A PICNIC IV THE WOODS.
Winter had passed, and in hot haste--literal hot haste--the time of
the singing of birds had come. It was early in the season when the
Macleods returned to their summer home, but "lily-footed spring" was
there before them. Earth, air, and sky were bathed in a glory of
sunlight, which strove to penetrate the dark labyrinth of the pines
through which the wind sang. The bay was embowered in gleaming
foliage. In its clear waters the Indians plunged or paddled, or lay in
attitudes picturesquely inert upon its shores. Above it in graceful
curves the unwearying gulls were sinking, rising, and wheeling aloft.
On one of these halcyon days of early summer Rose Macleod was
re-reading a letter from her friend Helene; which, though a mere
elegant scrawl in the first place, and now yellow and worn with age,
has been with some difficulty deciphered by the writers of this
veracious history.
"We shall return to Bellevue next week," she wrote, "though what
possible benefit can accrue from our returning I cannot pretend to
say. Either home is distasteful to me; so is the rest of the world; so
are the people in it. Enviable condition, is it not? I seem to be
afflicted with a sort of dreadful mental indigestion. Everything I see
and hear and read disagrees with me, so I suppose it is only a natural
consequence that I should be disagreeable. Oh, dear, dear! What is the
good of living, Rose? What is the use or beauty of anything? The Rev.
the Archdeacon of York half-playfully says I need to be regenerated.
Dr. Widmer says my circulation is weak. Poor mamma says nothing; but
she looks a world of reproach. I wish she would take the scriptural
rod to me. That would improve the circulation, I fancy; and if it
didn't produce a state of regeneration it might at least be a
practical step towards it. But I don't know why I should make a jest
of my own misery, when I want nothing on earth except to be a little
child again, so I could creep off into the long grass somewhere, and
cry all my sick heart away. I used to be able to cry when I was five
or six years old, but now it is a lost art.
"By the way, speaking of tears reminds me that your friend, Mr.
Dunlop, was here last evening, and, while shewing him some views of
foreign scenes, we suddenly came across that old, little painting of
yourself, in which the artist represented you as a stiff-jointed
child, with a row of curls the colour and shape of shavings neatly
glued to a little wooden head. You remember how we used to make fun of
it. I always said that picture was bad enough to bring tears, and
there was actually quite a perceptible moisture in his eyes as he
looked at it. Who would have supposed that he possessed so much
aesthetic sensibility?
"Well, I am only wearying you, so I will close. Don't be troubled
about me, dear. Sometimes I am violently interested in my own
unreasonable sufferings, and at other times I am wholly indifferent to
them; but nothing can befall my perverse nature that shall alter the
tenderness always existing for you in the heart of your loving
HELENE."
Rose read all but the concluding paragraphs aloud to her brother, who,
standing at the open door, was looking idly out upon the leaf and
blossom of a lovely garden. "What a stream of unalloyed egotism!" he
said. "In a woman it's a detestable quality."
"Oh, you should say a rare quality," amended Rose, with a smile that
ended in a sigh.
"Well, it's something that can't be too rare." A fading spring lily
dropped on the doorstep by one of the children received an impatient
kick, as though he would dismiss the present conversation in a similar
manner. "Rose," he said, "I wish you would ask Wanda to our
sailing-party to-morrow."
"Why, Edward, I might as well ask a blue-bird. She will come if it
happens to suit her inclination at the moment, otherwise not."
"Don't you think a regular invitation would please her?"
"Oh, dear, no; it isn't as though she were a civilized creature. You
don't seem to grasp the fact that she's only a wild thing of the
woods."
A pause ensued. "There are other facts," resumed Edward a little
unsteadily, "that I _have_ grasped. One is that she is the most
beautiful woman I ever saw; another--that I love her."
Rose put up her hands as though to save her eyes from some hideous
sight, "It can't be true!" she exclaimed.
"My dear little sister, it is true; and your inability to accept it is
not a very flattering tribute to my good taste."
"It _can't_ be true," repeated Rose. "You must mean that you have
merely taken a fancy to her."
"Well, it is a fancy that has grown to enormous proportions. I cannot
live without her. If that is fancy it has all the strength of
conviction."
"Oh, Edward, you can't really love her. It is only her beauty that you
care for."
"You might as well say that the sunflower doesn't really love the sun;
it is only the sunshine that it cares for. Wanda's beauty is part of
herself."
"And it will remain so a dozen, or perhaps a score, of years. After
that you will have for your wife a coarse ignorant woman, forever
chafing at the restrictions of civilized life; angering, annoying and
humiliating you in a thousand ways, a woman whom you cannot admire,
whom it will be impossible for you to respect."
