A KISS AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
It was late afternoon in a Canadian midwinter day. Cold and still,
with a coldness so intense that the blinding brightness of the sun
made no discernable impression on the densely packed snow, and with a
stillness absolutely undisturbed by any slightest breath of blustering
wind. Before the early twilight came, Rose Macleod, wrapped in furs
from dainty head to well-booted feet, ran lightly down stairs, tapping
softly at the library door on the way.
"I am all ready, Papa," she said, illumining the room for a moment
with a pair of dark blue eyes and crimson cheeks. "Don't you think it
will be a beautiful night?"
"Very beautiful, and cold enough to kill an Esquimaux. I confess it
would be a pleasure to know that in a few hours you would be safe
under the blankets instead of junketing over at Madame DeBerczy's."
"I shall be just as safe under the buffalo robes, just as warm, and a
great deal happier."
"Very well; be off then. By the way, how many are in your party?"
"Oh, nearly a dozen at least."
"Then there is a possibility that you will not all perish. Tell the
survivors to report themselves here as early tomorrow morning as
possible."
There was a sound of bells and a mingling of merry voices as a
sleigh-load of young people drove up to the door, and waited for Rose
to join them. "Delays are dangerous," observed Edward, as his sister,
after opening the door, was suddenly stung by the reflection that she
had not taken a last comprehensive view of herself in the glass, and
turned to the hall mirror to rectify the omission.
"Particularly, when it is below zero," said another.
"What is she doing now?" patiently inquired a third.
"Airing the hall," responded a girlish voice. "Oh, no, she is really
coming! Rose," she called, "come and sit by me."
"No, there is more room here," said another voice; while still another
exclaimed, "I have been keeping such a cosy little corner here for
you."
She stood in smiling hesitancy a moment, when her hand, from which she
had removed the glove in order to adjust an unruly hair-pin, was taken
by another hand, firm and warm and gloveless, and she was drawn almost
unconsciously to the side of its owner. It was Allan Dunlop who had
thus taken summary possession of her, and incurred a little of her
dignified displeasure.
"You left me no room for choice," she said in a slightly offended
tone.
"I beg your pardon, I was thinking only of leaving you room for a
seat."
She was silent. It was very difficult to keep this young man at a
distance, when there was such a very little distance between them, and
yet she must be true to the promise tacitly given to her father. She
must be cool, indifferent, uninterested. "It isn't a matter of any
importance," she said absently.
"I'm afraid it is to me," he continued in a lower tone, "I know
scarcely a soul here, and declined Edward's invitation to join you on
that account."
"Oh, it is very easy to become acquainted with a sleighing-party." She
greeted the two young ladies on the other side of him, and introduced
him to them. They were refined, attractive-looking girls, but they had
a fatal defect. They absorbed social heat and light instead of
radiating them. It seemed as though they might be saying: "There, now,
you got us into an unpleasant situation by inviting us here, and it's
your duty to make us happy; but we're not having a good time at all,
and we'd like to know what you're going to do about it." Allan did the
best he could, not half-heartedly, for he was accustomed to do
thoroughly whatever he attempted, and his success was marked. Those
grave girls, who, heretofore, had always seemed to be haunted by some
real or fancied neglect, were in a gale of semi-repressed merriment.
The mirth was infectious, and as the horses flew over the frozen road,
the gay jingle of bells mingled happily with the joyous laughter of
young voices. Poor Rose, whose natural love for society and capacity
for fun-making had induced her to set very pleasant hopes upon this
sleigh-ride, found herself, much to her surprise, the only silent one
of the company. With Allan's gracefully unconcerned personality on one
side, a middle-aged lady of rather severe aspect--the matron of the
party--on the other, and just opposite a pair who were very agreeably
and entirely engaged _with_ as well as _to_ each other, all means of
communication seemed to be hopelessly cut off. It was really very
unreasonable for Allan to act in this way. He was saving her the
trouble of treating him badly and keeping him at a distance; but,
strange to say, there are some disagreeable duties of which one does
not wish to be relieved. If it were possible to be overwhelmingly
dignified when one is buried shoulder deep in bear and buffalo
skins--but that was out of the question.
The clear crystalline day began to be softly shadowed by twilight.
