RIVAL ATTRACTIONS.
The current of a strong human affection, when it is thrown back upon
itself, must find vent in another direction. The weakest stream of
passion, when its chosen course is impeded by an immovable obstacle,
does not sink by gentle degrees into the earth, and thus, lost to
sight, become merely a thing of memory. There is disturbance and
disorder; banks are overflowed; and fields, once made fruitful and
beautiful by the softly-flowing river, lie sodden and unwholesome,
flooded by the dangerous waves. For days and nights Edward's brain was
surging with the sound of rushing waters. The tumultuous feelings so
strongly excited, so completely overthrown that evening in the
conservatory with Helene, would not subside. They beat upon his
desolate heart in great waves of rage, remorse, despair, and love,
like the beating of lonely waters upon a shipwrecked shore.
Hence it was that he welcomed the idea conveyed in a letter from a
friend in Barrie that they, with another boon companion, should go
hunting in Muskoka. Edward wrote an immediate agreement to the
proposition, mentioning Pine Towers as the place most convenient for
them to meet and lay plans for future action. He at once made
preparations to depart, for the idea of delay was intolerable to him.
The very atmosphere of the town was poisonous--the demands of society
not to be tolerated. He told his family that his old longing for the
wilds had come upon him, the sort of _ennui_ that nothing but the
odour of the woods could cure. The close of the day following found
him on the frozen shores of Kempenfeldt Bay, now clasped in the icy
arms of winter. The wind was wild among the leafless trees along the
avenue, but the desolation of his home was a visible response to the
sorer desolation of his heart.
The two or three old servants remaining in the lonely house were
delighted to see the young master home again. Olympia, the coloured
cook, whose high-sounding cognomen was usually reduced to Olly, gave
him a welcome equal to what might be expected from a whole plantation
of darkies. Her eyes and teeth shone in perpetual smiles, her gaily
turbaned head and dusky hands gesticulated in perfect time to the
exclamations poured out upon him.
"Well, my soul!" she cried; "well, my soul! Marse Ed., its good to see
you home again. Come in, chile, come right in! How mis'able you do
look to be sure. Just like a ghost, so cold and white. Shan't I mix
you a little something warm?"
"Oh, no, Olly, I'm all right; just a little tired after my long
journey, that's all."
She recognized the lifelessness in his tone, the jaded look and air of
one who is fighting a hard battle in the face of sure defeat. "You's
sick, honey," she exclaimed, with the ready sympathy of her race, "and
you's come back to old Olly to take care ob you. Dat's right, chile,
I'll just mix you a little warm--"
"Oh, dear, no, Olly, thank you; its comfort enough just to be quiet
and to be at home."
She left him in the parlour, but he pushed on after her into the great
fire-lit kitchen, partly because he detested the society of his own
thoughts, partly because it suited his present mood to be made much of
by the kindly old woman, to whom his mother all her life had been a
"chile." It was almost like being a boy again to sit in the chimney
corner and tell old Olly the story of his journey in all its details.
But before the recital was half-finished, something stirred in the
semi-darkness, on the other side of the fire-place.
"Why, bress my heart," said Olly, "I t'ought you was a dog, Wanda, you
sat dat quiet. What's de matter wid you, gal? Whar's your manners?"
The graceful shrinking figure would gladly have escaped out of sight,
but at the sound of her name Edward came forward to greet the Indian
girl. Olly, with many muttered protestations against the rudeness
shown to her young mahs'r, lifted the trap-door, and vanished down
cellar. The pale life-weary young man was alone with the sweet womanly
savage.
He held the little hand she offered him very closely and kindly.
"Are you glad to see me, Wanda?" he asked.
That was the keynote of his mental state. He was not glad to see
anyone or anything, but he was still interested to know that someone
cared for him. In his present mood it was certainly more pleasant to
feel that others were kindly disposed towards him than that they were
indifferent. The Algonquin maiden, on her side, was filled with a soft
delicious emotion. In the summer, when this daring young man pursued
her, she repulsed him; but in the winter, when he left her, she
thought of him. The natural result of her meditations upon so
fascinating a subject it is not difficult to conjecture. She began to
believe in the reality of his regard for her, and to fancy that he had
left her because of her harshness, of which he had frequently
complained. Now, could it be possible that his coming had anything to
do with the thought of her? Yes, she replied, she was glad to see him;
her blushing beautiful face gave eloquent testimony to the fact. He
released her then, and followed Olly into the dining-room, where a
small but sumptuous repast was laid, for nothing in the house above
nor in the cellar beneath was considered too good for young mahs'r.
