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

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      And Launa threw off her rug. Paul was black, his face was flaming and smutty, his cap had blown off, and his hair stood on end. Her rug was singed. Micmac had a burn, where a piece of wood had fallen on him, and he was trembling when Launa got out and patted him, talking while she did it.

      “My darling,” murmured Paul, going up to her, “you are safe; you behaved like an angel.”

      He looked at his hands and did not touch her.

      “So did Micmac. Look at him, and you – you are burnt, your hands are sore. Oh, I am so sorry! Do, do drive back to ‘Solitude,’ and – and – ”

      “Yes?”

      “Oh, drive back!” she said.

      They took a short cut across a half made road, and so got behind the fire. Paul talked very little, and she not at all, though she heard “My darling” over and over again, and wondered.

      Paul stayed at “Solitude,” and after dinner Launa, Whitey, and he sat on the veranda and watched the fire, still burning in the distance. The whole sky was in a blaze, but luckily the wind was dying down. They could see the flames running from tree to tree; they could hear the roar, but they were quite safe, for the water was between them. In the dark, Paul silently, secretly took her hand, and they talked to Miss Black of the annual regatta, and of Canadian ferns. A few stars blazed high up in the sky, the others were dimmed by the lurid glow, and the aspen tree quivered in the dying breeze, while the waves of the incoming tide tapped the boats gently below.

      Launa felt in that state of happiness, which says, “Last, last, last.”

      The annual regatta came off that year in July. Everyone knows the St. Aspenquid Regatta. There were the usual boat races, and excitements and innocent fooleries; but the best of all was the canoe race for the championship of Canada. Paul Harvey had entered for it with his friend Jack Howston.

      Before the start they both came to the steam launch, from which Launa was viewing the races. Harvey, with his strong half-brown, half-white arms bare above his elbows, looked like work. After a word or two with Launa, as she leaned down to him, they paddled away to the start. She heard the pistol shot and the hoarse murmur of the crowd, proclaiming the race had begun. Far away in the distance the brown canoes could be seen; Launa watched breathlessly as they came nearer. The paddles flashed in the sun and on the gleaming dancing water. To Launa, the long, strong, slow strokes with the absence of haste was maddening; she stood, not daring to move, watching the white forms as they came nearer, nearer, the iron muscles in each man showing up as he paddled on and on. Paul’s canoe was third in the contest.

      “Third,” announced Launa. Her voice sounded level, she was just able to hide her apprehension lest he might fail, and her longing for his success, which, nevertheless, made her desirous of burying her face in her hands until the race was over. Her hostess, Mrs. Montmorency, stood near her, serene, alert, and slight, enjoying her successful party with a little interest in the races, and a little curiosity as to Launa’s attitude towards Paul Harvey.

      The men ahead were doing their utmost; in the second canoe, too, they were working hard; but the men in the dark canoe seemed to be dead, dull – what was it?

      The crowd shouted “St. John, St. John!” for the canoe owned by that town was in front. Disappointment was in the cry. But suddenly the third canoe gave a spring; it shot forward with a leap, and a bound, and a swirl through the water, and then on and on. The two men were working, straining. They passed the second canoe, and the finish was near; the strong sinews under the arms of the two men showed up clearly. Had they waited too long?.. On they crept, and at last with a final, splendid rush – oh, the ease of it, the seeming lack of effort – the brown canoe shot ahead of the other. They had won, won. Amid shrieks, cheers, and waving of handkerchiefs the heroes, the winners paddled away to change.

      Launa had been on the verge of tears, caused by excitement, fear, apprehension, and heaven knows what besides. She was unable to drink her tea because of a lump in her throat. Paul paddled alone over to her, and climbed on board the Lethe.

      “You’ve won,” she said. “I am very glad.”

      “And so am I – glad. I am more than glad. It means good luck; it means I shall win my heart’s desire; it means – ” he almost said “You.”

      Launa did not answer; she gave him her hand as if they had met for the first time, and he held it longer than a man does when saying, “How do you do?” It was like an involuntary childish caress.

      He stayed with her until it was time for the single canoe race, for which he was acting umpire. She was sweet, with a delightful unexpectedness which fascinated him, as did her varying good looks, her firm, lithe body.

      “I wish they had a ladies’ canoe race,” he said. “You would enter for it, would you not?”

      “Oh yes.”

      “They will certainly have one next year, and you will win.”

      Launa laughed.

      “I must go,” he said with regret. “But I shall soon come back.”

      “We shall leave soon now,” said Mrs. Montmorency. “Will you come and dine at Paradise to-morrow, Paul? We are going over there, and shall drive home by moonlight. Perhaps you will come and meet us?”

      “Thank you,” he replied. “I will.”

      Then he got into his canoe, and Launa watched him paddle away with slow strokes – regretful strokes they seemed to her. His paddling was so unlike that of the other men, so strong, and his body swayed to the motion. Mrs. Montmorency brought up a Mr. Evans and introduced him to Launa. He was a young Englishman, with a respect for the institutions of his country, a love for his dinner, and for pretty women.

      He began by asking whether Launa considered Miss Montmorency pretty, and whether she liked Wagner. His theories were that a man can tell a woman’s character most quickly from her ideas on the subject of other women, as well as from the music she affects.

      Near them sat Mr. Archer and the hostess talking. Launa heard a word here and there as she listened to Mr. Evans’ agreeable remarks, and then she heard her father say:

      “Harvey is a fool or worse. The Indians will not stand it. Peter Joe came to me about it; he says he would kill him, only that he is sure he would be hanged for it.”

      “You think they will take some quiet revenge,” said Mrs. Montmorency, “and more deadly.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “In their mind a child constitutes marriage?”

      “If its father does not want to marry anyone else,” he answered. “They will be satisfied if he lets things alone, but he won’t.”

      “He does want to marry?”

      “I think so. Money will considerably improve his house, and pay off some of the mortgages; he will, I expect, take a wife with money.”

      “It is terrible, and such a pity. I always liked Mr. Harvey for his mother’s sake, and I have ever made him welcome.”

      “I advised him to marry her – the squaw,” said Mr. Archer. “It will finish him socially, but in other ways it will make a man of him. Harvey is – ”

      Here they walked СКАЧАТЬ