Miss Cecilia Maxwell was the only child of Sir Robert Maxwell, K. C. M. G., member of the Cabinet, chief orator of the Liberal party, and understudy for the part of Premier, who, although a Scotchman by birth, was a typical Canadian—free, unaffected, honest and sincere. His bushy iron-gray hair, his keen gray eyes, his healthy florid color, and the well-trimmed black moustache, which gave his face an unusually youthful appearance for a man of his age, went with a fine stalwart physique and a general bodily conformation apparently in keeping with the ideas of early rising, cold ablutions and breakfasts of oatmeal porridge that the ingenuous mind is apt to associate with Scotch descent and bringing-up. His daughter was a very beautiful girl. Born in the shadow of the pines, she had been educated successively in Edinburgh, Brussels and Munich, had been presented at Court, been through two London seasons, spent half of one winter in South America, another in Bermuda, had been ogled by lords, worshipped by artists, and loved by everybody.
Once more in Canada, she took her place in the limited yet exacting political circles of the Capital, of Toronto, and of distant Winnipeg. Life was full of duties, and she shirked none, though on days when they were put away earlier than usual she would fall to musing of the country place down the river she had not seen for years, with the beautiful woods, and the simple, contented French, and the evenings on the water.
“That great, lonely river,” she thought on one occasion, looking idly out of her window. “What other river in the world is like it?—and the tiny French villages with the red roofs and doors, and the sparkling spires and the queer people. Delle Lisbeth, and veuve Macleod, and Pierre—poor Pierre. I have never forgotten Pierre, with his solemn eyes and beautiful brown hair. And how he knew the flowers in the wood, and what were those songs he used to sing?” And Cecilia sang a couple of verses of:
“Un Canadian errant,
Banni de ses foyers.”
When Sir Robert entered later he found her listless and preoccupied. “You mustn't look like that to-night,” he said. “Don't forget that this is your first important dinner-party: three French members and their wives, and La Colombière, the new Minister of Finance, to whom you must be as charming as possible. This North-West business is quickening as fast as it can. The Métis are really up, there's no doubt about it.”
“In rebellion?” asked Cecilia breathlessly. There was an added interest in life directly to the imaginative girl.
“Ay,” said her father, “there's a rascal at the bottom of it we've been after for a long time; but now, run away and look bright at dinner, like a good girl.”
The small clique of Frenchmen and their wives could not but have been charmed with their reception that evening. The dinner was good, and not too heavy nor long, the wines excellent (for Sir Robert did not as yet favor the “Scott” Act), and the suavity of his manner combined with the appearance and grace of his daughter, in a delicate dress of primrose and brown, with amber in her beautiful golden plaits and round her whitest neck, left nothing to be desired. And yet on that very first night in her capacity as hostess, Cecilia found she had to learn to play a part, the part of woman, which all women who have just left off being girls find so hard to play at first. For naturally the report of the Métis revolt had spread. Sir Robert did a brave thing. He referred to it directly they were seated, and then everybody felt at ease. Now it could be talked about if anybody chose—and Cecilia did so choose.
“Who is this young Frenchman,” she asked of La Colombière, “that is identified with this new rising? I have been away, and am ignorant of it all.”
“His name is Dubois—Pierre Dubois,” returned La Colombière with a gleaming smile. “He calls himself the representative of the French-Canadian party. Bah! such men!” But Cecilia's heart had given a mighty leap and then stopped, she almost thought, for ever.