A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada. Jones Susan Morrow

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СКАЧАТЬ Black gasped. She had ignored the existence of men as lovers, except in history and in books, while teaching Launa.

      “All men are not alike,” she said vaguely.

      “No, of course not. Father is perfect. Few men are like him.”

      When they returned to “Solitude,” Launa worked with renewed ardour, and practised with joy – she wanted to play well. She read all sorts of books, and after a course of lectures on Greek literature, she turned with avidity to Plato, to Epictetus. Of German books she read many; to Miss Black’s regret she had outgrown Marlitt. For a woman who could do things, who did not fear storm or rain, Miss Black was singularly afraid of the knowledge of good and evil. Evil belonged especially to the poor and low, and to men, who gave it up when they put on dress-clothes, and were in the society of ladies – the humanising influence of ladies! A dress suit was the veneer that completely covered the brute-beast in a man.

      About this time Launa turned affectionately to her father. She found him sympathetic, for he understood her, and he never gasped.

      “You remind me of your mother,” he said one day to her.

      “Tell me about her,” she said, flushing with pleasure.

      “She was very sweet – how can I tell you? I loved her; half of me, the best, the happy half died with her; it was as if I were killed… And we were so happy.”

      “It was terrible,” said Launa. “Life, father, seems sometimes to be horribly, terribly sad.” She said this with the air of one who has made a new discovery, and it amused her father.

      “Why is it?” she asked.

      “I do not know.”

      “And what is the good?”

      He did not answer.

      It dawned upon the small world round “Solitude” that Launa was attractive, and so the inhabitants came to visit and to criticise. They all went to Quebec, and they stayed several nights at different houses, where she enjoyed herself, and where she was admired – especially at one of the balls she attended.

      Among all the men she met, English as well as Canadian, for there was a garrison in Halifax, a man named Paul Harvey interested her most. He was a Canadian, who possessed a place about twenty miles from “Solitude.” He was tall and dark. His skin was tanned from the out-of-door life he led; he had a peculiarly high forehead, and high cheek bones, and his body had the lithe look common to men who spend their lives in doing, and who are never troubled with superfluous flesh. His keen eyes glanced into one’s inner consciousness, and seemed hard, until he smiled. He walked with the Indian stride, which is quick and quiet. Of course he could ride, and he had the strong capable hands of a man who has been brought up to do things, and who could do them well. Paul Harvey and Launa soon became firm friends, for they understood each other. They loved the same things; the witchery of the woods, of the canoe, and of the sea was real and tangible to them both, and he loved music, as did she. In the long spring days they often met, and he was full of admiration for this girl, who was so strong and so fearless.

      George Archer frequently invited Paul to “Solitude,” without the least idea of encouraging any feeling on Paul’s part for Launa, who in her father’s eyes was still a child; that any man should think of her as a possible wife never occurred to him, but then Archer’s idea of a wife (the other man’s wife) was a submissive woman, and Launa was not that.

      One day in May Mr. Archer had gone to Chezettcook to fish, and Launa was anxious to pay him a visit. Paul expressed himself desirous of driving her down to the river which her father owned.

      So the two left “Solitude” at two o’clock on a still day, very sultry and hot; a haze lay thick over the land, and the sun shone red with a lurid glare, for the haze was the smoke of fires in the woods.

      They drove along very rapidly, not talking much, though occasionally Paul would look at her and she at him, and they smiled with a sense of well-being and mutual bliss.

      “I think,” said Paul at last, “that the Bible makes a mistake when it says, ‘Godliness with contentment is great gain’; it should be love.”

      “Oh, Paul,” she exclaimed. “The smoke! it is getting so thick.”

      Paul was holding his head down.

      “Shall we turn back? The fire is crossing the road in front of us. I am afraid we can’t get through it.”

      He turned his horse quickly.

      “Launa, it seems as if it were cutting us off.”

      They were in a winding road, a crosscut. He started Micmac at a gallop. If the fire were before them! There was a long hill to climb.

      The trap swayed and jolted, for the road was bad. They were tearing along; the wind was behind them, and they could hear the crackle which was getting nearer, rising to a hideous roar. A river crossed the road below the hill – had they time to get to it?

      Paul wrapped the rug round his companion, put it over her head, and covered her mouth.

      “Keep it tight,” he exclaimed, “and sit still.”

      Then he began to use his whip, having tied his own handkerchief over his mouth. Micmac was going more slowly in spite of the whip; it seemed as if he were terrified and paralysed by the pursuing fiend.

      “You are not afraid,” said Paul with difficulty, through his handkerchief.

      “No,” gasped Launa, “not with you.”

      He put his hand on her shoulder.

      “Keep your mouth well covered; the fire is before us. We must go through it.”

      On, on they tore; the smoke almost choked her. It was so terribly thick that Paul could not see Micmac, though his eyes burnt, and he kept them open with difficulty. Then the flames ran up a dead pine tree in front of him, and shed a lurid light through the smoke. The heat was intense; he shut his smarting eyes, and trusted Micmac would keep the road.

      “Oh, if the bridge – a wooden bridge – were not down!” “Were not down!” repeated itself; “Were not down!”

      They were in the midst of the fire now; the roaring was tremendous, and the trees were flaming and crackling on all sides. Paul covered his eyes with one hand, and used the whip with the other. It was like the finish of a race, a race for life, down the hill at a gallop. But the bridge? It had already caught, and the wood was smoking, when Micmac stopped with a jerk, and Paul jumped out and took hold of him.

      “You must, old boy, you must,” he murmured. “Once over we are pretty safe. Good horse, good horse!”

      The trembling Micmac refused again; the bridge was hot, and frightened him. Then he went at it with a rush, with Paul still at his head, half-running, half-dragged by the horse. The river was wide, and the wind was from the north, blowing the fire down on them over the road, but not across the stream in the direction in which they were going.

      Paul got into the trap quickly, and Micmac galloped on and on and on until, though the smoke was still thick, they were safe. At last Paul pulled up, and looked back. The road along which they had come was a sheet of flame, and he shuddered as he thought of what might have happened. There were so many pine trees to burn, and to fall burning, while the side of the river on which they were was covered with СКАЧАТЬ