An Algonquin Maiden: A Romance of the Early Days of Upper Canada

by G. Mercer Adam and A. Ethelwyn Wetherald

  CHAPTER XVII.

  A PICNIC IV THE WOODS.

  Winter had passed, and in hot haste--literal hot haste--the time ofthe singing of birds had come. It was early in the season when theMacleods returned to their summer home, but "lily-footed spring" wasthere before them. Earth, air, and sky were bathed in a glory ofsunlight, which strove to penetrate the dark labyrinth of the pinesthrough which the wind sang. The bay was embowered in gleamingfoliage. In its clear waters the Indians plunged or paddled, or lay inattitudes picturesquely inert upon its shores. Above it in gracefulcurves the unwearying gulls were sinking, rising, and wheeling aloft.

  On one of these halcyon days of early summer Rose Macleod wasre-reading a letter from her friend Helene; which, though a mereelegant scrawl in the first place, and now yellow and worn with age,has been with some difficulty deciphered by the writers of thisveracious history.

  "We shall return to Bellevue next week," she wrote, "though whatpossible benefit can accrue from our returning I cannot pretend tosay. Either home is distasteful to me; so is the rest of the world; soare the people in it. Enviable condition, is it not? I seem to beafflicted with a sort of dreadful mental indigestion. Everything I seeand hear and read disagrees with me, so I suppose it is only a naturalconsequence that I should be disagreeable. Oh, dear, dear! What is thegood of living, Rose? What is the use or beauty of anything? The Rev.the Archdeacon of York half-playfully says I need to be regenerated.Dr. Widmer says my circulation is weak. Poor mamma says nothing; butshe looks a world of reproach. I wish she would take the scripturalrod to me. That would improve the circulation, I fancy; and if itdidn't produce a state of regeneration it might at least be apractical step towards it. But I don't know why I should make a jestof my own misery, when I want nothing on earth except to be a littlechild again, so I could creep off into the long grass somewhere, andcry all my sick heart away. I used to be able to cry when I was fiveor six years old, but now it is a lost art.

  "By the way, speaking of tears reminds me that your friend, Mr.Dunlop, was here last evening, and, while shewing him some views offoreign scenes, we suddenly came across that old, little painting ofyourself, in which the artist represented you as a stiff-jointedchild, with a row of curls the colour and shape of shavings neatlyglued to a little wooden head. You remember how we used to make fun ofit. I always said that picture was bad enough to bring tears, andthere was actually quite a perceptible moisture in his eyes as helooked at it. Who would have supposed that he possessed so muchaesthetic sensibility?

  "Well, I am only wearying you, so I will close. Don't be troubledabout me, dear. Sometimes I am violently interested in my ownunreasonable sufferings, and at other times I am wholly indifferent tothem; but nothing can befall my perverse nature that shall alter thetenderness always existing for you in the heart of your loving

  HELENE."

  Rose read all but the concluding paragraphs aloud to her brother, who,standing at the open door, was looking idly out upon the leaf andblossom of a lovely garden. "What a stream of unalloyed egotism!" hesaid. "In a woman it's a detestable quality."

  "Oh, you should say a rare quality," amended Rose, with a smile thatended in a sigh.

  "Well, it's something that can't be too rare." A fading spring lilydropped on the doorstep by one of the children received an impatientkick, as though he would dismiss the present conversation in a similarmanner. "Rose," he said, "I wish you would ask Wanda to oursailing-party to-morrow."

  "Why, Edward, I might as well ask a blue-bird. She will come if ithappens to suit her inclination at the moment, otherwise not."

  "Don't you think a regular invitation would please her?"

  "Oh, dear, no; it isn't as though she were a civilized creature. Youdon't seem to grasp the fact that she's only a wild thing of thewoods."

  A pause ensued. "There are other facts," resumed Edward a littleunsteadily, "that I _have_ grasped. One is that she is the mostbeautiful woman I ever saw; another--that I love her."

  Rose put up her hands as though to save her eyes from some hideoussight, "It can't be true!" she exclaimed.

  "My dear little sister, it is true; and your inability to accept it isnot a very flattering tribute to my good taste."

  "It _can't_ be true," repeated Rose. "You must mean that you havemerely taken a fancy to her."

  "Well, it is a fancy that has grown to enormous proportions. I cannotlive without her. If that is fancy it has all the strength ofconviction."

  "Oh, Edward, you can't really love her. It is only her beauty that youcare for."

  "You might as well say that the sunflower doesn't really love the sun;it is only the sunshine that it cares for. Wanda's beauty is part ofherself."

  "And it will remain so a dozen, or perhaps a score, of years. Afterthat you will have for your wife a coarse ignorant woman, foreverchafing at the restrictions of civilized life; angering, annoying andhumiliating you in a thousand ways, a woman whom you cannot admire,whom it will be impossible for you to respect."