Edward's eyes blazed. Not until that moment did his sister realize how
complete was his infatuation for Wanda.
"It is you who are ignorant and coarse," he cried, "in your remarks
upon the girl who is my promised wife. No matter what befalls her, she
will always be clothed in the unfading beauty of my love."
Rose was deeply grieved. She stood with clasped hands looking
despairingly at her brother. "You poor boy," she breathed, "you poor
motherless boy! What can I say to you?"
"Well, there are a good many things that you can say; but what I
should prefer you to say would be to the effect that you will break it
as gently as possible to Papa."
"I shall not break it at all," declared the girl warmly. "It would
nearly kill poor father. Haven't you any consideration for him?"
"Yes; sufficient to make me wish that the truth should be clothed in
your own sweet persuasive accents, when it is conveyed to him. I don't
wish to jar him any more than is necessary."
"Edward, you are perfectly heartless!"
"That is the natural consequence of losing one's heart, isn't it?"
"Oh, then, you are only jesting. It's a very good joke, but in
questionable taste."
"Dear Rose, believe me, I was never more in earnest than at present."
"Except when you are out hunting. I have seen you go without food and
sleep simply because you were on the track of some beautiful wild
creature that was forced to yield its liberty and life merely to
gratify your whim. It is in that despicable way that you would treat
Wanda."
The young man smiled. He perceived that his sister was changing her
tactics.
"You are very considerate and tender of Wanda," he said, "but not so
much as I expect to be."
The conversation, which was growing more and more unsatisfactory, was
abruptly terminated by the entrance of one of the other members of the
family.
As a natural result of this interview Wanda was invited to go with
them in the sail-boat next day. Rose was clear-witted enough to see
that persistent opposition would only intensify the halo of romance
which her infatuated brother had discovered upon the brow of the
Algonquin Maiden, and that outward acquiescence would give the
attachment an air of prosaic tameness, if anything could. Besides, a
scandal is made more scandalous when the offender's family are known
to be in a state of hopelessly outraged enmity.
Thus bravely reasoned Rose, while her heart sank within her. She was
not prepared for the worst, but it was necessary that she should
behave in all points as if she were; otherwise the worst might be
hastened. It was impossible to view Wanda in the light of a possible
sister-in-law; nevertheless, she gave her the pink cambric dress for
which the Indian girl had so often expressed admiration, and
supplemented the kindness with a pair of gloves, destined never to be
worn, and a straw hat, whose trimming was speedily torn off and its
place supplied by wampum, gorgeous feathers, the stained quills of the
porcupine, with tufts of moose hair, dyed blue and red.
Certainly she looked very pretty as she stood on the shore next day,
all ready for departure. Even Rose, who for the first time in her kind
little life would willingly have noticed personal defects, was forced
to admit that Wanda was looking and acting particularly well; the only
apparent fault being a lack of harmony between herself and her dress.
They were two separate entities, not only in fact but in appearance,
and they were seemingly in a state of subdued but constant warfare.
The truth was, that this wild girl of the woods was secretly chafing
against the stiffly starched prison in which she found herself
helplessly immured.
It was very pleasant out on the water. The fresh vigour of the breeze
filling the sail with life, the waves swirling up about the sides of
the boat, the dancing motion of their little craft upon the water, the
changing tints, the shadows and ripples of the bay gave them a quiet
yet keen delight. Their destination was a point of land on Lake
Simcoe, where a party of picnicers was already assembled. A group of
girls came down to the shore as they landed, and bore Rose and Eva
away with them. In the leafy distance Edward caught a glimpse of
Helene DeBerczy, and in his heart the young man thanked heaven that he
was not as other men are, or even as the callow youths who were
hanging upon her utterances.
After a while, Edward observed Wanda standing apart, and looking at
the marauders in her loved woods as a man might look upon the enemies
who, with fire and sword, were desolating the home of his fathers.
Between her and these gay girls there was a difference, not of degree
but of kind. They loved the forest as a background for themselves; she
loved it as herself. The curious eyes fixed upon her were more
respectful in their gaze when Edward quietly took his place beside
her. Presently, Rose with her devoted adherents joined them, and every
effort was put forth to make the Indian girl feel at home in her home.
But for the most part they were futile. Wanda was thoroughly ill at
ease, though she concealed the fact with the native stolidity of her
race. But love's intuitions are keen, and Edward realized that his
little sweetheart was very uncomfortable. What could be the reason?
Her dress seemed incongruous, and yet it was perfectly in accord with
the linen and lawns and flower-dotted muslins about her.
"Laura," observed a young lady behind him, in a muffled whisper which
he could not choose but hear, "do look at Helene DeBerczy's costume.
