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Updated: June 28, 2025
"We'll get on home now." "Home?" asked his son. "Yes, Montreal to-night," replied his father. "The leg has to be set." "Why don't you set it?" asked the boy. The river-master gazed at him attentively. "Well, I might, with your help," he said. "Come along." Eleven years had passed since Denzil's fall, and in that time much history had been made.
I didn't say my engagement was at an end; and, in fact, I shall be married in a fortnight. We go to Sicily for the honeymoon." A flush of embarrassment rose to Denzil's face. For a moment he could not command himself; then indignation possessed him. "That's too bad!" he exclaimed. "You took advantage of me. You laid a trap. I'm damned if I feel able to apologize!"
For a moment Amaryllis thought she must be mistaken, and rose with a vague, but gracious look in her eyes. Mrs. Ardayre held out her hand and smiled: "I hope you got my telegram in time," she said cordially. "I felt I must not lose the opportunity of making your acquaintance. My son has been so anxious for us to meet." "You you can't be Denzil's mother, surely!" Amaryllis exclaimed.
"Marvellous!" and Denzil's voice was awed. Then the wonder and the divinity of love and its spirit of creation came over them both and a mist of deep feeling grew in both their eyes. At dinner they were all so happy together. Mrs. Ardayre was a note of harmony anywhere.
Denzil's uncle Samuel Quarrier busied in establishing a sugar-refinery in his native town, received the young man with amiable welcome, and entertained him for half a year. The ex-seaman then resolved to join his parents abroad, as a good way of looking about him. He found his mother on her death-bed. In consequence of her decease, Denzil became possessed of means amply sufficient for a bachelor.
No doubt the noble gentlemen of the neighbourhood, who "lay at Brockhurst two nights" on the occasion of Sir Denzil's historic house-warming, to witness the mighty bear-baiting, were sensible of something more in that somewhat disgusting exhibition, than the mere gratification of brutal instincts, the mere savage relish for wounds and pain and blood.
Why should that semi-insanity in Denzil's eyes disturb him? The one thing to do was to forge ahead. He nodded. "Where are you taking me?" he asked presently, as they passed through the gate. "To my little house by the Three Trees. I've got things I'd like to show you, and there's some things I'd like to say.
Then, with the mask of coquetry still upon her she left Carnac's mother abashed, sorrowful and alone. Tarboe had called in her absence. Entering the garden, he saw Denzil at work. At the click of the gate Denzil turned, and came forward. "She ain't home," he said bluntly. "She's out. She ain't here. She's up at Mr. Grier's house, bien sur." To Tarboe Denzil's words were offensive.
No one thought it strange that a month later the eldest son of the Tarboe family had been found dead in the woods with a gun in his hand and a bullet through his heart. No one had ever linked the death of Denzil's loved one with that of Almeric Tarboe.
And, save for the vigorous upgrowth of those same fir trees, and for the fact that bears and bear-pit had long given place to race-horses and to a great square of stable buildings in the hollow lying back from the main road across the park, Brockhurst was substantially the same in the year of grace 1842, when this truthful history actually opens, as it had been when Sir Denzil's workmen set the last tier of bricks of the last twisted chimney-stack in its place.
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