"WHEN SUMMER DAYS WERE FAIR."
Afterwards--for close upon the coming of every grief, however great,
fall the slow, dull footsteps of Afterwards--, the bereaved Macleod
family took up again the occupations and interests of life in the
benumbed fashion of those whose nerves are slow in recovering the
effect of a great shock. Edward alone bore a brave front, though his
heart at times failed him. He was something of a puzzle to the friend
of his sister, who could not reconcile the tears which she saw in his
eyes one moment to the jest she heard from his lips the next, and who
marvelled in secret that the utter abandon of his grief at the bedside
of his dying mother had not been followed by a state of settled
melancholy after her death. To the cool, steadfast nature of
Mademoiselle DeBerczy this alternate light and shade, gaiety and
grief, in the heart of Rose, as well as of her brother, was difficult
to understand; but now she began faintly to perceive that to their
ardent temperament sunshine came as naturally as it did to the first
day of spring, which, while it ached with the remembrance of winter,
could not wholly repress on that account its natural brightness.
Certainly Edward Macleod, though his unusually pale face gave evidence
of the suffering which he had lately experienced--nay, which he was
even now experiencing--could not say that life for him was utterly
without consolation. For the sake of the stricken household, for the
sake of her who had left them desolate, he would be a man; and, being
that complex creature, a man, involves not only the lofty virtues of
courage and self-forgetfulness, but also a tender susceptibility to
the charms of these perfect spring days, and to the no less alluring
charms of a maiden in the spring-time of youth.
Nearly a week had elapsed since the funeral of Mrs. Macleod, and now a
second message from home had been received by Helene DeBerczy,
reminding her that her invalid mother had claims which could no longer
be set aside. If Madame DeBerczy's language was seldom imperative, her
intention abundantly made up for the deficiency. Consequently, her
daughter was now reluctantly turning her face homeward--a dull
outlook, brightened only by the prospect of a boat-ride down the bay
with Edward and Rose.
"And to think," said Edward to Helene, as the trio paced the long
avenue together, "that I scarcely recognized you on the evening of my
return!"
"That is not surprising. I am an entirely different person from the
one you left three years ago."
"Let me see," mused the young man, "three years ago you were a little
inclined to be haughty and cold, occasionally difficult to please, and
sometimes exacting. On the whole, 'tis pleasant to reflect that you
are an entirely different person now."
He turned towards her with a merry glance, but her face was invisible.
She wore one of those long straw bonnets, no doubt esteemed very
pretty and stylish in that day, but marred by what a disciple of
Fowler might call a remarkable phrenological development of the
anterior portion. This severely intellectual quality in the bonnets of
that time naturally stood in the way of the merely sensuous delights
of observation. Edward had barely time to be reminded of an unused
well, in whose dark, shallow depths his boyish eyes had once
discovered a cluster of white water-lilies, languidly opening to the
light, when the liquid eyes and lily-like face in the inner vista of
this well-like bonnet again confronted him.
"Is that the sort of person I used to be?" she queried, with the
incredulity one naturally feels on being presented with a slightly
exaggerated outline of one's own failings. "What pleasant memories you
must have carried away with you!"
"I did, indeed--myriads of them. Some of the pleasantest were
connected with our last dance together. Do you remember it?"
A slight warmth crept up, not into her cheeks, but into her eyes. "I
have never forgiven you for that," she said.
"And you don't deserve forgiveness," declared Rose, championing the
cause of her friend.
"Ah, well," said the culprit, "perhaps I had better wait till I
deserve it before I plead for it."
How strange and far away, almost like part of their childhood, seemed
the time of which he spoke. Like a painted picture, suddenly thrust
before their view, the scene came back to them. A windy night in late
Autumn, illumined without only by the broad shafts of light from the
Commodore's mansion, and within by the leaping flames in the big hall
fire-place. The young people had improvised a dance in the great hall,
and Helene had tantalizingly bestowed most of her favours upon Fred
Jarvis, a handsome youngster of twenty, who frequently improved his
opportunities of becoming the special object of Edward's boyish
enmity. To fall a willing victim to the pangs of jealousy formed,
however, no part of this young gentleman's intention. Returning late
in the evening, he caught a glimpse of Fred and Helene dancing a
stately minuet together, and, lightly securing his horse at the door,
he entered the hall, just as Helene was protesting that she was too
tired to dance any longer. "Just once with me," he pleaded; and their
winged footsteps kept time to the tumultuous throbbing of the music.