"You'd be sprised, Marse Ed.," confided the old woman, "de improvement
made by dat chile since I took her in han'. It jus' went agin my
stomach to see her runnin' wild, widout a frien' in de worl', cept
dose heathen Injuns. She t'ought a heap ob yer mudder, an' I could'nt
tell her 'nough about her. Dat gave me a holt on her, you see, and
dars no denyin' she's changed a lot since las' summer."
"Tell her to come in here," said Edward, "and I'll judge for myself."
So in a few moments she came in, though with obvious reluctance, and
took the chair that Edward placed for her at the table. It was a novel
experience to the young man to find his wishes so implicitly obeyed by
this hitherto almost unapproachable girl. He felt disposed to exercise
this wonderful newly-acquired authority. "You must eat something,
Wanda," he observed; "I dislike to eat alone."
This was the sharpest test that could have been applied to the
improvement he wished to discover, but the girl's incomparable native
grace never failed her. It was impossible that she should either
lounge in her chair or sit stiffly erect in it. Her use of knife and
fork was marked, not by awkwardness but by extreme deliberation, and
careful observation of the manner in which Edward wielded his own. She
wore a dark grey dress, which he dimly remembered to have seen on his
sister Rose, and which that young lady had altered to fit the
Algonquin girl. The entire absence of colour in the dress intensified
by contrast the rich hues of cheek and lip, and the deep blackness of
eyes and hair. The only detail of her appearance which displeased his
taste was the strings of cheap glass beads wound about neck and waist.
Was there a vein of cheapness and vulgarity in her character to
correspond with this outward manifestation? He believed not. It was so
easy to believe everything that was good of this shy sweet personage.
He examined her narrowly and critically in the new and remarkable
_role_ she was compelled to play as the guest and equal of himself.
There was a surprising almost ludicrous similarity between the native
unconsciousness and dignity of the Indian and that of certain
high-bred dames whereof he knew, and yet there was about her the
unmistakable something that proved her wholly unversed in the ways of
society. Her dainty hands were very brown; her manner without being
constrained was certainly not easy; and her expression was that of a
bird, one moment resigned to imprisonment, the next panting for
liberty. In one word she was untamed. But was she untamable? His heart
beat faster at the thought. When the tea things were removed he threw
himself upon the couch; while the girl, sitting before the blazing
hearth, took between her hands and drew upon her knees the slender
head of his favourite hound. They made a striking picture, and the
blue, beauty-loving eyes of the spectator looked longingly upon it.
The dark lovely face bent forward seemed more childish in its soft
curves since the capacity to love and suffer had wakened in her
breast. Her sweet lips trembled with repressed feeling.
"Wanda," said Edward, "don't waste caresses on that unthankful brute.
He doesn't need them."
She looked at him with wide startled eyes. "Come to _me_," he breathed
in resistless accents. "Ah, Wanda, you pitied me once when I had a
scratch on my hand. Can not you pity me now when I have a sword in my
heart?"
It was not love that called her; it was the despairing cry of one who
was perishing to be loved. She rose after a moment, steadying herself
by a hand on the chair-back, for her beautiful frame was swayed by
irresolution, love, shame and pride. Slowly, very slowly, with the
sweet uncertain footsteps of a baby that fears to tread the little
distance between itself and the waiting irresistible arms of love, she
came towards him. It seemed at every moment that she must break away
and fly, as she had flown from him in the woods of summer. When she
reached his side her proud head fell, then the drooping shoulders bent
lower and lower till the uncertain knees at last failed her, and she
sank trembling on the cushion at his side with her arms about his
face. It was the attitude of protection, not that of a weak craving
for it. The fierce pain for which he asked her pity could arise from
nothing else but his love for her. This was the reasoning of the
simple savage--a reasoning that reached the hitherto unsounded depths
of passion and pathos in her nature. The young man, who bore in his
heart a bitter recollection of the scornful repulse offered by one
beautiful girl, could not resist the matchless tenderness so freely
given by another. He laid his face wearily against her arm, and she
bent over him murmuring words of uncontrollable love and pity.
Afterwards he asked himself what in the name of all the powers of evil
he meant by it; but this was some days afterwards. A long tramp
through the frozen woods in search of game had brought him a single
wild animal and a great many sober thoughts. In the rough log house in
which he and his companions were camping for a week, there was neither
room nor opportunity for private meditation; but the conviction came
to him with the luminous abruptness of lightning that he had used this
ignorant girl merely as a salve for his wounded vanity, and cruelly
deceived her by so doing. Not that his early passion for the Indian
girl had died a natural death. On the contrary it had been fanned into
fresh flame by the novel charm of her sweet approachableness. None the
less, but rather all the more clearly, he saw the detestable
selfishness of his own course. But, unfortunately, his tenderness for
her kept pace with his self-contempt. His feelings toward Helene and
Wanda at the present moment were just such as a man might entertain
toward the enemy who had conquered him, and the woman who, in his
greatest need, had succoured and saved him. For the one a bitterness
that could not rise to the crowning revenge of forgiveness, for the
other a passion of gratitude that would last a life-time.
