XVII
THE days that followed were happy ones for me. Reggie was with me constantly, and I even got off several afternoons from the studio and spent the time with him.
One day we made a little trip up the St. Lawrence, Reggie rowing all the way from the wharf at Montreal to Boucherville. We started at noon and arrived at six. There we tied up our boat and went to look for a place for dinner. We found a little French hotel and Reggie said to the proprietor:
“We want as good a dinner as you can give us. We’ve rowed all the way from Montreal and are famished.”
“Bien! You sall have ze turkey which is nearly cook,” said the hotel keeper. “M’sieu he row so far. It is too much. Only Beeg John, ze Indian, row so far. He go anny deestance. Also he go in his canoe down those Rapids of Lachine. Vous connais dat man—Beeg John?”
Yes, we knew about him. Every one in Montreal did.
We waited on the porch while he prepared our dinner. The last rays of the setting sun were dropping down in the wood, and away in the distance the reflections upon the St. Lawrence were turning into dim purple the brilliant orange of a little while ago. Never have I seen a more beautiful sunset than that over our own St. Lawrence. I said wistfully:
“Reggie, the sunset makes me think of this poem:
“The sunset gates were opened wide,
Far off in the crimson west,
As through them passed the weary day
In rugged clouds to rest.”
Before I could finish the last line, Reggie bent over and kissed me right on the mouth.