The young girl suddenly grew faint. "Give me air," she cried, and at
the words Edward's strong arm swept her across the broad veranda, and
up on the waiting steed. Mounting behind her, like another young
Lochinvar, they dashed wildly off, but just in what direction could
not be told, for Helene, in mingled consternation, exhaustion, and
alarm, had fainted in earnest, and Edward, in the endeavour to hold
her limp, unconscious figure before him, had dropped the reins. The
steed, however, with a prudent indisposition for pastures new at that
hour of the night, turned into a stubble-field, and brought up at a
haystack. How, in the utter darkness, and with the wind blowing a
gale, the young man managed to restore his companion to consciousness
and bring her back to the house, were mysteries which Rose could never
attempt to penetrate with any degree of satisfaction. Helene, of
course, was superbly angry, and even this bare mention of the escapade
brought fire to her eyes and a loftier poise to the well-set head.
Strongly set about the heart of this young Huguenot were barriers of
pride, that could not be overleaped in a day--scarcely in a life-time.
"It is a bargain, then," said Edward, with a mischievous light in his
smile, "you will never forgive, and I shall never forget."
"I wish, if it isn't asking too much, that you would allow me to
forget. I particularly want to forget everything unpleasant on a
morning as beautiful as this," rejoined Helene.
It was indeed an ideal morning. The sky was as soft and warm, as blue
and white, as only the skies of early summer can be. Treading the
mingled shadow and light, thrown from the interlacing boughs above,
they came at last to the blue curves of Kempenfeldt Bay, whose waves
lapped lightly on the beach. Here they found the two younger Macleod
children, who had come to see the party off. Just as the latter
arrived, the youth, Herbert, who had been amusing himself rocking a
punt in a creek by the shore, managed to upset the craft and
precipitate himself into deep water. The mishap had no more serious
result--for the lad was a good swimmer--than to frighten Rose, and
deprive her of the anticipated pleasure of a visit to "Bellevue" with
Helene and her brother Edward. Bidding the former a hurried goodbye,
with injunctions to her brother to take care of her friend, Rose
disappeared with the children into the woods.
The young man now released a row-boat from its bondage to the shore,
helped his companion into it, and pushed it far out upon its native
element. A new day in the New World, and a long boat-ride before
them--what could they wish for more? Edward, at least, enjoyed the
prospect extremely, especially when he could get the bonnet rightly
focused. This was a matter somewhat difficult of achievement, as its
owner had to his mind a heedless habit of dodging, and his remarks,
instead of being didactic and improving in their nature, were
necessarily exclamatory and interrogative, in order to gain the
attention of his fair _vis-a-vis_. Being a young gentleman of literary
tastes he thought of Addison's dissertation upon the fan, and its
great adaptability to the purposes of the coquette. To the mind of
this impartial critic, a fan was not half so effective and terrible a
weapon as the present style of bonnet.
"Bother Addison!" he suddenly exclaimed aloud.
"I beg your pardon," said a voice from the depths of the obnoxious
head-gear before him.
"I was thinking of the author of _The Spectator_. You know Johnson
says we ought to give our days and nights to the study of Addison.
Don't you think it would be more profitable for us to devote our days
and nights to the study of Nature?"
"Undoubtedly; and especially in this short-summered region, where
there are only a few months of the year in which one can pursue one's
studies out of doors. My days are spent on the shore, and as for my
nights--well, even at night I often go to sleep to the fancy that I am
drifting over the water with just such a gentle movement as this."
"I hope," said Edward gravely, "that you have an efficient oarsman.
You couldn't row and sleep at the same time, you know."
He looked up to see if his companion was struck with the force of this
observation, but although they were moving towards the east, the
bonnet pointed due north. There was also a slight suspicion of the
wintry north in the tone with which she replied:
"Oh, there is no labour connected with it; I am merely drifting--drifting
to the Isle of Sleep."