Could anything be more out of place at a picnic?" Edward's gaze,
involuntarily straying to the garb which was so singularly
inappropriate, rested upon the filmiest of black stuffs, exquisite as
cobweb, through which were revealed the long perfect arms, and the
tender curves of neck and shoulder. From this gracious figure was
exhaled invisible radiations--the luxurious sense of refined
womanliness. How gross and earthly, how fatally commonplace and
prosaic seemed everyone about her. The violently high spirits of the
other girls, their scramblings for flowers and shriekings at snakes,
their too obvious blushes and iron-clad flirtations, seemed not to
come a-nigh her. "Her soul was like a star and dwelt apart." The young
man assured himself that he was not falling in love with her again; he
was merely laying at her feet an involuntary tribute of admiration,
the sort of admiration which he might feel for a rare poem.
Meanwhile the girl with whom he was in love had made what Edward
called "an object" of herself. By this uncertain phrase he did not
mean an object of admiration, poetic or otherwise. Left for a brief
season to her own devices Wanda had torn and muddied her gown, lost
her hat, and in other respects behaved, as a maiden lady present
remarked, precisely like an overgrown child of five years, who has
"never had any bringing up." All the children had taken an immense
fancy to her, and she was delighting them with her dexterity in
climbing trees when Edward cast a hot, shamed, imploring look at his
sister, to which she responded by saying:
"Wanda, you must be very tired. Come and sit down a while and rest."
The girl, seeing Edward a little apart from the others, took a seat
beside him, at which distinct mark of preference the rest smiled. Her
lover alone wore a heavy frown. He glanced at the frouzy hair, to
which not even the beauty of the face beneath could reconcile him;
then at the scratched and sun-burned hands, and lastly at the stained
and battered gown. "Wanda," he said with stern brevity, "how did you
get your dress so wet?"
"Wading the brook," she replied, surveying the dripping and discoloured
skirt with entire indifference.
"That is very improper. You shouldn't do such things. Why are you not
quiet?"
"Only the dead are quiet; but perhaps you wish to kill me."
The remark was startling, but it was unaccompanied by a ray of emotion
in face or voice. Only in the large soft eyes lay a depth of suffering
such as he had seen in the look of a dying fawn, wounded by his hand.
"Your words pierce like arrows," she said.
"Dear Wanda, forgive me; I am expecting too much of you. It is
exceedingly cruel of me to make you suffer so."
"Wanda!" called one of a group of children, "come and swing us,
please."
"Don't go," whispered Edward decisively. He himself strode over to
them, lifted one chubby youngster after another into the huge swing,
and sent them flying into the tree-tops. It was a form of pastime that
he detested; but he was not going to have Wanda at the beck and call
of "those little ruffians." At last, with the sympathetic assurance
that if they wanted any more swinging they were at liberty to get it
from each other, he left them, and rejoined the Indian girl.
"Wanda!" said Helene, as she spread a shawl on the ground, "just step
across to our carriage, will you, and bring me a cushion you will find
there."
"You must not!" declared Edward, in a low savage whisper, preparing to
go himself; but the girl was off like a swallow before the wind. He
met her on the way back, took the cushion from her, and presented it
to its owner with a bow of exaggerated deference. Helene's black brows
expressed the utmost astonishment; but as she confronted Edward's
wrathful gaze her own eyes caught fire, and the two who once had been
so nearly lovers now manifested no other emotion toward each other
save repressed and concentrated hate.
"I wish you to understand," said the exasperated young man to Wanda,
as he accompanied her to dinner, "that you are not a servant, and you
mustn't obey anyone's commands."
"No," was the slow reply, "I shall obey no one's commands, not even
yours;" and with these words she turned and fled into the woods. The
ever-present desire to escape had conquered at last.
"How kind you are to that unfortunate girl!" observed the lady next
him at dinner. "She must try your patience so much."
Edward admitted that his patience had been tried; but he was in no
mood to expatiate upon the subject. He had a very slight idea of what
he was eating and drinking, or of what all the talking was about. The
sunshine flecking the open clearing gave him a feeling that he would
soon have a dreadful headache. After it was over he lay down, and
tried to forget his troubles in a noontide nap. Gradually the voices
about him softened and died away. For a moment he was floating upon
the still waters of sleep, and then he drifted back to shore. Opening
his eyes he found himself alone with Helene, who was asleep among her
wrappings at a little distance. The rest had strayed away in pairs and
groups, out of hearing if not out of sight. The unconscious figure
seemed clothed in an atmosphere of ethereal sweetness, and Edward
caught himself wondering whether the root of an affection, whose life
is years long, is ever removed from the heart, unless the heart is
removed with it. He began seriously to doubt, not his constancy to
Wanda, but his inconstancy to Helene. Suddenly she opened her eyes and
caught his glance. He withdrew it at once, and in the embarrassment of
the moment made some inane remark upon the beauty of the day. Helene
rose with deliberation, put one white hand to the well-brushed head,
trim and shining as a raven's wing, and with the utmost tranquillity
answered "yes." Certainly she had the most irritating way in the world
of pronouncing the words which usually sound sweetest from a woman's
lips. He did not wait to continue a conversation so unpropitiously
begun, but went off on a lonely exploring tramp along the shore.