Behind them lay the town, its roofs and spires robed in swan's-down,
while on all sides the fallen logs and deep underbrush, the level
stubbles and broad irregular hollows, and all the vast sweep of dark
evergreen forest, melting away in immeasurable distance, was a
dazzling white waste of snow. In the bright moonshine it sparkled as
though studded with innumerable stars. Above them was a marvellously
brilliant sky.
Suddenly, under a group of trees that stretched their ghostly arms
across the roadway, the cavalcade came to a full stop; and Edward, who
was driving, looked round with a face of gloomy foreboding at the
merrymakers.
"What is the matter?" demanded half-a-dozen voices.
"We shall have to go back," announced the young man, with a look of
forced resignation.
"Go back!" echoed the same voices an octave higher, "why, what has
happened?"
"Nothing, except that Rose ought to take another look at herself in
the hall mirror. There is something fatally wrong with her appearance."
"About which part of my appearance?" demanded the young lady, who was
too well acquainted with her brother to be at all surprised or
disturbed by anything he could say.
"I don't know, I'm sure. Perhaps its the _tout ensemble_. Yes, that's
just what it is."
"Do drive on, Edward, and don't be ridiculous. It's too cold to
discuss even so important a subject as that."
"I am sure you must be suffering from the cold." It was Allan who
spoke, turning round to her in a tone of quick, low tenderness.
"Not in the least!" Every small emphatic word was keen and hard as a
piece of ice. Then, in the white moonlight, she confronted something
that made her heart sink, it was the unmistakable look of mental
suffering, a look that showed her that he at any rate was suffering
from the cold--the sharp stinging cold of a winter whose beginning was
pressing bitterly upon them, whose end, so far as they could see, was
death.
The mansion of Madame DeBerczy sent out broad shafts of light through
its many windows to welcome the latest addition to the brilliant
throng already assembled in its ample interior. Madame herself was
superb in a regal-looking gown that became her aristocratic old
countenance as a rich setting becomes an antique cameo. Her stately
rooms were aglow with immense fire-places, each holding a small
cart-load of hissing and crackling wood, the reflected light gleaming
brightly from the shining fire-irons, while a number of brass
sconces--the picturesque chandeliers of the past--polished to the
similitude of gold, were softly shimmering overhead. The beautiful
English furniture of the last century, artistic yet home-like; the old
world cabinets, covered with surface carving, solid yet graceful in
appearance; tiles, grave and cheerful in design, set into oaken
mantel-pieces; peacock coloured screens, and ample crimson curtains,
edged with heavy silken borders of gold, all lent their aid to
brighten and enrich the rooms that to-night were graced by some of the
best society from Upper Canada's; most ambitious little town of York.
Mademoiselle Helene, beautiful in a blush rose gown, with a few
star-shaped flowers of the same shade in her silky hair, was the
magical living synthesis of this small world of warmth and colour in
the eyes of her lover. These eyes were more than usually brilliant
from his long ride in the keen air, and the yellow locks upon the
smooth white brow were several noticeable inches above the heads of
those around him. As he walked down the crowded rooms, in enviable
proximity to the blushing dress, his handsome face and half careless,
half military air drew the attention of more than one bright pair of
eyes.
"Rather a pretty boy," commented a pompous-looking gentleman,
patronizingly.
"But entirely too fair," was the disapproving response of the critical
young lady beside him, whose own complexion and opinion were certainly
free from the undesirable quality she referred to. "Of course, a pink
face is attractive--in a doll."
"Then the daughter of our hostess escapes the imputation of being
doll-like."
"Oh, she is quite too overgrown for that. It's a pity she has that
peculiar complexion through which the blood never shows."
In another group, an enthusiastic young creature whispered to her
mother: "Mamma, do notice Miss DeBerczy's face; white as a cherry
blossom, and her lips the cherries themselves. Isn't she just like
a picture?"
"Yes, dear," drawled mamma, adjusting her eye-glass with an air of
rendering impartial justice, "like a very ill-painted picture. Why
don't she lay on her colours a little more artistically?"
"Oh, she doesn't lay them on, they're natural."
