July 10, 1851
I have just returned from confession and am stinging and somewhat repentant, for the good father scolded me severely. I had hoped that the Holy Sacrament would bring my mind to a more submissive state, but I am still unaccepting of the blows of fate.
My heart sorrows for my friends at St Joseph’s and for dear Darra in the loss of Sister Isobel. For all our childish plaints, we knew full well that we were fortunate in the care and training we received at her hands. If I remember the sharp slaps that recalled us to our duties, so do I think of the many kindnesses. It was sister Isobel herself who soaked and bathed my foot the day I disobeyed her and ran barefooted in the orchard, chasing Darra round the trees. The noxious poison ivy caused a red rash over which I could not put my stockings. I hobbled back to the house, my guilt obvious to all. Disregarding Darra’s tale of the ‘big spider that got into Cat’s stocking and bit poor Cat all over,’ Sister Isobel sent the child to gather the big leaves which we applied to these burns. May her soul rest in peace.
I am not easy over the news I receive from Darra. Marcus is mooning and downcast. We met again at the post-office, “Good morning, Marcus,” I cried. “How often I find you in this area.”
“Good morning to you. Cat. Have you no word of your sister’s return?”
I did not feel free to disclose my doubts to Marcus and merely answered, “She busies herself about her affairs in Kingston. I await further word from her myself.”
I wonder anxiously why Darra cannot settle for a good man and a secure future? Has she lost her virtue to the young man she calls Kendall? Surely not! What will become of her with this restless chasing after fame?
It seems nothing suits me these days. An inflammation has settled in one of my teeth and I have suffered much pain. The swelling is somewhat eased by poultices but I was recently unable to attend an evening concert. Miss Fanny Kemble arrived in Toronto to give her Shakespearian readings. These entertainments are very popular and I longed to go, for Darra’s sake. I have never heard a famous entertainer read Shakespeare and I hoped to learn more of the great bard’s genius. The Smythes had obtained tickets and I was to be of their party. I missed it all, however, being confined to bed on account of my swollen face.
Apparently a dilemma befell poor Miss Kemble. On her arrival, her trunk was found to be missing. The heat-wave we have been suffering perhaps had made the carriers careless. At all events, Miss Kemble was forced to give her reading in her travelling dress of simple calico, which bore the stains of her journey. Her performance was greatly praised, as she rose above her afflictions, her vivacity being much admired. I thought of my dear sister and her experiences of the mishaps of travel. I had eagerly looked forward to the evening’s performance, hoping to experience some of the excitement which Shakespeare’s work brings to all acting companies. I waited to hear the words of Mistress Kate and to imagine Darra, as she acted the part. Well, it was not to be.
Of all the troubles that have descended on me, the one that is the most painful is Cavan’s continued absence. I had expected his return this month and tore open his last letter eagerly. Alas! Cavan has had difficulty in concluding the military assignment which was concomitant to his leave in Quebec. His father, accompanied by Mrs Parnell and her daughter, are on their way to Toronto, to be followed by Cavan as soon as possible. He sends his love, begs my patience and assures me that I alone rule his heart. I both long and dread to meet Miss Parnell as she enters into Toronto’s social life. I had hoped to have the encouragement of Cavan’s presence at this time.
In openly confessing my fears and discontent, Father Michael declared that I showed a heart “reluctant to accept the will of the Lord.” My penance was to be more time-consuming and arduous than usual. It seems to me that the pain in my heart is sufficient burden and the penance remains undone. I go to rub whisky, kindly supplied by Mr Smythe, upon my aching gum and then take myself to bed. May tomorrow dawn more kindly.
July 15, 1851
My dearest sister Darra,
It is more than a year since we were together, yet I feel closer in spirit to you than ever. Forgive me for the doleful letter of reproach I sent you two days ago. Surely there is nothing you tell me that I will not understand. It is only my great fear for your safety and my longing for your happiness that make me warn you of dangers that you may not see, I always acted as if I were the older sister, you were so wilful, such a hoyden. Now I must remember that we are both women of marriageable age, who have been seeking our fortunes for past a year.
I am relieved to say that the abscess on my gum broke and the pain has now subsided. Can you imagine my terror at the prospect of having a tooth drawn? Do you recall when old George, the stable-hand, Burt’s father, had a tooth drawn by the travelling apothecary? A ripe infection set in and he was at St Joseph’s in great suffering. Father Andrew said that, for once, the man had an excuse for all the spirits he downed! Oh, Darra, how I grieve for Sister Isobel. Knowing that she rejoices in everlasting rest, I try to find comfort in the thought that her work continues at St Joseph’s.