"That is a pretty idea, but it is too lonely and listless to suit me.
I should prefer to have a young lady in the boat--and a pair of oars."
"In that case you would have to row," and, with a slightly mocking
accent, "you couldn't row and sleep at the same time, you know."
"In that case I should never want to sleep. No, please, Miss DeBerczy,
don't look to the north again. Every time your gaze is riveted upon
that frozen region my heart sinks within me. I feel as if I were not
entertaining you as well as I should."
"Oh, don't let that illusion disturb you. I have never doubted that
you were entertaining me as well as you--could."
A brief silence fell upon them, broken only by the regular plash of
the oars. In the young man's conversational attacks there had been
nothing but a light play of sunny humour, but in this last retort of
hers there was something like the glimmer of cold steel. It wounded
him, yet he was unwilling either to conceal or reveal the hurt. But
Helene DeBerczy had this weakness, common to generous souls, that she
could not utter an ungenerous remark without suffering more than her
victim. So, scarcely more than a minute elapsed before she said
appealingly,
"You are not going to leave me with the last word, are you?"
"Is not that what your sex specially like to have?"
"Perhaps so. I should prefer to have the _best_ word, and--"
"And let a certain well-known gentleman take the hindmost?" supplied
the young man smilingly.
"If he only would! What a shocking thing to say, but with me it is
always conscience who has the very hindmost word; and my conscience is
perfect mistress of the art of saying disagreeable things. At the
present moment she is trying to make me believe that I have been
unpardonably rude to you."
"She is mistaken then, for even if it were possible for you to be
rude, I could not fail to pardon you immediately."
"There! now you have had the best word. It is useless for me to try to
say anything better than that. Perhaps the most becoming thing I could
do would be to relapse into ignominious silence."
"Silence! Desolation! And with a two-mile pull yet before us! If I
have had the best word you have uttered the worst one. What so
terrible as silence?"
"It is said to be golden."
"And, like the gold that Robinson Crusoe discovered on his island, it
is of no particular use to anyone."
"It is one of the charms of Nature."
"A charm that I have never discovered. What about the ever-present hum
of multitudinous insects, the song of birds, the moan of winds, the
laughter of leaping water? It seems to me that Nature is all voice."
"Then, suppose," said the undaunted young lady, lifting her languorous
lids, "that we listen to her voice."
There was no answering this; but, as the bonnet now veered towards the
sunny south, and the boat rounding the sharp corner of the bay
abruptly turned in the same direction, the young man was surprised to
find himself looking his companion fully in the face, caught in the
sudden sunshine of her smile.
"I was about to remark," he said, emboldened by this token of favour,
"that there is nothing I delight in so much as listening to the voice
of nature--that is human nature."
The smile deepened into a rippling laugh. "I am in one of my inhuman
moods this morning," she said, "but I believe my forte is action
rather than speech. Let me take your place, and those oars, please."
He resigned them both, and at once; not because the unusual exertion
had made any appreciable inroad upon his strength, but because he
foresaw new phases of picturesqueness in the young girl's dainty
handling of the oars. Nor was he disappointed. The skirt of her dress
was narrow and long, beginning, like an infant's robe, a few inches
below the arms, and thence descending in softly curving lines to her
feet, with as little hint of rigidity or compression about the
tenderly rounded waist as about the full fair throat above it. She
stretched out a pair of shoes, incredibly small and unmistakably
French, and bent her slender gauntleted hands blithely to their task.
The newborn sweetness of the spring morning was about them. On the
heavily wooded shore the great evergreens towered darkly against the
sun, but its beams fell with dazzling brightness upon the meadowy
undulations of the lake. Above them they heard at times the wild cry
of the soaring gull, or the apparently disembodied voice of some
unseen bird. Behind them they left the beautiful stretch of Kempenfeldt
Bay, gleaming in the sunshine, and now they slowly ascended the waters
of Cook's Bay, called after the great circumnavigator, under whom many
of the naval officers who had settled in the region had served,
Governor Simcoe's father, after whom the old Lac des Clies--as the
French called it--had received its modern name, being a shipmate.