Late in the afternoon as he was returning, he noticed a nondescript
figure sitting solitary on the bank, which, as he approached resolved
itself into the superb outline of his Indian love. Unconscious of
observation she threw herself backward, in an attitude as remarkable
for its beauty as for its unconventionality. She seemed to be
luxuriating with a sort of animal content in the brightness of the
sunshine, the softness of the odorous breeze, and the warmth of the
water in which her slim bare feet were dabbling; she dug her brown
fingers in the earth, as though the very touch of the soil was intense
delight. The hated dress was reduced to ruinous pink rags, which
became her untamed beauty as the habiliments of civilization never
could have done. Her slowly approaching lover viewed her with mingled
amusement and horror, while deep in his heart flowed the dark; current
of a great despair. Hearing his footsteps she nerved herself for the
expected reproaches, which he knew were worse than useless; but seeing
in his face nothing but undisguised admiration, she sprang lightly to
her feet and threw herself upon his neck. Edward kissed her, but it
was with a thrill of ineffable self-contempt, and a sharp consciousness
that the only charm this girl possessed for him was that she allowed
him to kiss her. Then he drew away and brushed with fastidious glove
the dust his coat retained from contact with her shoulder.
"See what I have found!" she exclaimed, holding up a small trinket that
glittered in the sunlight. "It belongs to the Moon-in-a-black-cloud."
It was a little gold locket, which he had often noticed on the neck of
Helene. Shortly before Wanda's abrupt flight, she had pointed with
childish curiosity to the slender bright chain clearly visible beneath
the transparent folds of the black gown, and the young lady had
obligingly drawn the locket from its secret place upon her heart, for
the gratification of its admirer. Left for a time on the outside of
her dress, one of the tiny links must have severed, and the pretty
trinket slipped to the ground unnoticed by its owner. The young man in
whose hand it now lay was tempted to a dishonourable action. He had
often begged Helene to show him the contents of this locket--a favour
which had uniformly been denied. Now the opportunity was his without
the asking. Nothing rewarded his curiosity save a lock of yellow hair,
probably cut from the head of Rose. Queer fancy, he thought, for one
girl to cherish the tresses of another. Suddenly he was struck by an
idea that sent the blood throbbing to his temples. He examined the
tress a second time. The bright hair growing upon his sister's head he
knew had a reddish tinge, and its silky length terminated in ring-like
curls. This was short and straight, of a pale colour, and showed by
its unevenness that it had been "shingled." His heart beat as though
it would burst. "You must take this back to its owner," he said
imperatively.
Wanda slipped her hand in his. "We will go together," she said.
He glanced at her bare feet and ruined raiment, and realized with a
burning flush that he was thoroughly ashamed of her. No, he could not
take the hand of his future wife and face that crowd of curious
worldlings. The mere touch of her soiled fingers was repugnant to him.
She seemed like some coarse weed, whose vivid hues he might admire in
passing, but which he would shrink from wearing on his person.
"It will be better for you to go alone," he replied. "Don't tell the
lady that anyone beside yourself has seen the locket. I will come
presently."
But he lingered a long time after she left him, drinking against his
will the sharp waters of bitter-sweet reflection. There came back to
him an afternoon a year ago, when his sister Eva, out of childish love
of mischief, had stolen up behind him, and cut off the lock of hair
which fell over his brow.
"Mere masculine vanity," she had said, as the scissors snapped. He had
sprung up instantly, and pursued her as she fled shrieking down the
avenue. Helene, who was the only other occupant of the room had looked
almost shocked at their conduct, and his pet lock of hair had
mysteriously disappeared. Since then during how many days and nights
had it been rising and falling upon the proud bosom, that he knew very
well would be cold in death before it would give evidence of a
quickened heart-beat in his presence. The knowledge he had gained by
the discovery of the locket made Helene dangerously dear to him, and
yet relieved him of not a particle of his duty towards Wanda. He saw
neither of the girls again that day, but he carried home with him a
stinging memory of both. Late that night he was pacing his room with
sick heart and aching head, while in the next apartment Rose was
assuring herself that the picnic had been a great success. "Really,"
she meditated, "nothing could possibly be worse--or better--than the
way in which Wanda behaved."