A letter from Oonagh tells me that the Kingsley family are in New York, visiting Mrs Kingsley’s relatives. Major Kingsley will only spend a couple of weeks there, but she will stay on and see the shows. Oonagh also tells me that the Major will be sadly out of pocket by the time they return as Mrs Kingsley is set on acquiring all the very latest in fashion. Major Kingsley is surely a most kind and courteous man. According to Oonagh, he approached her one day and asked, “Have you had any recent news of Catherine, Oonagh? I regretted seeing that young woman go off on her own to join her sister, whom I understand did not stay around Toronto in any case.”
“I took the liberty,” said Oonagh, “to tell him that you are doing very well for yourself and keeping company with all the very best in Toronto. Why, I told him, Catherine has even sat at table with Mr Baldwin himself, and her just learning her comportment with Mrs Kingsley this past winter.”
Major Kingsley sighed and said, “Catherine has great appeal, Oonagh, Let me know if ever she is in need.” And, said Oonagh, “He’s a real gentleman, Cat, weren’t nothing funny about it. He really wants to help you as if you was a lady.”
Inside, Darra, I am still unsure and wondering who I am, but outwardly I think I do more and more become a lady in demeanour. You and I both know how unkind society can be to those without background, yet I have found a powerful protector. I have most exciting news for you. Oh, how happy you will be to learn of my good fortune, for if I rise, I will always hold you to my side. This is what has transpired.
All conversation lately has been of the Fête Champêtre which is to take place at Government House on-July 28. The best of Society is very pleased that the centre of government was moved to Toronto after the burning of the city hall in Montreal, and it is said that Lord Elgin himself has remarked how much at home he feels among the Upper Canadians.
The women of the Smythe family are all absorbed in designing and planning their attire for the eventful day. Dress-makers are sore-pressed with all the new orders.
I’d been attending a most trying fitting with Mrs Beatrice Smythe, who is now returned from her honeymoon. She and her husband remain with us until the building of their new home is completed. Her robust bosom, barely restrained by the borderline of frills the dress maker endeavoured to secure, heaved and fell as she simpered, “I vow I will be quite frightened to put this on when Gordon is around. Of course, Cat, you have no knowledge of men, but Gordon can be a very naughty boy. I’m sure I must already be in the family way.”
I did not deign to answer, but the fitter snickered. Mrs Beatrice really has very little refinement. I am now deeply appreciative of the lessons of deportment we mastered at St Joseph’s, almost as if we were the Sister’s own children. We would never have had this advantage if we had been in the crowded orphanage started by the Hotel Dieu.
I was reflecting on this when Mrs Smythe entered the room. “Catherine,” she said, “I have news for you. You are greatly honoured. Indeed, I begin to think you have won a heart.”
I looked at her, questioning and uncomfortable. She held out an envelope addressed in my name and I recognised it at once as similar to the invitations to the Fête Chamêtre. How could my name have been included? Imagine my surprise.
“I think, my dear, that Mr de la Haye has used his influence and would enjoy having you on his arm to stroll the grounds.” Mrs Smythe laughed kindly and the ready pink rushed to my cheeks, “You will need a dress,” she added.
Oh, Darra, I wonder if indeed I am the girl who left St Joseph’s just over a year ago. So that you may imagine me strolling the grounds of government house, I will tell you about my gown. It is a white tarlatan, very fashionably made. My gloves and shoes are matching. How I hope the weather will be clement.
Mr de la Haye made me a gift, a charming French parasol of white silk, lined in pink with an ivory handle. I was hesitant as to whether it was proper to accept so extravagant an article, but he assured me it was given in the spirit of a family friend. I thanked him, but begged that he would not again befriend me in this way.
I am much excited about this garden party. My only regret is that Cavan will not be here. To be truthful, I long to know if he still cares for me. A flower among the others at the Fête, would I be the one he’d pluck? Pray for me, Darra, for you have guessed my secret. It is Cavan who rules my heart, since he first placed his lips on mine.
I accept your decisions, my dearest sister, and send you my prayers and my love. May the sweet Virgin guide you always.
Your Cat.
July 31, 1851
No matter how our spirits soar, it seems that always we are brought hurtling to the ground. Only I know how I am wounded. The talk is still of the Fête Champêtre, surely the most successful event of the year.
