CHAPTER VIII.
CONVALESCENCE.
To be slowly recovering from a severe illness is almost like beingagain a very little child. So thought Rose Macleod, as she lay betweenlavender-scented sheets, in the quaint stone cottage, whose deepold-fashioned window seats, and low whitewashed ceilings, werebecoming as familiar to her as the stately halls of her home. Theprotracted leisure of convalescence was growing burdensome to her. Somany days had she watched the lights and shadows woven throughout thegreenery, just outside her window, or listened to the weird measure ofthe rain when the wind surged like a sea through the foliage, or heldher breath for joy when a flying bird pulsed vividly across the sky,or counted the milk-white flowers of the locust tree, as they strewedthe ground with blossoms, or noted the exact moment when themorning-glories softly clasped their purple petals together, as thoughunable to contain a greater fulness of joy than was brought by thesummer morning. It was now early evening, and Rose gave vent to alittle uncontrollable sigh. Mrs. Dunlop came as quickly to the bedsideas though the sigh had been the sound of a trumpet. She was a verypleasant object for weary invalid eyes to rest upon. Her dark hair wassatin-smooth, her voice and movements were quiet and refined. Therewas in her face that mingling of shyness and sincerity, irradiated bya look of the keenest intelligence, which reminded Rose of Allan,between whom and his mother there was a strong resemblance.
"I have something to tell you," she said gently. "As my prisoner youhave behaved in such an exemplary manner, keeping all the rules of theinstitution, and making no attempt to run away, that I have decided togive you the freedom of another room."
"Oh, am I to go into another room?" Had a voyage to Europe beenproposed to her it could scarcely have suggested pleasanter ideas ofchange. "A new wall-paper, and a new window! What more could I askfor? But how am I to get there? What means of transportation haveyou?"
"That is just what I am thinking of. I could dress you in my graywrapper, and then--would you mind if Allan were to help me to lift youto the couch in my room?"
Rose shuddered a little. A faint pink stained for a moment thewhiteness of her cheek. "I shouldn't mind it if I were senseless," shesaid, "but I don't want him to think I have lost my senses again. No,we'll have to give up that idea."
But Mrs. Dunlop was not the sort of person to give up an idea withoutgood cause. "The mountain must then go to Mahomet," said she, andwheeling the couch close to the sick-bed, she arranged the invalidcosily among the cushions, and pushed her slowly into her ownapartment. "If I were twice as large as you are," she added, "insteadof being just your size, I should have carried you in half the time."
But another and more serious consequence followed that same eveningupon the striking similarity in figure between Mrs. Dunlop and MissMacleod. Golden twilight had changed to dim dusk, but Rose still laywith her fair head almost buried among the cushions. She expected avisit from her father that evening, and the temptation to show himwhat she could do and dare was irresistible. All her hostess's hintsthat bed-time had arrived were wasted upon deaf ears. At last, in alittle anxiety as to the result of her experiment, if the Commodoredid not arrive, Mrs. Dunlop went out to the front gate to see if therewere signs of his approach. At the same moment Allan entered the houseby the back door, and looked about for his mother. Impelled by a"fatalistic necessity" he went up to her room, the sound of hiscarefully modulated tread upon the stairway filling the heart of Rosewith delight, for was not that her own father, who had probably beeninformed at the gate of the change in her condition and surroundings,and who was coming up so softly in order to surprise her. Allan,meanwhile, glancing in, saw nothing in the gray gloom but a smallfigure in a well-known wrapper, stretched wearily upon the couch."Poor little mother," he thought. "She is quite tired out." He went upto her intending to bestow a filial caress upon her cheek, but beforehis design could be accomplished he was drawn close by a single armaround his neck, and repeatedly kissed. "You blessed darling!" shesoftly exclaimed, "here I've been waiting for you, and _waiting_ foryou and longing--_Oh_!" That silky moustache and that chin, that was_not_ stubby, could they belong to a gentleman of sixty years? Herright arm fell limp and useless as the other. "I thought you were myfather," she said in a weak voice of mingled disappointment, anger andshame.
"And I thought you were my mother," was all the guilty wretch couldoffer in extenuation of his conduct.
The people whose parts this unfortunate pair had been playing withsuch ill success were now heard at the door below. Allan felt like acriminal as he stole into the hall, and thence into his own room; butthe Commodore could scarcely understand the propriety of a strange andotherwise objectionable young man holding a moonless _tete-a-tete_with his daughter. In any case his presence would involve disagreeableexplanations. If her cheeks were as flushed as his own no doubt herdoting parent would ascribe it to renewed health and strength.
