A GIRL OF THE NORTH
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A GIRL OF
THE NORTH
_A STORY OF_
_LONDON AND CANADA_
BY
HELEN MILECETE
AUTHOR OF “A DETACHED PIRATE,” ETC.
SECOND EDITION
LONDON
GREENING & CO., LTD.
20 CECIL COURT, CHARING CROSS ROAD, W.C.
1900
[_All rights reserved_]
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
A GIRL OF THE NORTH
CHAPTER I
THE world called it failure: he called it success, and the thought
evolved itself into happiness for a time.
George Archer was a man of unusual talent and power. He had translated
the most recent book by a celebrated Danish naturalist, besides which he
had acquired some fame as a naturalist on his own account; and the small
world of men, who trouble about such things, mentioned his name with a
certain amount of respect as that of one to whom mysteries are revealed.
He was rich. He had travelled all over the world. At last, wishing to go
to Canada, the idea of writing a book on the different varieties of
Canadian fish came to him with the charm of inspiration, of freedom, and
of novelty.
He was singularly unpractical, and given to great enthusiasms.
The glamour of Canada fell upon him; he was fascinated by the long cold
winter, with its tempests and swinging winds, its drifting snow, and the
endless battle with the princes and powers of the air: by the spring,
too, with its force when all the brooks ran and overflowed with the
melting of the snow in the hot sun, and the glorious long, light,
glowing days, when everything broke into life with suddenness. After
this came a gorgeous summer, with hot vibrating days, which brought
magnificent flowers into blossom; and then autumn with its Indian summer
and stillness—a sort of grey stillness, as if the dear dead came back
for a space. The wind died then, and there was only a movement of the
air laden with sweetness as it passed over blueberry barrens and lonely
stretches of black, still lakes, which possessed the charm of the
unknown, the fascination of the forest crowded with moose and bears.
George Archer loved the country with its colouring of triumph—trees,
sky, and water, all shared in the same glory.
When he came out, he brought letters to various people in Canada, and he
collected many important facts for his piscatorial work during his first
summer—in the autumn he met Naomi Fontaine, one quarter French, more
than a quarter English (her enemies added one half Indian). Archer loved
her and married her.
They settled down in an old house, which he rebuilt and made more than
comfortable. It stood near an arm of the sea, about two miles from a
town called Musquodobit, and in the middle of woods, of salmon rivers,
and lakes.
They were happy—perfectly, gloriously happy. They made no plans for the
future. To-day was theirs; they loved it, and for three years their
happiness lasted. Then Naomi died of pneumonia, and left him alone with
their daughter Launa.
Mr. Archer stayed at Musquodobit, for he had no desire to return to
England, his relations having received the news of his marriage with
certain questions—was Naomi a native? Their idea of natives was hazy,
and ran to wild orgies, cannabalism, and no clothing. Had she any
relations? George said she was a Roman Catholic and a Canadian, then the
letters grew fewer and fewer. Archer did not remember his people. He
loved his life; the freedom of it enthralled him. He fished and hunted
at the same time he pursued the research about bones, which brought him
many letters, much contradiction, and labour.
He could not bear to leave the land which Naomi had loved, whilst
dwelling there without her was misery and torment, and yet he loved it
too. That land exercises an indescribable fascination over
impressionable folk; its intenseness, its wild beauty and passion, the
rapid, boiling rivers full of fish, and the quiet, still lakes; the
grandeur of the granite rocks, the hills, and vast forests of pine, fir,
and maple; and, above all, the turbulent rapture and stormy joy of the
sea, crashing against the iron-bound coast. Archer’s home was situated
about one hundred yards from the shore. The bay was well sheltered, and
two miles below lay the open sea. It was near enough to be within reach
when Archer wearied of the calm of the bay; and near enough for them to
hear it surge, moan, and roar at times, and to be always in sun and
storm—altogether loveable.
Launa Archer was an ugly baby. When her mother died she was a year old,
and soon became intelligent enough to interest her father. He was often
away, and left her in charge of her nurse Eliza, who loved her; and the
child grew from babyhood into a sprite of mischief, always cheerful,
always laughing, often naughty, and fond of forgiving Eliza, with much
kindness and bounteousness, when she reproved her.
Mr. Archer’s house, “Solitude,” was a large building, with an appearance
of care and comfort. There were neighbours three and four miles away.
But he cared little for them while Naomi lived, and less after her
death. So Launa grew from infancy into childhood alone. She played with
the dogs, and in summer let them run among the long grass, which was for
hay, and which their wild bounding did not improve. How she loved to see
them tearing through it and chasing each other. And then she spent days
by the brook, sailing boats and paddling and splashing. Many mighty
fleets she launched, which sailed away and never came back, drifting
down the current to the sea. She played with the big white daisies in
the pasture, and gathered them with huge yellow buttercups. She dabbled
in the salt water, and ran up and down the beach, while the dogs hunted
the kingfishers and yapped in vain at the crows. It was a heavenly life
for a child—lonely never, solitary, perhaps, for she had but frequent
glimpses of her father, who journeyed north, south, east, and west,
seeking many things, principally forgetfulness, or rather a memory that
should revive no pain.