  Edward's eyes blazed. Not until that moment did his sister realize howcomplete was his infatuation for Wanda.

  "It is you who are ignorant and coarse," he cried, "in your remarksupon the girl who is my promised wife. No matter what befalls her, shewill always be clothed in the unfading beauty of my love."

  Rose was deeply grieved. She stood with clasped hands lookingdespairingly at her brother. "You poor boy," she breathed, "you poormotherless boy! What can I say to you?"

  "Well, there are a good many things that you can say; but what Ishould prefer you to say would be to the effect that you will break itas gently as possible to Papa."

  "I shall not break it at all," declared the girl warmly. "It wouldnearly kill poor father. Haven't you any consideration for him?"

  "Yes; sufficient to make me wish that the truth should be clothed inyour own sweet persuasive accents, when it is conveyed to him. I don'twish to jar him any more than is necessary."

  "Edward, you are perfectly heartless!"

  "That is the natural consequence of losing one's heart, isn't it?"

  "Oh, then, you are only jesting. It's a very good joke, but inquestionable taste."

  "Dear Rose, believe me, I was never more in earnest than at present."

  "Except when you are out hunting. I have seen you go without food andsleep simply because you were on the track of some beautiful wildcreature that was forced to yield its liberty and life merely togratify your whim. It is in that despicable way that you would treatWanda."

  The young man smiled. He perceived that his sister was changing hertactics.

  "You are very considerate and tender of Wanda," he said, "but not somuch as I expect to be."

  The conversation, which was growing more and more unsatisfactory, wasabruptly terminated by the entrance of one of the other members of thefamily.

  As a natural result of this interview Wanda was invited to go withthem in the sail-boat next day. Rose was clear-witted enough to seethat persistent opposition would only intensify the halo of romancewhich her infatuated brother had discovered upon the brow of theAlgonquin Maiden, and that outward acquiescence would give theattachment an air of prosaic tameness, if anything could. Besides, ascandal is made more scandalous when the offender's family are knownto be in a state of hopelessly outraged enmity.

  Thus bravely reasoned Rose, while her heart sank within her. She wasnot prepared for the worst, but it was necessary that she shouldbehave in all points as if she were; otherwise the worst might behastened. It was impossible to view Wanda in the light of a possiblesister-in-law; nevertheless, she gave her the pink cambric dress forwhich the Indian girl had so often expressed admiration, andsupplemented the kindness with a pair of gloves, destined never to beworn, and a straw hat, whose trimming was speedily torn off and itsplace supplied by wampum, gorgeous feathers, the stained quills of theporcupine, with tufts of moose hair, dyed blue and red.

  Certainly she looked very pretty as she stood on the shore next day,all ready for
departure. Even Rose, who for the first time in her kindlittle life would willingly have noticed personal defects, was forcedto admit that Wanda was looking and acting particularly well; the onlyapparent fault being a lack of harmony between herself and her dress.They were two separate entities, not only in fact but in appearance,and they were seemingly in a state of subdued but constant warfare.The truth was, that this wild girl of the woods was secretly chafingagainst the stiffly starched prison in which she found herselfhelplessly immured.

  It was very pleasant out on the water. The fresh vigour of the breezefilling the sail with life, the waves swirling up about the sides ofthe boat, the dancing motion of their little craft upon the water, thechanging tints, the shadows and ripples of the bay gave them a quietyet keen delight. Their destination was a point of land on LakeSimcoe, where a party of picnicers was already assembled. A group ofgirls came down to the shore as they landed, and bore Rose and Evaaway with them. In the leafy distance Edward caught a glimpse ofHelene DeBerczy, and in his heart the young man thanked heaven that hewas not as other men are, or even as the callow youths who werehanging upon her utterances.

  After a while, Edward observed Wanda standing apart, and looking atthe marauders in her loved woods as a man might look upon the enemieswho, with fire and sword, were desolating the home of his fathers.Between her and these gay girls there was a difference, not of degreebut of kind. They loved the forest as a background for themselves; sheloved it as herself. The curious eyes fixed upon her were morerespectful in their gaze when Edward quietly took his place besideher. Presently, Rose with her devoted adherents joined them, and everyeffort was put forth to make the Indian girl feel at home in her home.But for the most part they were futile. Wanda was thoroughly ill atease, though she concealed the fact with the native stolidity of herrace. But love's intuitions are keen, and Edward realized that hislittle sweetheart was very uncomfortable. What could be the reason?Her dress seemed incongruous, and yet it was perfectly in accord withthe linen and lawns and flower-dotted muslins about her.

