NOT more than three miles from the Falls of Niagara,
between them and Queenston, lies the pretty village
of Stamford, in which, over sixty years ago, Upper Canada’s
Lieutenant-Governor built the summer home which became
his favourite place of abode. Set in the midst
of a vast natural park, its appearance corresponded
perfectly to Mrs. Jameson’s description of an
elegant villa, framed in the interminable forests.
Here, within sound of the great cataract and, on clear,
typically Canadian days, within sight of York, thirty
miles distant across the lake, Sir Peregrine and Lady
Sarah Maitland found a grateful retreat from the cares
of public life. Not that they loved society less,
but solitude more; especially, to use a Hibernicism,
when that solitude was shared. In the early summer
of 1827 Stamford Cottage was filled with people after
its pretty mistress’s own heart. If she
suspected one of her guests of being also after the
heart of another, it did not endear him the less to
her. Why should she not remove from the paths
of her protégés the scarcely
perceptible obstacles which prevented them from being
as happily married as herself? But one day she
discovered that the role of match-maker is as arduous
as it is alluring, and with this she went at once to
her husband’s study.
“Dear,” she
began, “I have become greatly interested in a
young man, and I thought it only right that you should
know about it before it goes any further.”
“Ah, yes, certainly.”
The gentleman looked rather abstracted. “And
the young fellow—is he interested too?”
“Oh, interested
is a feeble word. He is desperately in love.”
[Page 208]
“Then you haven’t
taken me into your confidence a moment too soon.
Has he declared his passion?”
“”No; that’s
just the trouble. He goes mooning round and mooning
round, and never saying a word. And I’m
sure,” added the lady in an aggrieved tone, “I’ve
given him every opportunity. Yesterday after infinite
pains I brought him and Hélène together
in the arbour, and made some pretext for escaping into
the house. What did that—infant—do
but follow me out?”
“Quite natural,
if his feelings towards you are such as you have described.”
“Towards me!
You don’t imagine I am talking of myself.”
“That is what your
words would lead one to believe.”
“Oh, dear husband,
you know perfectly well what I mean. I do think
that when a man sets out to be stupid he succeeds a
thousand times better than a woman. Surely you
have noticed how badly Edward Macleod and Hélène
DeBerczy are behaving.”
“Really, my dear,
I have not. I supposed they were behaving remarkably
well.”
“In one sense—yes.
They are as ‘polite as peas.’ But
why should they be polite?”
“Well, it is a custom
of the country, I suppose. It’s hard to
account for all the strange things one sees in a foreign
land.”
“My object is not
so much to account for it as to put an end to it.
It’s ridiculous for two people, who have known
each other from babyhood, to be standing aloof, and
looking as if the honour of each other’s acquaintance
was the last thing to be desired. And now Mademoiselle
Hélène wants to go home. She does
not complain or repine or importune, but every day,
and several times a day, she presents the idea to her
mother, with varying degrees of emphasis, and in the
tone of one who believes that continual dropping [Page
209] will wear away the stone. Madame
DeBerczy as yet remains sweetly obdurate. She
is enjoying her visit, and there seems to be no special
good reason why it should be terminated. I particularly
wish them to stay, as I want if possible to bring about
a better understanding between Hélène
and Edward. We must not let them escape.”
In pursuance of the policy
suggested by his wife, Sir Peregrine took occasion to
have a special kindly little chat with Hélène,
with a view to overcome her reluctance to remain.
Naturally of a reserved disposition his cordial hospitality
found expression in looks and actions rather than words,
and these took a greater value from the infrequency
with which they were uttered.
“What is this I
hear about your wanting to leave us?” he said,
addressing Hélène, who, with her mother,
was seated on his left at dinner that evening.
“Have you really grown very tired of us all?”
The young lady laid down
her knife and fork, and the unconscious movement, combined
with her unusual pallor, gave one the impression that
she was indeed very tired.
“No, Sir Peregrine,
only of myself. I seem to be suffering from a
prolonged attack of spring fever. Don’t
you think home is the best place for those who have
the bad taste to be in poor health?”
“No doubt of it,”
replied the gentleman, at which she gave him a grateful
glance, thinking she had won an unexpected ally; “but,”
he continued, “I hoped you would feel at home
here.”
Hélène assured
him that it was impossible for her to enjoy her visit
more than she was doing. As she made this perfectly
sincere statement her melancholy eyes by chance encountered
the deep blue ones of her unacknowledged lover.
In their depths lurked an expression of absolute relief.
Could he then be glad to hear of their projected departure?
She hoped so. It would be very much better [Page
210] for both. “Has it never occurred
to you,” she asked of Sir Peregrine, “that
the pleasantest things in this world are very seldom
the best for us?”
“I am sorry to hear
you say that,” he rejoined pleasantly, “as
I was about to ask you to go out driving with me to-morrow
morning. There is a view near the Falls that I
believe you have never yet seen, and the gratification
of showing it to you would be to me one of the pleasantest
things in the world.”