"It appears to me," said Ridout, who was the most outspoken of the
party, "that we have a precious dull time of it in the evenings.
Macleod, here, is about as talkative as the deer he has slain."
The trio had been smoking in silence before a huge fire, but this
reference to Edward's great exploit of the day roused them to
conversation.
"It is no unusual thing for Macleod to distinguish himself in that
direction," said Boulton, the elder of the two. "He has long been
known as the champion _dear_-killer."
This wretched attempt at a pun was loftily ignored by the subject of
it.
"Alas, 'tis too true!" mourned the other. "Come, Ned, try to be
entertaining for once; tell us about the pretty Indian girl you were
mooning with."
"What did you say?" demanded Edward, freezingly.
"You heard perfectly well what I said."
"What do you mean by it?"
"Oh, I _mean_ the pretty squaw you were _spooning_ with, if that suits
you better."
"Gently, Tom," interposed Boulton parenthetically, "don't mention
_all_ the meanness you mean."
"I would like to inquire what right you have to mention any of it,"
exclaimed Edward wrathfully.
"Oh, none--none, whatever. Only it was town talk in Barrie last Fall
that you had become infatuated with the sweet little squaw to such an
extent that your charming sister, with commendable prudence and
foresight, had you put out of harm's way as speedily as possible.
There's no accounting for such reports."
"I don't understand it at all," said Edward, with mingled anger and
humiliation. "How can people be so silly?"
"Exactly what your slanderers inquired of each other. Impossible to
tell what they meant." The young man laughed rather disagreeably as he
went off to bed.
"Look here, Ned," said Boulton, bringing a sympathetic hand down upon
his friend's shoulder, "don't you take any notice of what Tom Ridout
or any of his set may say. Of course every young fellow makes a fool
of himself _some time_, in _some_ direction; it's natural and proper,
and just what is expected of him. All is he shouldn't make a complete
fool of himself, and nobody believes that of you."
"Ugh!" said Edward, and relapsed into gloomy silence, from which he
awoke to find himself alone, with the candle sputtering in its socket.
He took off his boots, and threw one of them viciously, but with
unerring aim, at the expiring light, and so went despondently to bed.
"Our fair friend appears to be quite as susceptible to the remarks
made upon his wild-wood acquaintance as to the wild-wood acquaintance
herself." This was the observation of Ridout, as he and Boulton went
the following morning to investigate the trap they had set.
"Don't be a fool, Tom," said Boulton, with a perfectly unruffled face
and tone, "that is, any more of one than you can help. Of course every
young cub like you is expected to be one to a certain extent, but what
I mean is don't be a _big_ one."
It was impossible to be angry with words so placidly spoken. "I don't
know what can make you so wondrous kind to Macleod," said Ridout,
"unless it is a fellow-feeling, and I wouldn't have thought that of
you, Boulton. But look here," surveying the empty trap with boyish
disgust, "nothing taken in but ourselves! Well, we'll have to make it
unpleasant for Tommy. That's the only comfort left us."
Tommy was the coloured boy, who was cook, housekeeper and general
factotum for the three. When ill-luck overtook them it was felt to be
some slight compensation to be at liberty to make it unpleasant for
Tommy. But one day, towards the end of their self-imposed exile, it
stormed so heavily and incessantly that they were compelled to remain
within doors, and here Tommy's unfailing good-nature deprived the
abuse with which he was heaped of all its power to charm and console.
On the principle which governs the selection of a victim by the
shipwrecked and storm-beaten remnant of a crew at sea, there was
nothing more natural than that Edward Macleod should fall a prey to
the general famishing desire for amusement. Boulton had been idly
humming the air of an Indian love-song, in which Ridout joined aloud,
substituting the name of Wanda for that of the ideal heroine. As the
sentiment of the song was of the most languorous and 'die-away' sort
it was impossible that the two men should abstain from mingling their
smiles. The conclusion of the singing was followed by a few remarks
from Ridout, one of which provoked a shout of uproarious laughter. For
a moment Edward's face was alive with intense suffering; the next it
had paled and hardened into marble-like rigidity.
"I wonder if either of you are aware," he said, with cold distinctness
of utterance, "that the subject of your conversation is to be my wife."
Tom Ridout stared a moment in unbelieving amazement, and then blushed
to the eyes. "I beg your pardon," he stammered, "I never thought--I
didn't dream--" He broke down completely, unable to grasp the
statement that shed such a different light upon their idle talk.
