Part 10 (1/2)
Mademoiselle Helene was intensely proud. She had been an un.o.bserved witness of the scene between Edward and Wanda in the wood, and, of course, had made her own misinterpretation. A man who could permit a low, untutored savage to fawn upon him in that way, kissing his hand repeatedly, and flus.h.i.+ng with gratified vanity, presumably at his words of endearment, could scarcely expect to be treated otherwise than with disdain by the high-bred girl whom he had previously delighted to honour. As for Edward he was sorely hurt and bewildered.
Helene's treatment of him he considered decidedly curt, and natural resentment burned within him at the thought. But before he reached home his anger had pa.s.sed away, and with it all remembrance of the cold maiden and the unpleasant evening she had given him. In their place lived an intense recollection of a tawny woman, beautiful and warm-blooded; and his heart thrilled with a tumult of emotions at the memory of her l.u.s.trous velvet lips closely pressed within his wounded hand.
CHAPTER IX.
ON THE WAY TO THE CAPITAL.
From early summer to late autumn, from a.s.surance of bloom to certainty of frost, is but a step--the step between life and death. The murmuring leaves and waters on the sh.o.r.es of Kempenfeldt Bay had learned a louder and harsher melody--the wild wind-prophecy of winter.
For a brief season Indian summer came to re-illumine the despairing days, and the larches, set aflame by her hand, flashed like lights.
Then through the softly tinted wood broke the Autumn brightness upon delicate s.h.i.+mmering birch trees, red sumachs, purple tinged sa.s.safras, golden rod and asters; but now the oaks and beeches had changed their velvet green raiment to dull brown, and all the wild woods, after the pitiless and well-nigh perpetual rains of Fall, were stricken and discoloured. Madame and Mademoiselle DeBerczy had flown with the birds, and were now domiciled in their winter home at the Oak Ridges, whither Rose Macleod, in response to an urgent invitation from Helene, had accompanied them, and whence she wrote letters of entreaty to her father, urging him to take a house in York for the winter.
”Not that it is so particularly lively,” she wrote, ”but it is not quite so deathly as at Pine Towers. Edward will be willing to come, I know, desperate lover of nature that he is, for there is nothing in the woods now but eternal requiem over lost and buried beauty, of which, in the natural vanity of youth, he may be tempted to consider himself a part. As for the children they will build snow-houses, and sit down in them, thus ensuring permanent bad colds, and the other member of your family, if she returns home, will 'look before and after, and sigh for what is not.' Is not that a sufficiently depressing picture? Dear papa, you know that, like the bad little boys in a certain cla.s.s of Sunday School literature, I can't be ruled except by kindness. Now see what an immense opportunity I have given you to govern me according to approved Sunday School ethics!”
She paused a moment, considering not what could be said, but what could be omitted from a missive which was to be convincing as well as caressing in its nature, when Helene entered the room.
”Love letter, Rose?” she inquired carelessly.
”Certainly,” responded her friend, ”all my letters are love letters.
Would you have me write to a person I didn't love?”
”Why, I couldn't help it, that is supposing the letter you are writing is addressed to Allan Dunlop. Of course he is a person you don't love.”
”There is no reason why I should.”
”No reason? O ingrat.i.tude! After he dived under the heels of a fiery horse, carried you nearly lifeless into the house, and took off his boots every time he entered it for six weeks thereafter. How much further could a man's devotion go?”
”I am beginning to find out,” said Rose, with a slight return of an invalid's irritation, ”how far a _woman's_ devotion can go.”
Helene arched her delicate brows. ”Are you offended?” she asked, anxiously. ”Ah, don't be! I'll take back every word. He _didn't_ take off his boots, nor carry you in, nor pick you up, and, let me see--what other a.s.sertion did I make? Oh, yes. Of course he is a person you _do_ love. But oh, Rose, Rose, what are you blus.h.i.+ng about? This isn't the time of year for roses to blush.”
”Upon my word, Helene, you are enough to make a stone wall blush.”
”Ah, you are thinking of the stone walls of a certain farm cottage. I can imagine you sitting propped up in bed, with a volume of hymns marking the line, 'Stone walls do not a prison make,' with a big exclamation-point, and a 'So true!'”
Rose leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
”Are you very tired, dear?” inquired her friend, with real tenderness.
”Very tired,” was the languid reply, that was not without a satirical intonation. ”It seems as though my rest was a good deal broken.”
”Broken bone! broken heart! broken rest! dear me! Well, I suppose they follow each other in natural sequence.”
”Helene,” said her mother, ”you are chattering like a magpie. What is it all about?”
”Broken utterances, mamma. Not worth piecing together and repeating.”
Madame DeBerczy, seated alone at the other end of the apartment, turned upon her daughter a face of such majestic severity as effectually to quell that young lady's recklessly merry mood. But it was not for long. The irrepressible joyousness of her nature was not permanently subdued until two weeks later, when the family were surprised by the unlooked-for appearance of Edward Macleod. This young man was the bearer of good-tidings. His father and the rest of the family were even now domiciled at an hotel in York waiting for Rose to arrive in order to consult her preferences before selecting a house.
The announcement made both girls happy, but when it was discovered that Edward was to take his sister away in a few hours their joy was changed to lamentation. To be separated, hateful thought! How could it be endured? They withdrew for a brief s.p.a.ce to consider this weighty problem, leaving Edward in dignified conversation with Madame DeBerczy. He was strangely reminded of his first visit to her after his return from England. Alike, and yet how different. Then the prophecy of summer's golden perfection was in the air. But his hopes with it had too-quickly ripened and died. The coolness that had sprang up between Helene and himself had grown and strengthened into the permanent winter of discontent. He was recalled from the chilling reflections into which this thought had plunged him by the concluding words of a remark by Madame DeBerczy: ”I approve of a certain amount of life and animation,” she said, ”but they are inclined to be too frisky.”