The day dawned sunny and fresh, without the close heat which our summers sometimes bring in their wake. The men, in uniforms or formal dress, and pretending indifference to the importance of the event, were ready long before we descended the stairs, in all our elegance. We were greeted with calls of surprise and admiring comments: Mrs Smythe in lemon yellow, Mrs Beatrice Smythe following, billowing puffs of rose-coloured silk, and I in the soft white tarlatan. Straw hats are the fashion this year and are neat and close-fitting. I had chosen a more traditional soft-brimmed white bonnet.
Outside, the Smythe’s best carriage was drawn up, the two chestnut horses with gleaming coats. The gentlemen handed us in, amid many injunctions not to crush our gowns. A mood of excitement and geniality prevailed, in pleasant contrast to the recent gloom in the Smythe household over the resignation of Mr Baldwin and Mr Louis Lafontaine.
On arrival at the grounds, colour and music welcomed our eyes and ears. We joined the reception line of gaily dressed belles and their escorts, who were waiting to be greeted by Lord and Lady Elgin. Many, of course, were well-known to the Smythes and, as the men greeted each other, we covertly eyed each new vision of silk, satin, cambric, lawn, lace or tulle. The dress-makers had excelled in fitting those Torontonians who couldn’t afford imported gowns, but many a robe came straight from London or even Paris.
My attention was drawn to a trio who were just ahead of us in the line. The man was heavily-built, his skin somewhat ruddy in tone. As he turned, I noticed the arrogant gaze which he ran over Mrs Beatrice’s swelling breasts. His gaze lingered on her cleft in a most ungentlemanly way, then rose to her face. Having caught her attention, he smiled slightly and again scanned her curves. Mrs Beatrice tossed her head, smiling provocatively at her husband. Then, turning artlessly aside, she leaned over, flicking a speck of dust from his jacket and allowing the unknown stranger an intimate view of her bosom. Scandalised, I turned my attention to the two ladies of the party.
The older woman, presumably his wife, was short and dumpy. Discreetly robed in violet and white, she nevertheless had a certain elegance. It was the daughter, in a cascade of green, who really held my attention. Slightly taller than her mother, she was dressed in the height of fashion. I was certain that her clothes were from some famous couturier. Her shining hair was dressed in an elaborate series of curls and, to my surprise, I noticed that her hat seemed to be held by a long pin. No troublesome ribbons to irritate her skin which was clear and delicately-coloured. Her manner was vivacious and she was chattering to the coarse-looking man beside her.
“Yes,” she was saying. “I met connections of Lord Elgin while I was enjoying the season in London. I was invited to their country estate several times, in fact.”
Was she not the man’s daughter, I wondered? At this point, we reached Lord and Lady Elgin and I heard the former say, “Welcome, Mr O’Hara. My good friend, William Hume Blake, tells me that you may have some tips for me for the races. Later we will speak on this.”
At his side, Lady Elgin was smiling, adding, “Mrs Parnell, how pleasant to see you. Moira, my dear, you look quite lovely.”
I smiled and made my curtsy almost unknowingly. So the arrogant-looking man was Cavan’s father, and the beautiful young woman, Moira. They must be staying with Mr Hume Blake, Chancellor of Upper Canada. Of course, he had originally emigrated from Ireland. I had met his two sons on one occasion. Samuel, who was slightly older than myself, had been most kind to me, sensing my lack of ease as a newcomer to society.
At this moment, Roger, as I must learn to call him, appeared at my side and asked Mrs Smythe’s permission to take me to the refreshments. Long tables were set among the trees, covered with snowy damask cloths; their surfaces covered with every imaginable delicacy, cold meats, aspics, canapes, cheeses and fruit. Champagne flowed. Several regimental bands were situated at different areas of the gardens, attracting me with their cheerful melodies.
“Oh,” I cried, “Pray do let us go over to the band, I am not really hungry yet.” Unfurling my parasol, I tilted it gaily behind my head. I must not, must not think of Cavan.
We listened to the medley of tunes for some time. I was beginning to relax when Roger left me to select our refreshments. He returned with these in the company of Samuel Blake and Moira Parnell.
My throat dried and my heart disturbed me with its violent beating. Moira’s elaborately embossed green satin skirts shimmered as she moved towards us. Her big pansy-brown eyes gazed at me with certain acuity. I felt sure that Moira assessed all women in comparison to herself and was seldom disappointed. How does a woman always know these things? I knew.