"Well, Lena, you should not be so quick to notice and comment upon
natural defects. Not one of us is free from them, and it is
uncharitable and unkind to make them the subject of remark."
Thus silenced and put in the wrong the young lady ventured nothing
further.
"Edward," said Helene, later in the evening, "really you ought to
dance with somebody else. There are dozens of charming girls here."
"Which dozen did you wish me to dance with?"
"Don't be nonsensical, please. Haven't you any preference?"
"Oh, decidedly, yes." He glanced at a _petite_ maiden, whose figure
and movements were light and fairy-like. "But I'm afraid she would
refuse me."
"I don't think she would."
"That isn't sufficient. My vanity is painfully sensitive to the
smallest danger of slight."
The fairy-like person had unconsciously assumed an appreciative, not
to say sympathetic, expression. Helene smiled. "Your fears are very
becoming to your youth and modesty, but I think I may go so far as to
say I am sure she will not refuse."
"That is joyful news." Another set was forming, and he rose with hand
extended to Helene. "You said you were sure she would not refuse," he
responded to her look of blank amaze; and then, as she yielded to the
irresistible entreaty in his eyes, he murmured softly, "How could you
imagine I had any other preference but you?"
"One imagines a great many strange things," she replied. "Once I
fancied that you preferred an Indian girl."
"_How could you_!" he repeated with intense emphasis. All that part of
his life seemed vague and far away as though he had dreamed it in some
prehistoric period of his existence. It refused to take the hues and
proportion of reality. Yes, that was nothing but a wild fantastic
dream--the sort of dream from which one wakes with a wretchedly bad
taste in the mouth. This rare girl, with the flower-like curves and
colours, was the only reality. And yet, was she reality? Her dress,
wreathed flame-like from warm white shoulders to satin shod feet, lay
in rich glowing lengths upon the waxed and polished floor. Her
beautiful head, too heavily weighted with braids and coils of raven
blackness, swayed slumberously upon the dainty white neck, and he
could not tell whether he better liked to see the dark lashes lying
upon her cheeks or uplifted to reveal the magical eyes beneath. He was
very much in love. The soft intoxicating strains of music went to his
head like wine. He was powerless to struggle against the thrilling
illusion of the hour. When the others returned to their seats or
promenaded the brilliant rooms they escaped alone and unobserved into
the conservatory. Here they beheld the greatest possible contrast to
the desolate wintry waste without. The air was heavy and languorous
with the odour of tropic flowers. The music, almost oppressive in the
crowded parlours, melted deliciously upon the ear as they wandered
away. Helene, when she noticed that they were quite alone, suffered a
vague alarm. She told herself in one moment that it was not possible
that Edward would choose this opportunity for a formal declaration of
his love, and the next moment she reminded herself that impossible
things are the ones that frequently come to pass. The idea, like an
ill-shaped burden, pressed uncomfortably upon her.
A maiden's heart, like a summer night, knows and loves its own secret.
All through the mysterious deep hours of sleep it holds the secret
closely wrapped in darkness, pure as the dew on the grass, innocent as
the little leaves in the forest, glorious as the countless stars of
heaven. Some time, and soon enough, the dawn will come. Then the stars
will pale before a glory more intense, the countless little leaves,
like delicate human emotions, will wake and stir, and the white mists
of maidenliness will be warmed with heavenly radiance. But after
sunrise comes the day--the long prosaic day of duty and denial, of
work and its rewards, of sober, plain realities. Why should the night
of mystery and beauty hasten towards the common light? Her being
thrilled under the first faint approaches of the dawn, and yet--yet a
little longer, oh, ardent, impetuous, all-conquering Sun! It seemed as
though the girl's very soul were pleading. The rich-hued,
fragrance-laden flowers in the sweet dim place bent their heads to
listen, but her impassioned lover paid no heed to the unspoken prayer.
The sense of her beauty--of her unsurpassable charm, mingled with the
voluptuous music--pierced his heart with insupportable pain. Could she
not feel his unuttered love? Her lily-like face was cool and pale, but
in that warm-coloured robe it seemed as though her very body blushed.