  "Laura," observed a young lady behind him, in a muffled whisper whichhe could not choose but hear, "do look at Helene DeBerczy's costume.Could anything be more out of place at a picnic?" Edward's gaze,involuntarily straying to the garb which was so singularlyinappropriate, rested upon the filmiest of black stuffs, exquisite ascobweb, through which were revealed the long perfect arms, and thetender curves of neck and shoulder. From this gracious figure wasexhaled invisible radiations--the luxurious sense of refinedwomanliness. How gross and earthly, how fatally commonplace andprosaic seemed everyone about her. The violently high spirits of theother girls, their scramblings for flowers and shriekings at snakes,their too obvious blushes and iron-clad flirtations, seemed not tocome a-nigh her. "Her soul was like a star and dwelt apart." The youngman assured himself that he was not falling in love with her again; hewas merely laying at her feet an involuntary tribute of admiration,the sort of admiration which he might feel for a rare poem.

  Meanwhile the girl with whom he was in love had made what Edwardcalled "an object" of herself. By this uncertain phrase he did notmean an object of admiration, poetic or otherwise. Left for a briefseason to her own devices Wanda had torn and muddied her gown, losther hat, and in other respects behaved, as a maiden lady presentremarked, precisely like an overgrown child of five years, who has"never had any bringing up." All the children had taken an immensefancy to her, and she was delighting them with her dexterity inclimbing trees when Edward cast a hot, shamed, imploring look at hissister, to which she responded by saying:

  "Wanda, you must be very tired. Come and sit down a while and rest."

  The girl, seeing Edward a little apart from the others, took a seatbeside him, at which distinct mark of preference the rest smiled. Herlover alone wore a heavy frown. He glanced at the frouzy hair, towhich not even the beauty of the face beneath could reconcile him;then at the scratched and sun-burned hands, and lastly at the stainedand battered gown. "Wanda," he said with stern brevity, "how did youget your dress so wet?"

  "Wading the brook," she replied, surveying the dripping and discolouredskirt with entire indifference.

  "That is very improper. You shouldn't do such things. Why are you notquiet?"

  "Only the dead are quiet; but perhaps you wish to kill me."

  The remark was startling, but it was unaccompanied by a ray of emotionin face or voice. Only in the large soft eyes lay a depth of sufferingsuch as he had seen in the look of a dying fawn, wounded by his hand."Your words pierce like arrows," she said.

  "Dear Wanda, forgive me; I am expecting too much of you. It isexceedingly cruel of me to make you suffer so."

  "Wanda!" called one of a group of children, "come and swing us,please."

  "Don't go," whispered Edward decisively. He himself strode over tothem, lifted one chubby youngster after another into the huge swing,and sent them flying into the tree-tops. It was a form of pastime thathe detested; but he was not going to have Wanda at the beck and callof "those little ruffians." At last, with the sympathetic assurancethat if they wanted any more swinging they were at liberty to get itfrom each other, he left them, and rejoined the Indian girl.

  "Wanda!" said Helene, as she spread a shawl on the ground, "just stepacross to our carriage, will you, and bring me a cushion you will findthere."

  "You must not!" declared Edward, in a low savage whisper, preparing togo himself; but the girl was off like a swallow before the wind. Hemet her on the way back, took the cushion from her, and presented itto its owner with a bow of exaggerated deference. Helene's black browsexpressed the utmost astonishment; but as she confronted Edward'swrathful gaze her own eyes caught fire, and the two who once had beenso nearly lovers now manifested no other emotion toward each othersave repressed and concentrated hate.

  "I wish you to understand," said the exasperated young man to Wanda,as he accompanied her to dinner, "that you are not a servant, and youmustn't obey anyone's commands."

  "No," was the slow reply, "I shall obey no one's commands, not evenyours;" and with these words she turned and fled into the woods. Theever-present desire to escape had conquered at last.

  "How kind you are to that unfortunate girl!" observed the lady nexthim at dinner. "She must try your patience so much."

  Edward admitted that his patience had been tried; but he was in nomood to expatiate upon the subject. He had a very slight idea of whathe was eating and drinking, or of what all the talking was about. Thesunshine flecking the open clearing gave him a feeling that he wouldsoon have a dreadful headache. After it was over he lay down, andtried to forget his troubles in a noontide nap. Gradually the voicesabout him softened and died away. For a moment he was floating uponthe still waters of sleep, and then he drifted back to shore. Openinghis eyes he found himself alone with Helene, who was asleep among herwrappings at a little distance. The rest had strayed away in pairs andgroups, out of hearing if not out of sight. The unconscious figureseemed clothed in an atmosphere of ethereal sweetness, and Edwardcaught himself wondering whether the root of an affection, whose lifeis years long, is ever removed from the heart, unless the heart isremoved with it. He began seriously to doubt, not his constancy toWanda, but his inconstancy to Helene. Suddenly she opened her eyes andcaught his glance. He withdrew it at once, and in the embarrassment ofthe moment made some inane remark upon the beauty of the day. Helenerose with deliberation, put one white hand to the well-brushed head,trim and shining as a raven's wing, and with the utmost tranquillityanswered "yes." Certainly she had the most irritating way in the worldof pronouncing the words which usually sound sweetest from a woman'slips. He did not wait to continue a conversation so unpropitiouslybegun, but went off on a lonely exploring tramp along the shore.