Ah, Sister Isobel, I am not worthy of your training. Forgive me. You never received the sacrament of marriage, never knew the pain of love. Would my own unknown mother have passed this knowledge to me, in forming my body? But I digress.
Miss Parnell and young Mr Samuel Blake settled themselves beside me and Roger handed me my glass, asking me if I were acquainted with the newcomers. Miss Parnell’s melting gaze fixed itself on Roger and then wandered speculatively towards me. She was, however, far too sophisticated and poised to allow herself any questions. The conversation drifted easily from her life in Ireland to the world tour she had just undertaken. Warm and with a natural gaiety, she was accustomed to masculine admiration and took it as her due. I fell increasingly silent.
“Miss St Joseph,” she said sweetly, “You will have heard of the Black Virgin? She is a most popular tourist attraction. So unusual to depict our Holy Mother in black. Some say it is the smoke of all the candles that has darkened her, but of course this could not be so.”
“No,” I replied, “I have never heard of this holy image. Pray tell me more.”
Smiling winsomely at Roger, she continued, “I have no doubt that you from Quebec have many a tale of miracles performed to tell us, but since Miss St Joseph begs me, forgive me if I repeat a well-known story.”
She went on to recount her visit to the church Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer in Southern France where the statue is kept. Smarting at her hands, I ceased to pay much attention to her words. The narrative continued and her gay laugh rang out from time to time.
“Our party was joined by such a delightful group of Germans - Frau Schmitt - Herr Doktor - Herr Professor - together - festival for the Black Virgin - Herr Doktor an antiquarian - annual gypsy pilgrimage in May - Frau Schmitt - Herr Doktor - ”
At last she fell silent. Realizing that I had been discourteous in allowing my attention to wander, I sought for something to say.
“Was Mrs Schmitt perhaps taking a cure? You kept mentioning her doctor.”
Samuel Blake laughed, then hastily passed me another canape. Roger turned quickly to me saying, “Catherine,” but he was interrupted by Moira’s trill of amusement.
“Oh, Miss St Joseph, you are the most amusing child. Herr is simply a German title of respect. In French I’d say Monsieur le docteur.”
I was filled with chagrin. How could I, a parentless girl from St Joseph’s orphanage, be expected to know these things? For all my lovely clothes, I was but an unwanted child, who could never be accepted by those of true blood.
Again I was silent and Roger took my arm, saying, “Catherine is becoming an excellent French linguist, and now I must return to her to Mrs Smythe.” As we walked across the green lawn, he tried to offer me words of comfort, but he could not know the real source of my pain.
If I really loved Cavan, I would not hold him to a few promises, for it was obvious that Miss Moira Parnell was far better able to grace his estate than I. Dear Mary, Mother of Sorrows, help me bear the pain. I was hardly conscious of the passing of the rest of the afternoon, but finally we said our farewells and walked towards the Smythe’s carriage. We could not, however, depart, as Mr Gordon Smythe had gone in search of his wife.
“How could she have disappeared?” demanded Mrs Smythe angrily, “Surely you did not leave her, Gordon?”
“I left her, Jean, for a short time in the company of Mr Hume Blake, his son, Samuel, and their guests, the Parnells. I went into the house to see the constructions being carried out, but Beatrice expressed herself unwilling to go indoors. When I returned, I could not find the group. I hope there is no need for concern.”
Roger was waiting to hand me into the carriage, he and I exchanged glances. I looked away quickly, ashamed of my thoughts. At this point, Mrs Beatrice was seen approaching us most hastily, without escort, from the direction of the shrubbery. Her face was blotched and unusually flushed and she was quite out of breath, I had the impression she was holding back her tears with difficulty.
“Beatrice,” Mrs Smythe hurried towards her, “Whatever have you been doing? Where were you? Gordon has gone to find you.” Beatrice answered somewhat incoherently, “Please, Jean, it was nothing, I was overcome with a sudden nausea, I withdrew for a minute.” Sobs defeated her. I noticed that she was holding her hand to her bodice and that her lace ruffles were bunched in her hand, which was shaking uncontrollably. Reaching into the coach, I drew out the light shawl I knew was inside.
“Perhaps you are getting a chill,” I suggested, handing it to her. She grabbed the shawl eagerly and drew it round her. As she dropped the lace frill, I saw it to be torn and that her voluptuous white breast, momentarily exposed, had marks that resembled scratches or bites. My horror and suspicions temporarily drowned the pain in my heart.