But the young man, sitting alone in the perfumed darkness of thatsummer night, with his hot head fallen upon the window-sill, did notimagine that the fire that burned along his own veins was anindication of health. On the contrary, he feared it the symptom of adreaded disease--the fever and delirium of love. What was that littleyellow-haired girl to him? Nothing! nothing! Yet her kisses burnedupon his lips, and every drop of blood in his body seemed tocontradict his nonchalant nothing with a passionate everything! Yes,she was in truth the lamp of his life, but in that radiant light howpitiful his life appeared. How pitiful, and yet how beautiful, for inthe tender illumination of her imagined love rough places becamesmooth, dark ways bright, and the heights of possible achievement werefaintly flushed with all the delicate tints of dawn--the dawn of adiviner day than any he had yet looked upon. When he went to sleep itwas to dream of walking in a wilderness of roses. Pale and drooping,broken and dying, red and roguish, blushing, wanton, wild and warm,each bore some fantastic resemblance to Rose Macleod, and each was setabout with "little wilful thorns." The hand which he eagerlyoutstretched to pluck the loveliest rose of all was pierced andbleeding. Still he did not despair of reaching it. But as his longingeyes drew nearer and nearer the stately little beauty turned suddenlya deep blood-red, and then he saw that the crimson drops falling fromhis own wounds had worked this transformation. He hid her in hisbosom, and held her there. But the closer she was pressed the richerand more fragrant was the breath she exhaled, intoxicating all hissenses, and the farther into his heart went the cruel thorns, until inmingled pain and rapture he awoke.
This Allan Dunlop, though born and bred on a farm, had in him thespring of a higher and finer life. He was a man of delicate instincts,refined feelings, and great native sensibility, inherited from hismother, at whose history we may take a rapid backward glance.
Far away in one of the stately homes of "Merrie England," when theeighteenth century was old, a gentlewoman, young, charming, and fullof an habitually repressed life and gaiety, waited for her cavalier,the youthful riding-master who had little to recommend himself to hergracious kindness save that deep but indefinable charm which ahandsome man on a spirited charger is so prone to exert on thefeminine imagination. The morning was fair, the lady was fairer, andthe heart of her gallant attendant beat faster than the feet of hissteed, as the flying skirt of her robe swept his stirrup, and the softlength of her mist-like veil blew before his eyes and caressed hisbrown cheek. It was not the only mist that blew before his eyes norbefore her's either, poor child! for the rival contrast between thiswild rush over hedge and ditch and bright green meadow and the stifflyguarded walks and ways of home had spurred her imagination also into agallop. "We will never come back," he said jestingly, "we will rideaway into a world of our own!" but there was something reckless in hislaugh and a formidable note of earnestness in his jesting. He neverdreamed that her pulse beat quicker after his careless speeches, andhe was in truth a good deal in awe of her, for the buckram proprietywhich had encased her like a garment ever since she could remember wasnot easily thrown aside. This young pair, though as deeply in lovewith each
other as it is possible for man and maid to be, had neveracknowledged the fact by a syllable. Anna Sherwood was too shy andprim; Richard Dunlop too poor and proud. He had been a trooper in acavalry regiment, afterwards riding-master in a garrison town inEngland, and since his coming to Canada, and before taking to farming,he held the position of fort-adjutant at Penetanguishene; at presenthe was tutor in equestrian arts to the young lady whom he passionatelyloved. Of her there is little to tell except that until this dashingyoung fellow crossed her path she had experienced about as much changeand variety in her life as though she had been a plant grown in aflower-pot. On sunny days she was allowed the outside air; on stormydays she was kept within. She toiled not, neither did she spin.Nothing was required of her except colourless acquiescence in a lifeof torpid, unnatural, unendurable _ennui_.
