"So he thinks that a flower severed from the soil and placed in the
shade will flourish as well as in its native sunlight," Maud mused after
he went away that morning. "Had he a special meaning I wonder?--and
about balances, his words contained one sure enough. What is that
English home of his like, anyway? And his people, sedate and
punctilious, just as my mother says hers were? No wonder he talked about
the shade. They say over there it rains seventy days and shines seven.
If I had let him he would have asked me to give up our glorious sunshine
again. Ah, me, life is a funny problem anyway! There's the east and the
west, and here I am in the middle. Gadzooks! as my father would say, I
wish I knew what to do. I suppose the Doctor will be coming back
soon--to buy new clothes of course! Funny, how he took me at my word
when I set him down last year. Since then, although endearing enough, he
never talks out and out of love--waiting till he comes, I suppose--and
not very definite upon that either. Perhaps some dusky maiden in the
west may yet steal the young man's heart away. What of Little Moon, the
Ojibway chief's daughter, that he raved about in one of his letters?
Pshaw! She would never suit Beaumont! Well! I like Major Morris with his
English drawl, his bravery, his knee breeches, and his shade out of
sunlight. And I like Dr. Beaumont with his passion, his Mon Dieu's, his
life in the glorious west, and his controlled faithfulness. But by my
faith, do I love either well enough for marriage? Ah, there's the rub,
Maud Maxwell! What a little minx you are anyway, not to know your own
mind better than that!"
Impatiently she tossed off her hat and finished fixing her tulips. But
she did it with unusual care that morning, and an hour afterwards her
mother said she never saw them so beautifully arranged before.
The preparation for Eugenia's wedding monopolized the long hours during
those May days; and Maud did not have much time for thought. There were
clothes to select, gowns to make, milliners and dressmakers to see,
boots and gloves fresh from England to be examined and selected with a
connoisseur's eye; and in all Maud did her part.
Eugenia, too, had set her heart on seeing her sister marry the Major,
and having settled all the preliminaries of her own nuptials in her own
decided and placid way, she was prepared during the little time that
remained to devote herself to furthering her sister's interests. Hence,
instead of retreating to a quiet corner each evening with her lover, the
Major and Maud invariably made two of her party; and so intense was Dr.
Fairchilds' devotion, that anything that Genie suggested immediately
became law.
In the evenings they played whist, or visited the Art Loan Exhibition,
which the good people of Halifax had got up for the benefit of the
orphans and widows of Canadian soldiers. Or they went to the music hall
to see amateur artists, officers of the garrison, and the young people
of Halifax, perform in the name of the same good cause. And so each
evening the four inseparables were almost invariably together.
Maud enjoyed it too, for the Major's visits would soon be over; and by
judicious fencing she succeeded in parrying anything like a direct
declaration again. Each night she went to bed thankful that the end had
not yet come; and yet suspicious of what the future day might bring to
pass.
One evening, however, fortune favored Morris. He had gotten himself up
with elaborate care, for this was the last night they could devote to
whist; and probably the last evening that he would be off duty, for Sir
George's ship had been sighted and would be in harbor that night.
"It grieves me to disappoint you," said Maud, after the usual greeting.
"My sister and Dr. Fairchilds are out driving. They expected to be back
early, but a messenger has just arrived with the news that the Doctor
was detained professionally on account of an accident, and it will be
impossible for them to return for an hour yet."
"Ah! I am sorry for ourselves as well as the injured," said the Major,
smiling. "But can we not utilize the time? Just the chance for a talk,
the very thing that I have been praying the gods to grant us this long
time."
"I did not know that your prayers were so earnest," she laughingly
returned, as she picked up a trifle of needlework to help her thoughts
run smoothly.
"Yes, and I must speak again," he continued. "We can be serious as well
as jolly."
"My dear Major!" exclaimed Maud with a light laugh. "We have the
jolliest talks every time we meet. Don't talk of seriousness, please."
"One cannot be merry forever," was his answer.
"Genie says we should always pursue the even tenor of our way," was her
quick response. "So I propose that while I use my needle you read aloud
either 'Young's Night Thoughts,' or Gray's Elegy,' as a tonic to our
gaiety.
"Not a bad idea," said the Major, picking up a book at random. "Perhaps
this will do as well."
And he commenced to read Burns's sonnet:
"'Oh, wad some power the Gifty gie us
To see ourselves as ithers see us.'"
"That's just it," interrupted Maud. "Now I'll express your sentiments
with which I entirely agree. 'She's a rollicking, jolly girl, full of
dash and nonsense, doesn't care a fig for anybody; as for falling in
love, that's impossible, for she hasn't a heart any bigger than a
chipmunk.' How will that do for a commencement?"
"Only fairly well. Pray go on."