Both Mrs Beatrice and I were very quiet on the way home and we both retired early to our rooms, pleading a case of too much exposure to the sun.
August 15, 1851
I have written a long letter to Darra, hoping that it will catch up with her. It was a letter full of small things that do not count in my life, for somehow I find I am moving through the paces of daily living as if in a dream. We were always taught that work was the answer for an uncontrolled imagination, as prayer is for a troubled soul. So I try to follow these precepts.
At times I wish I could consult with Father Andrew, since I find it difficult to pray as I should. If the good Lord in His infinite wisdom has decided to say ‘no’ to my heart’s desire, all I can ask for is a spirit of acceptance. This is extremely difficult. I doubt that Darra would be of much help as she has always been a rebellious soul, yet at times she is very practical. What would she advise? It seems I fill even my journal with useless musings, so will go out and busy myself with errands.
Mrs Beatrice is still with us, expecting to move into their new house in East York at the end of the month. She has lately been overcome with nausea and is thought to be breeding. Since the Fête Champêtre, she has been quieter and more subdued. Little more was said of her absence, it being put down to her condition, one quite usual in a young wife.
The heat has been unbearable, our clothes repressive and clinging to us. Even the lightest voile is too much. The humidity is very high. We enjoy picnics on the shores of Lake Ontario, or we drive into the country to seek the shade. Fortunately the insects are discouraged by the lack of rain. Even so, we are careful to anoint ourselves with oil of citronella, this being distasteful to the pesky creatures.
I have been working on my water-colours and have ventured to send one of my efforts, St Michael’s Cathedral, to Darra, for, whenever I attend mass there, she is first in my prayers. In fact, I much prefer my garden sketches, finding the delicacy of the blossom to be more responsive to my palette than the austere stone of St Michael’s. Roger, however, claimed my latest nature scene.
August 25, 1851
I am so ashamed of myself. Today I received the following letter:
Dear Miss St Joseph,
I take my pen in hand on behalf of Lieutenant Cavan O’Hara. He is unable to write himself at this point. He dictates with difficulty from his bed in l’Hôpital Hotel Dieu, where he recovers from a case of concussion.
On our returning home from an evening at our favourite tavern a few nights ago, three of our officers were set upon in the alley. We resisted our scurrilous attackers with good will, but they were six to our three. Cavan received head wounds and has been forced to rest abed.
He begs me tell you that there is little amiss. I would suggest, nevertheless, that you do not expect him to correspond with you for a few weeks. The Sisters inform me it may be some time before he returns to active duty.
I have the honour to remain your humble servant,
Lieutenant George Delaney.
No wonder I have not had any letters. In my silly jealousy, I had assumed that my love’s attention had been directed to Miss Parnell. I have spent this month in the doldrums and realise now that, as the old saying tells, while there is life, there is hope. I have written a letter of good cheer to the invalid. I also lit two candles in the cathedral; that will grant him our Lady’s precious intercession.
September 20, 1851
The weather has been astonishingly hot for much of this month and, being unseasonal, has brought increased attacks of fever and liver complaints. Now we sense the coming of the fall and trees begin their seasonal display. My life goes on in the usual round of charity and entertainment. Mrs Smythe and her coterie have been occupied in working for the Children’s Orphanage of Toronto. We hope to have a fine purse to present to them for the Christmas season. A ball was given, the proceeds of which were all donated to the cause. I wondered, being the only person who had actually passed her childhood in such an institution, why so much should have been spent on the ball itself.
Roger has returned to Montreal, having resigned from his work as advisor to Mr Louis Lafontaine. He asked me to return with him. Despite my ready affection, I know that he is as a father to me, and I could not imagine myself in the position of his married wife. Yet I find I miss his companionship. He offered a security I do not know when in the company of the young men I meet under Mrs Smythe’s roof.
He will be here next month as he is returning for the sole delight of hearing Miss Jenny Lind. After months of speculation, we now are to be honoured by her presence. She will have completed her tour of the United States and will grace Toronto for a week. I long to hear her. Darra was looking forward to this privilege in New York and even hoped to be in the position of speaking a few words with the Songbird.