In leaning over to reach a peculiar flower that attracted her
attention, a little wave of her gown rested upon his knee, and it
seemed to his infatuated vision that the insensate fabric throbbed as
well as glowed from the momentary contact. Helene kept up a continual
flow of small talk, of which he heard not a syllable. Rising hurriedly,
her long train caught in a low branch that stretched across the walk,
and he bent to extricate it.
"How is it that you dare to touch the hem of my garment?" she demanded
laughingly.
"Oh, I can dare more than that," he cried. The conviction that she
loved him, as indeed she did, gave him a sort of desperate courage. He
took her in his arms and held her close, kissing her passionately on
lips and eyes and soft white shoulders. She neither moved nor spoke,
but stood, when he released her, confronting him with a sort of
frigid, fascinated stare. "Oh, what have I done? Helene," he exclaimed
tremblingly. "I thought you loved me."
"_I_?" she questioned with haughty disdain, "_love_?" she demanded
with incredulous contempt, "_you_?"
The concentrated fires of her wrath and scorn were heaped upon this
final monosyllable. Every word was a fierce insulting interrogation.
Surely the traditional "three sweet words" had never before been
uttered with such tragic effect. She stood before him a living statue
of outraged pride, clothed in a fiery robe of righteous indignation;
then she turned and passed out of his sight, leaving the young man to
his reflections.
They were bitter enough in all truth. He still cared for Helene, he
loved her as he loved himself. But it is only fair to add that he held
himself in the very smallest estimation. He had acted like a drunken
fool. How would he like any man alive to treat his little Rose in that
style? But then she might have behaved reasonably about it. She had
trampled on his heart, and left it sore and bruised and bleeding. Very
well, he was not a child to cry out when he was hurt. He went back to
the gay throng, and saw, as in a cruel dream, the girl who despised
him scattering profuse smiles upon others. No matter! Nothing could
possibly be of any importance now. Rose was making her way with some
difficulty towards him. How wan and tired she looked. Was it possible
that any one besides himself was suffering? The idea was absurd.
"Isn't it time for us to go, Edward?" she said. "Madame DeBerczy has
invited our party to remain over to-morrow, but I promised papa not to
desert him any longer than was strictly necessary." Edward found the
proposition a most welcome one. They could not leave Oak Ridges too
soon, nor remain away from it too long.
His sister's drooping little figure attracted the attention of Helene.
"Do you talk of going?" Helene asked. "Well, so you shall go--to bed;
and the very first bed we come to." She bent caressingly over the
little golden head of her friend. Their beautiful arms were
interlinked. Rose glanced irresolutely at her brother.
"You will need to put on the extra wraps you brought," he said, "as it
is particularly cold at this hour of the morning." Helene was ignored
utterly. He did not seem to know that she was present. The proud girl
was wounded to the quick. She was not visible at their leave-takings.
When every one was gone she went away upstairs, telling herself at
every step that she hated, hated, Edward Macleod; that he was in all
things and in every way detestable. She did not weep nor bewail. The
tears showed as seldom in her eyes as the blood in her cheeks, and her
pride was of the inflexible sort that scorns to relax when its
possessor is alone. She dropped into a heavy troubled sleep, and
dreamed that she was solitary in a frozen land, whose only sunshine
was the golden head of her lover. In the strange fantastic manner of
dreams he seemed to be a very little child, whose light warm weight
lay along her arms, close to the heart above which he had pressed
those burning kisses. It was bitter cold; but the whole scene was like
a picture of winter. She could not feel it--she could feel nothing but
the aching of her own heart, the warm breath growing ever warmer, and
the clinging hands, clinging ever closer, of the child she loved. The
sense of delicious languor changed to a feeling of heaviness--almost
suffocation. Every golden hair of the head upon her breast pierced her
like a ray of brightest sunshine. Hastily putting him from her she
fled away with the wintry winds, herself as wild and swift and
soulless as they. But presently coming to look for the child, and
unable to find him, she realized that he was lost, and then she woke,
trembling with deep, tearless sobs.
"What is it, my dearest?" called Madame DeBerczy from the next room.
"Nothing, mother, dear, but a troubled dream."
"Ah, it is the excitement of these late hours. Try to sleep again."
But Helene could sleep no more. A few days later she heard that Edward
Macleod, with a party of friends, had gone on a shooting expedition to
the Muskoka country.