The young lady's only guardian was a wealthy maiden aunt, who was asrich as she was old maidish--a statement likely to thrill the heart ofany mammon-worshipper among her acquaintance--and whose special pridewas the exemplary manner in which she had brought up her brother'schild. The daring young fellow who had presumed to fall in love withthis model niece followed her uninvited into the family sitting-roomon returning from their ride, a proceeding which rather alarmed thegentle Anna, though her much dreaded relative was absent. He did notsit down, but took a decisive stand on the hearth-rug. He looked likea man who has something he must say, though the saying of it will allbut cost him his life. She sat down with a strange foreboding at herheart of something terrible to come. The austere influences of heraunt's home were upon her. She sat in prim composure, pale handsclasped, and pale lids drooping upon cheeks that had lost everyparticle of the warmth and glow gained by exercise. "Miss Sherwood,"he began, "there is something I have been longing to say to you forweeks past, and though it is a perfectly useless, almost impertinentthing to say, still I cannot leave it burning in my heart any longer.It is that you are dearer to me than any woman on earth--and alwayswill be." His voice broke a little, but he went bravely on. "You neednot think that I shall annoy you with frequent repetitions of thisfact, or that I expect to gain anything by the statement of it. I knowthat you are proud and self-sufficing, and," a little bitterly, "thatI can never be anything more to you than the dust thrown up by yourhorse's heels--a necessary evil. I don't know why I should tell youthis, except that I cannot suffer in silence any longer. I am going toleave you now--to leave you forever. Won't you say good-bye? Is therenothing you will say to me, little Nan?"
In spite of himself his voice had sunk to a tone of caressingtenderness. The pale proud girl had listened to him without moving afibre or lifting an eyelash. But now there came a great flow of bloodto her face, a swift rush of tears to her eyes.
"Nothing," she said, "except"--
She wrung her hands: pride dies very hard.
"Except that I love you, Dick!"
His eyes blazed. "Then, by Heaven," he cried, "we shall never part."He caught her to his breast and held her there a moment withoutspeaking. He was too dazed to speak. The scene was dramatic; and MissMaria Sherwood, who entered the room at that moment, did not approveof the drama. She held that it was sensational in conduct, scurrilousin character, scandalous in its consequences; and it is highlyprobable that from this brief glimpse of it she saw no reason tochange her opinions. Act second, as may be imagined, was stormy andexciting, gaining in interest as it progressed, and the last scene inthese private theatricals saw the hero and heroine shipped off toCanada--that better country, where the lives and loves of those towhom fate has been cruel are graciously spared, under conditionsadverse enough but still endurable.
That life and love can continue to exist beneath bleak foreign skies,when grim Poverty howls wolf-like at the door, and the winds ofseemingly year-long winters are scarcely less fierce, was theproposition these courageous young people set themselves to prove. Noday dawned so dark that was not illumined for him by the repetition ofthat shamelessly unmaidenly speech, "I love you, Dick." As for her,she never ceased to smile at the blindness of a man who could imaginethat luxurious imprisonment for life without him could be morealluring than the greatest hardships endured in the perpetual sunshineof his love.
Of this pair, whose romance had outlasted the sordid cares andtrials of life in the backwoods, Allan Dunlop, with his exquisitesusceptibilities, and ambitious aims, was the honest fruit. He was notvisible to Rose for some days after their emotional and whollyinvoluntary encounter in his mother's room, and then he brought her agreat handful of her fragrant namesakes. She had been promoted forhalf-an-hour to a huge well-cushioned chair, in which she reclinedrather languidly. The roses formed a pretext for a little desultoryconversation, and then Allan, noticing the invalid's little ears wereturning pink, presumably at the recollection of their last meeting,could not forbear saying:
"I feel that I ought to beg your pardon, Miss Macleod, for the way Itreated you the other evening. It was a brutal assault, though whollyunintentional."
Poor Rose, who remembered that it was she who made the assault,expressed the belief that she would rather it were forgotten thanforgiven.
"I'm afraid I can't forget it. Some things make too deep an impression.Of course," he added, in his embarrassment, "it was the last thing Ishould have wished to do."
"Of course!" echoed the miserable girl, wondering if he meant what hesaid.
"Allan," said his mother, entering the room at that moment, "what areyou saying to distress my patient? I don't like the look of thesefeverish cheeks."
"I fear I have committed the unpardonable sin, as Miss Rose refuses topardon it."
Mrs. Dunlop, who was in absolute ignorance of the subject ofconversation, looked smilingly from one to the other.
"Promise her that the offence will never be repeated, Allan," shesaid, "and then it may receive forgiveness."
The young man coloured scarlet. "The conditions are too hard," hemurmured. "I think, on the whole, I should prefer to go unforgiven."And he hastily rose and left the room.