Cavan, alas, has made slow progress and is still in Quebec City. He writes a few lines himself but admits to headaches. Mr O’Hara and the Parnells are still in Toronto and, from time to time, we meet at social events. I have avoided personal contact, which has not been difficult. Miss Parnell is belle at all events and is said to be courted by several young men. How I wish to hear of her acceptance! Instead, rumour has it that she is privately engaged to Mr O’Hara’s son and only awaiting his return to make it all formal. I cannot write of this to Cavan and must turn a deaf ear to the words that come my way.
October 16, 1851
Yesterday was the celebration in honour of the commencement of the new Northern Railway, which is to traverse Simcoe County and to extend as for as Georgian Bay. All of Toronto turned out to see Lady Elgin turn the first sod. It was also the day I shall remember forever as the turning point of my life.
October weather is often crisp and golden and so it was, as we gathered across from the parliament buildings, in the roped-off sections reserved for dignitaries. The open area was soon filled with people. Ragamuffins and urchins were running between the ropes. Groups of school children stood quietly with their teachers and the Toronto Orphanage had their young ones, in tidy drab uniform, waiting to cheer the official party.
The Elgin’s carriage drew up in good time and the couple was greeted by the railway officials and representatives of the government and of the city of Toronto. Speeches were made and the crowds, in excellent humour, cheered long and loud. Lady Elgin, looking most charming, but a trifle earnest, was handed a spade. Major Bowes, in official costume, stood to her side, his cocked hat and sword reminding me of tales of highwaymen. With knee-breeches, silk stockings and shoes with steel buckles, he almost drew more attention than did our First Lady.
The sod she was to dig had naturally been prepared for her and, as she lifted out the earth, the grouped bands broke into music and the crowd into further prolonged cheers. The official party moved over to the roped section, speaking with various of the onlookers. While we chatted, waiting for them to approach us, I heard a voice behind me. It was impatient, cutting and decisive, “The engagement will be announced very soon. My son is not so foolish as to lose his inheritance at Castle-Blaine for some chit of a girl. No, no! Mark my words! Moira assured me ...”
The voices were drowned out at that moment as the Elgins approached. I tentatively turned my head to see Mr O’Hara and Mr William Hume Blake in deep conversation. For a moment, I was utterly numbed, refusing to believe what I had heard, refusing to believe that it related to myself. A slow chill overtook me and I began shivering uncontrollably. It attracted the attention of Mrs Smythe.
“Catherine? Whatever is the matter? Are you taking a chill? Why did you not wear your blue merino today? It is the fall, you know, and you cannot trust the wind off the Lake.” Chattering and concerned, she led me to the carriage and bundled me in the shawls we kept to put across our knees. The chill did not leave me as the coach rattled along the road to our home.
Once in my bed, drinking the hot tisane prepared for me, I thought long and painfully of my future and made my plans.
October 26, 1851
Last evening was the long-awaited concert given by the Swedish nightingale, Jenny Lind. How beautiful and sweet this young woman appears. While singing with the voice of an angel, it seems she is also charitable of disposition. She has given a vast sum of money for the establishment of schools in her native land. She has set up funds to help the fishermen’s children. Now she modestly took her turn with the other soloists, who gave performances on clarinet and violin and pianoforte to allow her to rest her voice between numbers. All feelings except joy left me as her voice rose in the wonderful song, “The Echo.” St Lawrence Hall was on its feet as we applauded and called her back, again and again.
During the interval, Roger said gently, “Catherine, ma petite, have you given any more thought to the suggestion I made you? My mother longs to extend her hospitality. Staying with her, you would get to know my children and to become familiar with our way of life, without a final commitment.”
The moment had come. Looking up at him, I spoke gently, “Yes, please, Roger, I will come.” For me, this meant forever, for how could I hurt this tender man?
Roger gripped my hand, his eyes glowed, “Catherine! Do you really mean it?” He reached into his pocket and drew out a small velvet box, which he handed to me. I looked at him wonderingly,
“Open it,” he said.
I did so and drew out a delicate friendship ring, a golden band with a semi circle of minute pearls, rubies and sapphires. Each small stone a perfect well of colour. He slipped it on my smallest finger, where it rested as if at last at home. My eyes filled with tears and I lowered them as we returned to our seats for the conclusion of the concert.
Now, as I write this in the parlour, my eyes stray to the circlet on my right hand.
I hear the sounds of horse hoofs, so suppose the Smythes are returned from their errands. I must conclude my entry in haste as, from the ringing and banging on the front door, it would appear rather that guests have arrived.
The maid is speaking, and footsteps approach .... Cavan!