A spark of fire flashed from her eyes as she continued:
"'She's got the crazy idea that she lives in a glorious country, where
the sun shines ten months in the year, and she'd rather die an old maid
in it than go to another one for all the wealth of Ind.'"
"How eloquent you are!" he said, stroking his moustache over compressed
lips and looking toward the ceiling. "Should my rendition come next?"
"That would be delightful!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in
well-assumed mirth. "You tell me what I think of you, which will be your
own sentiment of yourself."
"Well," he said reflectively, "he's an arrant fool, filled with the
old-fashioned notion that men were brave and women true--that love
nestled in the heart of every woman, and that it only required the right
man and the right place to make it blossom as the rose. He fondly
imagined that old England was the Queen of the Seas, and that her homes
were the freest, the fairest, the loveliest in the wide world, and he
dreamed of wooing and winning a fair damsel with flashing eyes,
generous impulses, daring heart, and making her the wife of his bosom,
the goddess of his love, the mistress of his home in the mansion and
groves of his forefathers. But he was a daft and silly wight, and didn't
know what he was doing."
What answer Maud would have made to the flowing speech it is difficult
to tell, but there was a rap at the outer door, a hurrying along the
hall and a mingling of voices that riveted her attention.
"An officer wants to see you, Miss Maud," said the maid.
"Show him in, Catharine," was her astonished answer, for the hour was
already late.
"Dr. Beaumont!" she exclaimed, with flushed face, as she quickly rose to
meet him.
"Maud Maxwell," was his only answer, as he grasped her hand in both of
his, and looked down into the face that was ever near him, and of which
he had dreamed so often.
In another moment she remembered that they were not alone.
"Major Morris--Dr. Beaumont"; and the two men clasped hands. Morris'
expression was one of honest but pained surprise; Beaumont's, one of
pleasure that needed no questioning. Maud's eyes told him that he was
welcome. That was enough.
The Doctor's old regimentals had stood long and hard service, while his
face was bronzed with travel and his hair unkempt. Still Maud
thought--as he stood in careless attitude, so different from the dapper
young man of long ago--that he was handsomer than ever. The contrast
with the Major was marked. His clean-cut features, lace coat and silk
stockings would have ornamented a drawing-room in London; while anyone
could see that Beaumont had been a denizen of the woods.
He might have waited until his tailor had made him new again, but he
would not; and with the wild freedom that the west had given, must be
taken for himself, or not at all. Standing there, quick as a flash, he
had taken a fresh grasp of life and knew his bearings.
The two men met again as old friends.
"I am proud of you, Morris," said the Doctor. "Slow as news travels in
the west, word came at last, and your name was in everybody's mouth."
"Thank you," said the Major, forcing a smile. "But it's an old story
now. When did you arrive?"
"Less than an hour ago. As luck would have it, I reached Quebec just as
Sir George Head was leaving for Halifax on the _North King_."
"The ship he came out on with the 100th Regiment," said Maud.
"Yes," said Beaumont, "and he returns home to England on the same
vessel."
"It will surprise the people here as much as your arrival," said Maud.
"Did no one know you were coming?"
"No one in Halifax knew until I landed," said the Doctor. "My
opportunities were so uncertain that I took advantage of the first one
that offered."
"And who is looking after your patients while you are away?" the Major
asked.
"Oh, we don't have many! It is a healthy place, and as luck would have
it, Dr. Sparling, of Little York, came over the trail with a party of
friends, so the officers being willing, I persuaded him to take my place
for a couple of months, and here I am."
"How delightful!" said Maud, "and what of the brave, devoted Mrs.
Manning?"
"She's the queen of our colony, loved by everyone; the same forever. And
I must not forget, she sent her warmest love to you, and with it this
letter."
"I will write her to-morrow, and tell her how well you have delivered
her message."
"Well, I'm glad to see you, Beaumont," said the Major, rising and
extending his hand. "I shall be at the old quarters for a day or two
yet, but it will not be for long, as my company sails with Sir George
when he leaves for the east. But come and see me any time, and welcome
until then."
Maud accompanied him to the door. He took her hand without a word, and
for a moment their eyes met.
"Believe me," she said earnestly, "I did not know it."
"I do believe you," he replied in a low voice, "but what of my faith in
women?"
"Surely you have not lost it?" she said, grasping his hand in both of
hers, and looking earnestly into his eyes.
"What else can one do? Wounds of the flesh are nothing, but what of the
heart--the spirit of the man?"
"I am sorry," she spoke in a still lower tone, and her voice trembled.
"But you will not give way. Your soul is as brave as your heart is, and
you will live to love and win a woman more worthy of you far than I
could ever be."
Suddenly, he threw his arm around her, pressed a kiss upon her cheek,
and was gone.