AT STAMFORD COTTAGE.
Not more than three miles from the Falls of Niagara, between them and
Queenston, lies the pretty village of Stamford, in which, over sixty
years ago, Upper Canada's Lieutenant-Governor built the summer home
which became his favourite place of abode. Set in the midst of a vast
natural park, its appearance corresponded perfectly to Mrs. Jameson's
description of an elegant villa, framed in the interminable forests.
Here, within sound of the great cataract and, on clear, typically
Canadian days, within sight of York, thirty miles distant across the
lake, Sir Peregrine and Lady Sarah Maitland found a grateful retreat
from the cares of public life. Not that they loved society less, but
solitude more; especially, to use a Hibernicism, when that solitude
was shared. In the early summer of 1827 Stamford Cottage was filled
with people after its pretty mistress's own heart. If she suspected
one of her guests of being also after the heart of another, it did not
endear him the less to her. Why should she not remove from the paths
of her _proteges_ the scarcely perceptible obstacles which prevented
them from being as happily married as herself? But one day she
discovered that the role of match-maker is as arduous as it is
alluring, and with this she went at once to her husband's study.
"Dear," she began, "I have become greatly interested in a young man,
and I thought it only right that you should know about it before it
goes any further."
"Ah, yes, certainly." The gentleman looked rather abstracted. "And the
young fellow--is he interested too?"
"Oh, interested is a feeble word. He is desperately in love."
"Then you haven't taken me into your confidence a moment too soon. Has
he declared his passion?"
"No; that's just the trouble. He goes mooning round and mooning round,
and never saying a word. And I'm sure," added the lady in an aggrieved
tone, "I've given him every opportunity. Yesterday after infinite
pains I brought him and Helene together in the arbour, and made some
pretext for escaping into the house. What did that--infant--do but
follow me out?"
"Quite natural, if his feelings towards you are such as you have
described."
"Towards _me_! You don't imagine I am talking of myself."
"That is what your words would lead one to believe."
"Oh, dear husband, you know perfectly well what I mean. I do think
that when a man sets out to be stupid he succeeds a thousand times
better than a woman. Surely you have noticed how badly Edward Macleod
and Helene DeBerczy are behaving."
"Really, my dear, I have not. I supposed they were behaving remarkably
well."
"In one sense--yes. They are as 'polite as peas.' But why _should_
they be polite?"
"Well, it is a custom of the country, I suppose. It's hard to account
for all the strange things one sees in a foreign land."
"My object is not so much to account for it as to put an end to it.
It's ridiculous for two people, who have known each other from
babyhood, to be standing aloof, and looking as if the honour of each
other's acquaintance was the last thing to be desired. And now
Mademoiselle Helene wants to go home. She does not complain or repine
or importune, but every day, and several times a day, she presents the
idea to her mother, with varying degrees of emphasis, and in the tone
of one who believes that continual dropping will wear away the stone.
Madame DeBerczy as yet remains sweetly obdurate. She is enjoying her
visit, and there seems to be no special good reason why it should be
terminated. I particularly wish them to stay, as I want if possible to
bring about a better understanding between Helene and Edward. We must
not let them escape."
In pursuance of the policy suggested by his wife, Sir Peregrine took
occasion to have a special kindly little chat with Helene, with a view
to overcome her reluctance to remain. Naturally of a reserved
disposition his cordial hospitality found expression in looks and
actions rather than words, and these took a greater value from the
infrequency with which they were uttered.
"What is this I hear about your wanting to leave us?" he said,
addressing Helene, who, with her mother, was seated on his left at
dinner that evening. "Have you really grown very tired of us all?"
The young lady laid down her knife and fork, and the unconscious
movement, combined with her unusual pallor, gave one the impression
that she was indeed very tired.
"No, Sir Peregrine, only of myself. I seem to be suffering from a
prolonged attack of spring fever. Don't you think home is the best
place for those who have the bad taste to be in poor health?"
"No doubt of it," replied the gentleman, at which she gave him a
grateful glance, thinking she had won an unexpected ally; "but," he
continued, "I hoped you would feel at home here."
Helene assured him that it was impossible for her to enjoy her visit
more than she was doing. As she made this perfectly sincere statement
her melancholy eyes by chance encountered the deep blue ones of her
unacknowledged lover. In their depths lurked an expression of absolute
relief. Could he then be glad to hear of their projected departure?
She hoped so. It would be very much better for both. "Has it never
occurred to you," she asked of Sir Peregrine, "that the pleasantest
things in this world are very seldom the best for us?"
"I am sorry to hear you say that," he rejoined pleasantly, "as I was
about to ask you to go out driving with me to-morrow morning. There is
a view near the Falls that I believe you have never yet seen, and the
gratification of showing it to you would be to me one of the
pleasantest things in the world."
