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Updated: May 23, 2025
It was laughable; it was absurd; and she joined as readily as anyone in the mirth that Raymond's devotion excited in the family, but, deep down within her, she was pleased. At the least it showed she had not grown too old to make men love her; it was the vindication of the mounting years; the time, then, had not yet come when she had ceased altogether to count.
Frewen showed his letters to the agent Beilby, who corroborated Raymond's statement in every particular regarding the money that could be made by growing cotton on an organised system with native labour, and with proper machinery to clean and pack it; and he also bore out the planter's remarks about the danger that attended small vessels employed in the black labour trade.
The conversation generally turned upon the exciting events continually occurring, some new arrest, some new confession, some new and outrageously absurd charges. Master Raymond's hand, if anyone accosted him suddenly, instinctively sought the hilt of his rapier.
To give an idea of some of the complications and perplexities which beset the infancy of this educational enterprise, I cannot do better than to quote at length from President Raymond's Report above named.
"I wonder how it is," said Jack to Valentine that evening as they were undressing, "that Raymond's always wanting money, and never seems to have any. His people are rich enough, and I should think they make him a good allowance."
"What am I going to do without you, Marjorie?" Mary Raymond's blue eyes looked suspiciously misty as she solemnly regarded her chum. "What am I going to do without you, you mean," corrected Marjorie Dean, with a wistful smile. "Please, please don't let's talk of it. I simply can't bear it." "One, two only two more weeks now," sighed Mary. "You'll surely write to me, Marjorie?"
There was a tremendous lurch which nearly sent every one into the river, the water poured over the gunwale, and something went with a sounding crack. Raymond's oar had caught in a sunken branch and snapped off short. His face turned white with anger. "You cad!" he cried with an oath, "you made me do that on purpose."
Charles Langlade, a young French trader married to a squaw at Green Bay, and strong in influence with the tribes of that region, came down the lakes from Michillimackinac with a fleet of canoes manned by two hundred and fifty Ottawa and Ojibwa warriors; stopped a while at Detroit; then embarked again, paddled up the Maumee to Raymond's fort at the portage, and led his greased and painted rabble through the forest to attack the Demoiselle and his English friends.
Confident that what the Father bid him accomplish, that he could and must fulfil, Raymond did indeed resemble some pictured saint on painted window, engaged in conflict with the Evil One; and when with a sudden start and cry the boy woke suddenly to the sense of passing things, perhaps it was small wonder that he sank at Raymond's feet, clasping him round the knees and sobbing wildly his broken and incoherent words: "O blessed Saint George blessed and glorious victor! thou hast come to me a second time to strengthen and to save.
Valentine! my mother! help!... help!... I see a horse rushing up the avenue ... but it is not Raymond's ... ah! it is his ... but ... I don't see Raymond ... the saddle is empty ... God! This unfinished letter of the Comtesse de Villiers to Madame de Braimes bore neither address nor signature. You are now at Brussels, my dear Edgar, at least for my own peace of mind I hope so.
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