But if Rose Macleod was not free from afflictions of a sentimentalnature, her brother Edward was even less so. This young man sorelymissed the girlish society which his sister in happier days hadconstantly drawn about her. One afternoon, when time hung particularlyheavy on his hands, he decided to go over to "Bellevue," ostensibly togive Madame DeBerczy the latest information concerning Rose, butreally to solace his soul with a sight of the beautiful Helene. On hisway over he chanced to overtake the Algonquin girl, Wanda, whom heproceeded to upbraid in no measured terms for the way in which she hadtreated him.
"Ah, don't!" she cried at last, covering her ears with her hands,"your words are like hailstones, sharp and cruel and cold."
"Then will you not say that you are sorry?" he pleaded, bending hisfair head once more perilously near to the soft, brown neck.
"Sorry that you deserved the blow? yes; certainly!"
"Wanda," cried Edward, an irrepressible smile breaking through hisassumed anger, "you are a witch, and a wicked witch, too. It is likeyour race to be cruel and merciless, indifferent to the pain youinflict, and--"
"No, no," retorted the girl, indignantly, "it is not true." She wasirradiated by her wrath. The usual faint yet warm redness of her facehad changed to a deeper hue, and her eyes were smouldering fires.Edward had never seen her look so handsome; but his attention wasdistracted from her at that instant by some rough, prickly shrubs,near which they were passing. He put out his hand instinctively tokeep them from touching his companion, and a sharp thorn pierced hispalm. He immediately affected to be in great pain.
"It is easy for the pale-face to suffer," she said tauntingly.
"It is impossible for your race to be pitiful," he replied in the sametone.
Again she flushed hotly, and, as if to disprove his assertion, sheseized his hand, and pressed it closely to her angrily, heaving bosom,as she tried to extract the thorn from it. But it had penetrated toofar, and with a quick impatient ah! she bent her warm red lips to hispalm and strove
to reach the thorn with her little white teeth. Afterseveral attempts she was at last successful, and looked up with an airof innocent triumph.
"I take back my cruel words," Edward said. "I am sure you can be alittle pitiful." Then he put her gently but hastily aside, for theywere close upon "Bellevue," and he was eager to meet Helene.
With a grieved, child-like wonder the beautiful, ignorant savagewatched him, as he hurried across the velvet lawn, among beds ofbrilliant flowers, to greet a lily-like maiden, clad in what, in heruncivilized eyes, appeared to be a mingling of mist and moonbeams. Itwas the first time that he had shown a wish to leave her. Hitherto shehad been the object of his pursuit, of his devotion, of his ardentdesire. Now, like a cold blast, his neglect struck chill upon herheart, and she turned back into the forest solitudes with all thebrightness suddenly and strangely gone out of her life.
But instead of being translated to the earthly paradise of a beautifulwoman's favour, Edward, to his own great disappointment and chagrin,found himself in a very different atmosphere. Helene was cold, nearlysilent, utterly indifferent. She was looking unusually well. The richharmonious contrasts of face and hair--the midnight darkness of theone breaking into the radiant dawn of the other--never beforeimpressed him so vividly. But she was terribly distant. The young manassured himself rather bitterly that if she were a thousand miles offshe could not have been more oblivious of his presence. She wasalluring even in her indifference, graceful, elegant, angelic--but anangel carved in ice. "I have been so unfortunate as to offend you," hesaid at parting, as they stood alone in the soft, moonless, summerdusk.
"I don't know; is it a matter of much importance?" There was an accentof weariness in her voice, but the tone was hard.
"Yes, to me. You are as cold as death!"
"What a very unpleasant fancy!" She shivered lightly, and extended thetips of her very chilly fingers to him in a last good-night.
Mademoiselle Helene was intensely proud. She had been an unobservedwitness of the scene between Edward and Wanda in the wood, and, ofcourse, had made her own misinterpretation. A man who could permit alow, untutored savage to fawn upon him in that way, kissing his handrepeatedly, and flushing with gratified vanity, presumably at hiswords of endearment, could scarcely expect to be treated otherwisethan with disdain by the high-bred girl whom he had previouslydelighted to honour. As for Edward he was sorely hurt and bewildered.Helene's treatment of him he considered decidedly curt, and naturalresentment burned within him at the thought. But before he reachedhome his anger had passed away, and with it all remembrance of thecold maiden and the unpleasant evening she had given him. In theirplace lived an intense recollection of a tawny woman, beautiful andwarm-blooded; and his heart thrilled with a tumult of emotions at thememory of her lustrous velvet lips closely pressed within his woundedhand.
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