The young lady very willingly admitted that this was an exception to
the rule she had just laid down. Lady Sarah, who thus far had approved
her husband's tactics, now gave him a slightly questioning glance, but
he returned her such a look of self-confident good cheer, that she
knew at once he must be involved in a deep-laid plot of his own. As a
rule she had small respect for masculine plots, and before another day
had elapsed her sentiment on the subject was abundantly shared by at
least two of her guests. Mademoiselle DeBerczy had always entertained
a genuine admiration and liking for the Lieutenant-Governor. His
chivalrous courtesy, picturesque appearance, and the exquisite
refinement of his tone and manner pleased her fastidious taste. So it
was with almost a light heart that she made her preparations next
morning for the drive. But when seated in the carriage, and waiting
with a bright face the appearing of her delinquent attendant, it was
not pleasant to be told by the gentleman himself that important
dispatches had just arrived by the morning's mail, which demanded his
personal and immediate attention. "Besides that fact," said His
Excellency, "I had forgotten an appointment I have with the Hon. Mr.
Hamilton Merritt to talk over his great project of the Welland Canal
between the two Lakes, and I cannot disappoint him." He couldn't think
of asking her to wait until the sun was hot, and the pleasure of the
drive spoiled, added the Lieutenant-Governor. But here was Edward
Macleod, who would no doubt be glad to take his place. At this
announcement Helene longed to fly to her room, but she could think of
no valid excuse. The young man, sitting with the last _Gazette_ in
hand in a rustic chair on the veranda, listened to the summons with
silent horror. He actually turned pale, but like Helene, he could
think of no possible excuse for evading the turn affairs had taken. He
rose mechanically, gave inarticulate utterance to the pleasure he did
not feel, and took his seat beside the unhappy girl, who shrank
visibly into her corner.
"Admirable!" exclaimed Lady Sarah, softly stepping out to witness the
unusual phenomenon of Edward and Helene driving away together. "I
never supposed a man _could_ have so much sagacity and foresight. Here
have I been cudgelling my brains to keep those two from playing hide
and seek--no, hide and _avoid_--ever since they came, and now you
accomplish it in the easiest and most natural way in the world. See
what it is to have a clever husband! How did you happen to think of
those important dispatches?"
Emphasis would indicate too coarsely the delicate stress laid upon the
last two words. The gentleman looked extremely puzzled.
"_Happen_ to think? I am _obliged_ to think of them."
"Really? What a lucky accident! So you are not the sly designing
schemer I supposed. Ah, well, you are the soul of honour, and that is
infinitely better."
Certainly to her mind in the present case that was what appearances
would seem to indicate; but the poor wretches who were tending slowly
toward the brink of some indefinable horror, more awful to their
imaginations than the great cataract itself, thought not so much upon
the means by which they were brought into their present painful
position, as upon the impossibility of escape from it. To the eye of
a casual wayfarer these handsome young people, driving abroad through
the dewy freshness of the morning, with the long lovely day before
them, could not be considered objects of pity.
For a while they took refuge in commonplaces, relieved by lapses of
eloquent silence; then as the winding road conducted them by easy
gradations into greener depths of leafy solitude they looked
involuntarily into each other's eyes, and realized that, beneath all
the bitterness and pride and cruel estrangement, their love was the
truest, most unalterable, part of their life.
"Perhaps," said Edward, speaking as though the words were wrung from
him, "it is better that we should meet once more alone, though it be
for the last time."
The girl gave a low murmur of assent. Her eyes were looking straight
forward. The solitude was permeated by the deep thunder of the Falls,
and it voiced the depth of her despair. "For the last time," she said
within herself, "for the last time."
"I have a favour to ask," he continued, "a favour that I verily
believe a man never yet asked of the woman he loved; and I do love
you, my darling--there, let me say it once, since I can never say it
again--I love you with all my heart and soul." He bowed his head, and
she could see the blue vein in his temple growing bluer and swelling
as he spoke. He had not laid a finger upon her, he could not so much
as lift his eyes up to her face, but a mocking breeze suddenly blew a
fold of her raiment against his cheek, and he kissed it passionately.
Helene held her hands tightly together; they were trembling violently.
"I want to beg of you," he said, still without looking up, "to look
upon me with suspicion, aversion, and distrust; to disbelieve any good
you may hear of me; to hate me if you can; to treat me as long as you
live with uniform coldness and indifference."
"I understand," she replied with icy brevity, "you think there is
danger of my treating you otherwise."
Now, since the discovery of the locket, and its tell-tale contents,
this was precisely the danger that Edward had feared, but he was a
diplomatist.