Boulton was not subject to fluctuation of emotion, and there was no
visible manifestation of a change in his feelings. The match he struck
while Edward was speaking went out. He reached for another; it also
went out.
"It seems to me," he said mildly, taking his unlighted pipe from his
lips, "that these are the worst matches I ever saw."
Ridout had recovered some of his usual self-assurance. "It seems to
_me_," he declared boldly, "that it's the worst match I ever heard
of."
"Worst or best," said Edward, with dogged resolution, "it will be
necessary for you to speak of it with respect--in my presence."
This seemed to be the end of the matter; but Boulton, who had at last
got his pipe agoing, could not forbear offering a few final words on
the subject.
"It's all right, Ned," he remarked, in his gentlest and kindest tones,
"perfectly right and natural that a young fellow should make a fool
of himself. That's exactly what's expected of him. But it isn't
necessary that he should make an _everlasting_ fool of himself.
Not--strictly--necessary."
Edward rose and left the room.
To leave the room in a region upon which unpicturesque prosperity has
not yet descended is equivalent to leaving the house, and that is
exactly what the young man did. Of course there was a loft above that
was reached by a perilously steep pair of stairs; but he was not a cur
to creep away into a kennel. He went out and battled with the pitiless
storm, a fiercer storm beating within his breast than that which raged
without. The crazy words he had just uttered were not spoken simply to
stop the idle talk of his companions; they were the ultimate
expression of the thoughts over which he had brooded for days past.
Helene was dead to him, and her mocking ghost haunted the desolate
chambers of his heart, filling them with scornful laughter. But now
upon the door of this wretched habitation had timidly knocked another
guest--a guest of blooming and throbbing flesh and blood. Should he
deny her admittance? Unlearned was she as one of the shy birds of the
forest, but then she was eminently teachable. If his love for her
could not be called a liberal education was it not something better?
Was it not a liberal and lasting joy? After all, what did women know,
any way? A few miserable half-learned accomplishments, the aggregate
of which did not amount to so much as the eagle's feather on the proud
little head of his darling. Yes, he dared to say it--his darling! He
pictured her in winter as sitting by his side, before the fire, the
delicate head of his pet dog encircled by her arm; in summer they
would roam in blest content together through the endless forests of
this beautiful new world.
And so with all his doubts triumphantly set aside he returned to the
house, and during the remainder of their stay his continued flow of
exuberant good spirits seemed to confirm the rightfulness of his
conclusions. On his way back to York he stopped a few hours at his old
home, for the sake of a brief stolen interview with Wanda. She met him
with little low murmurs of tenderness and joy, and parted from him as
a girl parts from the man in whose love she has absolute confidence,
for whose sake she would willingly die.
When he reached home, his appearance of high health and persistent
overflow of liveliness were ascribed by his family to continuous
out-door exercise, nor did they dream that the sweet fever and
delirium of love was upon him. Rose gave him an anxious glance or two,
but poor Rose had trouble enough of her own. That cold night at the
Oak Ridges, which had completely killed Edward's hopes with regard to
Helene, had cast a light but lasting frost over her own. It had been
painful enough to avoid Allan, but it was no less painful to be
deprived of that privilege. The truth was he had given her very few
opportunities to put into practice the course of treatment recommended
by her father. Had she been the heroine of a novel there would
inevitably have been misunderstandings of the most serious and
complicated character. But she was mortal, and withal a very
tender-hearted little maiden, and the secret of her cold tones and
wistful glances, though for a while it sorely puzzled Allan, was at
last divined by the sure intuition of love. They met frequently at
various social gatherings, but it was as though a solid sheet of glass
intervened between them. Through this apparently impalpable medium
they could see, and smile, and speak, but no tender touch of palm, or
breath of love, or thrill of quickened heart-beat could be felt
between. How many times had Allan Dunlop been tempted to outstretch
his hand and shatter this glassy surface! It were easily done but at
the price of possible sharp pain and aching wounds, and the greater
horror of seeing the sweet grieving face on the other side shrink away
from him, startled by the shock. No, he would bide his time. And so,
while his eyes grew hollow, his close shut lips remained very
resolute. Love _can_ wait (though waiting is the hardest task ever
assigned it), but only on condition that it is given the food it needs.
Allan kept his love alive on glimpses of sunny hair, and sad little
smiles, and fragments of talk, that, light and conventional as they
might seem to chance listeners, were to him clothed with lovely hidden
meanings. Sometimes when the eyes met by chance the small warm hands
plucked nervously at the flowers she carried, or there was a restless
consciousness in step and glance, or a scarcely perceptible quiver of
the curved lip, or a piteous droop of the regal little head. Very
slight things were these, yet out of them Memory and Imagination made
a sumptuous feast, at which Love, like a starveling prince in exile,
sat down with never sated appetite.