But, now, Helene, whose slender strength had succumbed to the
difficulties of propelling their little craft, resumed her old seat,
and her bonnet, like a dark lantern, sometimes allowed a charming
light to be reflected upon surrounding objects, and then as suddenly
withdrew it. In the blue distance, near the mouth of the Holland
River, they caught the first glimpse of "Bellevue"--the home of the
DeBerczy's. The long sunlit run had after all been too brief. Edward
began to realize that some days might elapse before this pleasure
could be repeated. He drew in his oars, and let the boat rock idly on
the tide. His companion gave him an inquiring glance. "I wish," said
he, "that you would do me a favour."
"Isn't that rather an extraordinary request?"
"Not at all. It is a very natural remark. It has not yet advanced so
far as to be a request."
"Oh! well, of course, I can't grant what isn't a request."
"Does that mean that you can grant what is one?"
"Sometimes."
"How good of you! But, as I said before, I had only expressed a wish.
Aren't you in the least interested in my wishes?"
"If you were interested in mine you would take up those oars again."
"And thereby shorten the term of your imprisonment by me! Your
kindness emboldens me to make known my desire. I wish you would let me
examine something that appears to be hanging to your bonnet."
"Is it a grub--a caterpillar--a spider?" These horrors were mentioned
in the order of their detestability, and with a rising accent.
"Really, I wouldn't like to say, unless you remove the bonnet." She
gave a convulsive twitch to the strings, and pulled them into a hard
knot. "Can't you brush it off?" she asked Edward breathlessly.
"Pray do not be so alarmed. No, indeed, I couldn't brush it off. It
sticks too fast for that. I wish," he said, as she made a frantic
lurch towards him, "that you could be mild but firm--I mean not quite
so agitated." Her breath came in quick perfumed wafts into his face,
as his steady fingers strove to undo the knot in her ribbons. But even
after this lengthy business was concluded his trouble (if it could
rightly be called a trouble) was only half over, for the careful Rose,
with a prudent foreknowledge of the power of lake breezes to
disarrange, if not carry away altogether, the headgear of helpless
woman, had by some ingenious arrangement of hair-pins fastened the
bonnet to the raven locks of her friend in such a manner that it could
not be removed without endangering the structure of her elaborate
hair-architecture. So it was among the dark waves of rapidly
down-flowing tresses that Helene's voice was again heard beseeching
him to tell her what it was.
"Your scientific curiosity seems to be almost as great as your fear of
the insect creation. But, really, it is quite a harmless little
fellow. See!" and he pointed to a steel beetle set with a view to
ornamental effect in the centre of a little rosette of ribbons.
"Oh, shameless!" exclaimed the young girl, sinking her lily-white face
again among the abundant waves of her hair.
"Yes, I daresay he is ashamed enough to think that he isn't alive when
he sees that you regret it so much."
It is very annoying to be obliged to laugh when one has just made up
one's mind to be very angry; but Mademoiselle DeBerczy, with all her
haughtiness, was endowed with a sense of humour; so it was with only a
weak show of reproachful indignation that she at last threw back her
head and exclaimed:
"How could you--when I have such a horror of every sort of creeping
thing--and you knew what it was all the time!"
"Oh, excuse me, I did not know--that is, I wasn't positive. At a
distance I thought it was some sort of a big fly--a blue-bottle. Now I
see it is a blue beetle."
The young lady deigned no reply.
"I am sorry that you were frightened, but you don't seem to be a bit
sorry on account of my sufferings."
"Your sufferings?"
"Yes, see how surprised you are even to know that they existed! But
they are over now. At frequent intervals, all through this long
voyage, I have been forced to look at a heavenly body through a
telescope--that is, when I could get the telescope properly adjusted
to my vision. The difficulties of adjustment have cost me a world of
trouble."
She gazed at him a moment in wide-eyed amazement, and then without
attempting to solve the riddle of his remarks, proceeded to reduce her
wind-blown locks to something like their usual law and order. The dark
heavy waves, rioting in the breeze, seemed to offer a problem to the
deft white fingers that fluttered among them, but they were speedily
subjugated, and the despised bonnet was added as the crowning touch.