"Have you ever given me the slightest reason to think so?" he
demanded. "At my least approach your natural pride changes to
haughtiness, arrogance, and scorn. But the one thing greater than
your pride is my love. Ah, you know nothing about it--you cannot
imagine its power. Madmen have warned those who were dearest to them
to fly from their sight, lest in spite of themselves an irreparable
injury be inflicted. And so I urge you to continue avoiding me, to
cast behind not even a single glance of pity, lest in spite of your
pride, in spite of my reason, I should bend all my power to the one
object of winning you."
This calamity, it may be supposed, was not quite so great and horrible
to the mind of the young lady as it was in the excited imagination of
her lover. "I do not understand you," she said quietly. "What is it
you wish to ask of me?"
"Only this: that you will never think of me with the slightest degree
of kindness; that you will drop me from your acquaintance; that you
will forget that I ever existed."
"Very well;" her tones were even quieter than before, and a great deal
colder! "I promise never to think any more of you than I do at this
moment." And all the time she was crying with inward tears, "O,
darling, darling, as though I could think any more of you than I do
now! As though I could, as though I could!"
"Thank you," said Edward, "you are removing a terrible temptation from
my way, and helping to make me stronger and less ignoble than I am.
Let me tell you all about it, Helene. Do you remember that night in
the conservatory last winter, when you treated me so cruelly? Yes, I
own I was a wild animal; but you might have tamed me, and instead you
infuriated me. I went from you to Wanda, the Indian girl with whom I
flirted last summer. She was in civilized garb, in my mother's home,
quiet as a bird that has been driven by the storms of winter into a
place of shelter. I too had been tempest-driven, and her warm welcome,
her beauty and tenderness, stole away my senses. She soothed my
injured vanity, satisfied my desperate hunger for love, and I lived
for weeks in the belief that we were made for each other. But with the
return of summer the untamed spirit of her race took possession of
her, and when I saw her with you,--ah, dearest, is there need for me
to say more? I cannot marry her; every fibre of my being, every
sentiment of my soul, revolts from it; but neither am I such a monster
of iniquity as to try to win any one else, and found my lifelong
happiness upon that poor girl's broken-hearted despair. No, Helene,
you have no right to look at me in that way. I never wronged her in
the base brutish sense of the word--never in a way that the spirit of
my dead mother might not have witnessed--but I have robbed her of her
heart, and find too late that I do not want it. I cannot free her from
her suffering, but at least I shall always share it."
And I too, was Helene's internal response. Aloud she suggested that it
was time for them to return. Her indifference was precisely what
Edward had begged for, but now in return for his confidence it chilled
him. She noticed his disappointment, and with a sudden impulse of
sympathy, she laid a tiny gloved hand upon his arm. "Oh, you are
right," she breathed, "perfectly right. It is infinitely better to
suffer with her than to be happy and contemptible and forget her.
Believe me I shall not be a hindrance to you."
He took in his own the little fluttering hand, and held it in what he
believed to be a quiet friendly clasp. It was an immense relief to
unburden his mind to any one, and her approval was very sweet to a
heart that had been torn for weary days and nights by self-accusation
and self-contempt. Unconsciously he leaned nearer to her, still
holding the little hand, which its owner did not withdraw, because it
was for "the last time." In the reaction from the severe strain of the
days and weeks gone past they were almost light-hearted. Before
re-entering the village Edward stopped the horse in a leafy covert,
where for a few minutes they might be secure from observation.
"It is only to say good-bye, my heart's idol," he explained. "Since I
have proved myself unworthy even of your liking I must go away from you
forever. But our parting must be here in private." He held both her
hands now in a tight, strong grasp, and looked into her face with
unutterable love. "Ah, heaven," he groaned, "I cannot give you up! I
cannot, I cannot!" He bowed his face upon the lilies in her lap, but
the languid bloodless things could not cool the fever in his cheeks.
For her life she could not help laying her hand tenderly upon his
head--the young golden head that lay so wearily close to her empty
arms; but she said nothing. A woman's heart is dumb, not because it is
created so, but because society has decreed that that is the only
proper thing for it to be. "Helene," he murmured, lifting his head
with a strange dazed look, "I believe I have been delirious all the
morning. What possible good could my suffering be to Wanda? I don't
know what I have said, but I wish you would forget it all. I wish you
would remember nothing except that I love you--love you--_love you_!"
The girl laughed aloud and bitterly. "So that is the length of a man's
remorse! No! You have begged me to despise you, and now I shall beg
you not to make it dangerously easy for me to do so."
Her contempt was a tonic. It reminded the young man that he deserved,
not only that but his own contempt as well. They drove home without
exchanging another word.