  Late in the afternoon as he was returning, he noticed a nondescriptfigure sitting solitary on the bank, which, as he approached resolveditself into the superb outline of his Indian love. Unconscious ofobservation she threw herself backward, in an attitude as remarkablefor its beauty
as for its unconventionality. She seemed to beluxuriating with a sort of animal content in the brightness of thesunshine, the softness of the odorous breeze, and the warmth of thewater in which her slim bare feet were dabbling; she dug her brownfingers in the earth, as though the very touch of the soil was intensedelight. The hated dress was reduced to ruinous pink rags, whichbecame her untamed beauty as the habiliments of civilization nevercould have done. Her slowly approaching lover viewed her with mingledamusement and horror, while deep in his heart flowed the dark; currentof a great despair. Hearing his footsteps she nerved herself for theexpected reproaches, which he knew were worse than useless; but seeingin his face nothing but undisguised admiration, she sprang lightly toher feet and threw herself upon his neck. Edward kissed her, but itwas with a thrill of ineffable self-contempt, and a sharp consciousnessthat the only charm this girl possessed for him was that she allowedhim to kiss her. Then he drew away and brushed with fastidious glovethe dust his coat retained from contact with her shoulder.

  "See what I have found!" she exclaimed, holding up a small trinket thatglittered in the sunlight. "It belongs to the Moon-in-a-black-cloud."

  It was a little gold locket, which he had often noticed on the neck ofHelene. Shortly before Wanda's abrupt flight, she had pointed withchildish curiosity to the slender bright chain clearly visible beneaththe transparent folds of the black gown, and the young lady hadobligingly drawn the locket from its secret place upon her heart, forthe gratification of its admirer. Left for a time on the outside ofher dress, one of the tiny links must have severed, and the prettytrinket slipped to the ground unnoticed by its owner. The young man inwhose hand it now lay was tempted to a dishonourable action. He hadoften begged Helene to show him the contents of this locket--a favourwhich had uniformly been denied. Now the opportunity was his withoutthe asking. Nothing rewarded his curiosity save a lock of yellow hair,probably cut from the head of Rose. Queer fancy, he thought, for onegirl to cherish the tresses of another. Suddenly he was struck by anidea that sent the blood throbbing to his temples. He examined thetress a second time. The bright hair growing upon his sister's head heknew had a reddish tinge, and its silky length terminated in ring-likecurls. This was short and straight, of a pale colour, and showed byits unevenness that it had been "shingled." His heart beat as thoughit would burst. "You must take this back to its owner," he saidimperatively.

  Wanda slipped her hand in his. "We will go together," she said.

  He glanced at her bare feet and ruined raiment, and realized with aburning flush that he was thoroughly ashamed of her. No, he could nottake the hand of his future wife and face that crowd of curiousworldlings. The mere touch of her soiled fingers was repugnant to him.She seemed like some coarse weed, whose vivid hues he might admire inpassing, but which he would shrink from wearing on his person.

  "It will be better for you to go alone," he replied. "Don't tell thelady that anyone beside yourself has seen the locket. I will comepresently."

  But he lingered a long time after she left him, drinking against hiswill the sharp waters of bitter-sweet reflection. There came back tohim an afternoon a year ago, when his sister Eva, out of childish loveof mischief, had stolen up behind him, and cut off the lock of hairwhich fell over his brow.

  "Mere masculine vanity," she had said, as the scissors snapped. He hadsprung up instantly, and pursued her as she fled shrieking down theavenue. Helene, who was the only other occupant of the room had lookedalmost shocked at their conduct, and his pet lock of hair hadmysteriously disappeared. Since then during how many days and nightshad it been rising and falling upon the proud bosom, that he knew verywell would be cold in death before it would give evidence of aquickened heart-beat in his presence. The knowledge he had gained bythe discovery of the locket made Helene dangerously dear to him, andyet relieved him of not a particle of his duty towards Wanda. He sawneither of the girls again that day, but he carried home with him astinging memory of both. Late that night he was pacing his room withsick heart and aching head, while in the next apartment Rose wasassuring herself that the picnic had been a great success. "Really,"she meditated, "nothing could possibly be worse--or better--than theway in which Wanda behaved."