Not a moment too soon, for the boat grated on the sandy beach, and the
austere windows of her home were looking coldly down upon her. A pair
of austere eyes were also fixedly regarding her; but of this Helene
was happily unconscious. Perhaps it was the instinct of hospitality
alone that made her smile so brightly upon the brother of her friend,
as they walked up to the house together. The grounds about "Bellevue,"
not so ample as those surrounding the home of the old Commodore, gave
equal evidence of wealth and taste, and reminded one of a little park
set in the midst of the wilderness. The garden borders were bright
with crocuses and snowdrops and rich in promises of future bloom,
while from the orchard slopes on the left came a fair vision of
wall-like masses of foliage, frescoed with blossoms and the perfumed
touch of the blithe breezes at play among them. Entering the quaint,
dimly-lighted hall, they passed under long plumes of peacock feathers,
o'erhanging the arched doorway leading into the drawing-room. The
floors were waxed and polished, the apartments spacious and lofty with
elaborate cornices and panels. Leaving her guest in mute contemplation
of a tiny wood fire in a great fire-place, the young girl ran lightly
up the broad, low stairway, pausing at the half-way landing to gaze
dreamily from a casemated window out upon the sparkling waters of the
lake. Some of its brightness was reflected in her eyes, as, with a
step less discreet and deferential than that which usually
characterized her approaches to her mother's bedchamber, she passed on
to a half-closed door, tapped lightly upon it, and then pushed it wide
open.
"Ah, my daughter, what tidings do you bring?"
"He has come!" declared the girl, proclaiming with unaffected gladness
what was at that moment a great event in her life.
"He!"
The chilly palm which the elder lady had extended, without rising, for
the customary greeting, was not so chilly as the tone with which she
uttered this offending pronoun. Helene, suddenly remembering with deep
self-reproach the grief that her mother must feel in the loss of her
old friend, took the cold fingers in both her warm white hands, and
whispered tenderly:
"She has gone!"
Madame DeBerczy was not overcome by this intelligence. She had indeed
learned the sad truth from Tredway, who had been despatched to
"Bellevue" by the Commodore immediately upon the death of his wife.
Consequently, at this moment, her heart did not suffer so much as her
sense of propriety--which her enemies asserted was a more vital organ.
"I trust," she said, not unkindly, but with a sort of majestic
displeasure, "that you do not mention these facts to me in what you
consider the order of their importance."
The young girl was chilled. She moved away to one of the spindle-legged
chairs near a window, and played absently with the knotted fringes of
the old-fashioned dimity curtain. "I mention them in the order of
their occurrence," she said gently. "Dear Mrs. Macleod could scarcely
close her eyes on earth until they rested upon her son. He brought me
over in his boat this morning, and is waiting below to see you. Do you
feel able to go down?"
"I hope I shall always be able to respond to social requirements, and
the son of my old friend must not be slighted. Were you about to
suggest that I receive him in my bedchamber?"
Helene, who had risen with charming alertness at the first intimation
of her mother's intentions, now confronted that frigid dame with the
subdued radiance of her glance. "Ah, dear mother!" she murmured
deprecatingly. Daughterly submissiveness, tender consideration for an
invalid's querulous moods, gentle insistence upon her own right to be
happy in spite of them, were all radiated from the softly spoken
words. Rigid propriety may have slain its thousands, perhaps its tens
of thousands, but the elder lady foresaw with terrible clearness that
it would never find a victim in this blithe girl, who refrained from
dancing down the stairs before her simply because her happiness was
accustomed to find expression in her looks, not in her actions.
However, motherly allegiance to duty might curb if it could not
altogether control. "Is it possible that I heard you humming a tune as
you came through the hall?" she inquired.
"No, no; it is impossible! I hummed it so low that you certainly could
not have heard it!"
