
“But Black Donald sat in his coffin and ate oat cake.”
Dropping her book she saw Dr. Camperdown hugging himself like a huge bear before the fire. “Good afternoon,” he said; “I met that new domestic of yours in the hall and asked her name. She said it was Gregory. Every letter of that name is full of blood to me.[me.] Shall I tell you why?”
“If you like,” said Mrs. Colonibel with an unamiability that affected him not in the least.
“When I was a boy I used to visit at my uncle’s in Yarmouth county. A man called Black Donald Gregory murdered his sister and cousin in a quarrel, and the whole country rang with the story. The sheriff took Black Donald to Yarmouth town to be hanged. On the road the sheriff would say, ‘Black Donald, you have only twelve hours to live’; and Black Donald would sit in his coffin eating oat cake and saying nothing. The sheriff would say further, ‘Black Donald you have only eleven hours to live.’ But Black Donald sat in his coffin eating oat cake all the way to Yarmouth town. The sheriff warned him every hour, but Black Donald ate oat cake to the last, cramming a bit in his mouth as he mounted the scaffold. Queer story, isn’t it? It used to make my blood run cold. Don’t mind it now.”
Flora shuddered, and without answering him picked up her book as a hint to him to be gone. To her secret dismay he appeared to be just in the humor for a gossip, and as he warmed his back at the fire said agreeably,
“What’s that book you’re in such a hurry to get back to?”