Dignified rebuke was out of the question, as they had reached the foot
of the stairway. In another moment Edward Macleod was bending
profoundly over the hand of his hostess. The aristocratic, little old
lady, with her delicate faded face, always seemed to him like some
rare piece of porcelain or other fragile, highly-finished object. He
led her to the easiest chair, and drew his own close beside her, only
interrupting the absorbed attention which he gave to her remarks by
soft inquiries regarding her health, or compliments upon the way in
which her not very vigorous constitution had withstood the severity of
the Canadian winter.
This noble dame, though she had been accustomed to a Northern climate,
had never reconciled herself to it. She still longed for _la belle
France_. Those who accompanied her husband to this portion of Upper
Canada, on the outbreak of the French Revolution, had either returned
to France or had gone to settle in French Canada, at the capital of
which Helene was born shortly after the death of her father. The old
friendship of General DeBerczy for Commodore Macleod, and the fact
that the latter was the executor of her husband's estate and the
guardian of her daughter, had led her to return to the Huguenot colony
on the Oak Ridges, and summer always found Madame and her household at
her northern villa, near the Macleod residence, on Lake Simcoe. Here
Edward passed the day gossiping with the old lady, and sauntering
about the trim grounds with the stately Helene until the afternoon was
far advanced.
After taking his leave of Madame DeBerczy, Edward cast a fugitive
glance about him in search of her daughter, but that young lady, for
reasons of her own, was absent. He suffered a vague disappointment, as
he took his way to the shore, but at the water's edge a girlish form
overtook him, and a superb bouquet of hot-house flowers was placed in
his hand.
"I brought them for you to place upon--upon--"
She hesitated. It sounded like wanton cruelty to say "your mother's
grave" to him, whose idea of everything lovely on earth must be
signified in the word "mother," everything terrible in the word
"grave." But he understood her, and thanked her, while his heart and
eyes filled fast. On that lonely homeward row the burden of his
bereavement lay heavily upon him, and the remembrance of his happy
morning with his childhood's friend, though sweet, was almost as faint
as the fragrance exhaled from the rare exotics at his feet. The pure
tender curves of the white camellias reminded him of Helene. She
herself was the rare product of choicest care and cultivation--the
flower of an old and complex civilization. The fancy pleased him at
first, and then woke in his mind a certain vague disdain. What place
had hot-house plants, either human or otherwise, in this wild new
land, whose illimitable forests as yet were almost strangers to axe
and fire?
In a remote and solitary corner of his own domain, the Commodore had
made for his dead wife a last abiding-place. Thitherward, and alone,
the motherless youth bent his steps in the soft glow of sunset. The
stillness of the place was broken only by the whisper of the trees
overhead, the faint hum of insects, and the low murmur of the lapping
waters of the lake. Walking with downbent head and step so light that
his footfall made no slightest sound upon the young grass in his path,
he did not see the form of a half wild, wholly beautiful girl, emerge
from the deep gloom of the woods before him. Nor did she observe him,
for her attention was wholly bent upon the armful of forest-flowers,
which she let fall upon the grave with a passionate gesture of grief.
The young man, looking up in startled amaze, recognized the strange,
fantastic figure that had fled before his approach on the evening of
his return home. He scarcely noticed her odd costume of mingled blue
and yellow, so drawn was he to the dusky splendour of her face. The
warm vitality of the mantling cheek, and the charm of the lustrous
lips, were matched in hue by a blood-coloured 'kerchief, carelessly
knotted about the supple, tawny throat, behind which streamed a
profuse abundance of deep-black hair. Giving him one frightened
glance, she turned and sped like some strange tropic bird upon the
wind. Moved by wonder, curiosity, and admiration, the young man gave
stealthy chase; but, after following in the wake of her flying feet by
bush and brier, and through the tangled thickets of the forest, he had
the poor satisfaction of losing sight of her altogether, and then
gaining one last glimpse of her, as, from the dense shadowy point
where she became invisible, shot out a birch-bark canoe, and the dying
sunset illumined with all the hues of victory the superb form of an
Algonquin maiden rapidly rowing away. Hot, irritated, and tired,
Edward returned home, nor did he observe that, in this fruitless
chase, one of the pure buds that Helene had given him had fallen from
his breast, on which he had pinned it, and had been rudely crushed
beneath his heel.