The young lady very willingly
admitted that this was an exception to the rule she
had just laid down. Lady Sarah, who thus far had
approved her husband’s tactics, now gave him a
slightly questioning glance, but he returned her such
a look of self-confident good cheer, that she knew at
once he must be involved in a deep-laid plot of his
own. As a rule she had small respect for masculine
plots, and before another day had elapsed her sentiment
on the subject was abun- dantly shared by at least two
of her guests. Mademoiselle DeBerczy had always
entertained a genuine admiration and liking for the
Lieutenant-Governor. His chivalrous courtesy,
picturesque appearance, and the exquisite refinement
of his tone and manner pleased her fastidious taste.
So it was with almost a light heart that she made her
preparations next morning for the drive. But when
seated in the carriage, and waiting with a bright face
the appearing of her delin- quent attendant, it was
not pleasant to be told by the gentleman himself that
important dispatches had just arrived by the morning’s
mail, which demanded his personal and immediate attention.
“Besides that fact,” said His Excellency,
“I had forgotten an appointment I have with the
Hon. Mr. Hamilton Merritt to talk over his great project
of the Welland Canal between the two Lakes, and I cannot
disappoint him.” He couldn’t think
of asking her to wait until the sun was hot, and the
pleasure of the drive spoiled, added the Lieutenant-Governor.
But here was Edward [Page 211] Macleod,
who would no doubt be glad to take his place.
At this announcement Hélène longed to
fly to her room, but she could think of no valid excuse.
The young man, sitting with the last Gazette
in hand in a rustic chair on the veranda, listened to
the summons with silent horror. He actually turned
pale, but like Hélène, he could think
of no possible excuse for evading the turn affairs had
taken. He rose mechanically, gave inarticulate
utterance to the pleasure he did not feel, and took
his seat beside the unhappy girl, who shrank visibly
into her corner.
“Admirable!”
exclaimed Lady Sarah, softly stepping out to witness
the unusual phenomenon of Edward and Hélène
driving away together. “I never supposed
a man could have so much sagacity and foresight.
Here have I been cudgelling my brains to keep those
two from playing hide and seek—no, hide and avoid—ever
since they came, and now you accomplish it in the easiest
and most natural way in the world. See what it
is to have a clever husband! How did you happen
to think of those important dispatches?”
Emphasis would indicate
too coarsely the delicate stress laid upon the last
two words. The gentleman looked extremely puzzled.
“Happen
to think? I am obliged to think of them.”
“Really? What
a lucky accident! So you are not the sly designing
schemer I supposed. Ah, well, you are the soul
of honour, and that is infinitely better.
Certainly to her mind
in the present case that was what appearances would
seem to indicate; but the poor wretches who were tending
slowly toward the brink of some indefinable horror,
more awful to their imaginations than the great cataract
itself, thought not so much upon the means by which
they were brought into their present painful position,
as upon the impossibility of escape from it. To
the eye of a casual wayfarer these handsome young people,
driving [Page 212] abroad through the
dewy freshness of the morning, with the long lovely
day before them, could not be considered objects of
pity.
For a while they took
refuge in commonplaces, relieved by lapses of eloquent
silence; then as the winding road conducted them by
easy gradations into greener depths of leafy solitude
they looked involuntarily into each other’s eyes,
and realized that, beneath all the bitterness and pride
and cruel estrangement, their love was the truest, most
unalterable, part of their life.
“Perhaps,”
said Edward, speaking as though the words were wrung
from him, “it is better that we should meet once
more alone, though it be for the last time.”
The girl gave a low murmur
of assent. Her eyes were looking straight forward.
The solitude was permeated by the deep thunder of the
Falls, and it voiced the depth of her despair.
“For the last time, she said within herself, “for
the last time.”
“I have a favour
to ask,” he continued, “a favour that I
verily believe a man never yet asked of a woman he loved;
and I do love you, my darling—there, let me say
it once, since I can never say it again—I love
you with all my heart and soul.” He bowed
his head, and she could see the blue vein in his temple
growing bluer and swelling as he spoke. He had
not laid a finger upon her, he could not so much as
lift his eyes up to her face, but a mocking breeze suddenly
blew a fold of her raiment against his cheek, and he
kissed it passionately. Hélène held
her hands tightly together; they were trembling violently.
“I want to beg of
you,” he said, still without looking up, “to
look upon me with suspicion, aversion, and distrust;
to disbelieve any good you may hear of me; to hate me
if you can; to treat me as long as you live with uniform
coldness and indifference.” [Page 213]
“I understand,”
she replied with icy brevity, “you think there
is danger of my treating you otherwise.”
Now, since the discovery
of the locket, and its tell-tale contents, this was
precisely the danger that Edward had feared, but he
was a diplomatist.
“Have you ever given
me the slightest reason to think so?” he demanded.
“At my least approach your natural pride changes
to haughtiness, arrogance, and scorn. But the
one thing greater than your pride is my love.
Ah, you know nothing about it—you cannot imagine
its power. Madmen have warned those who were dearest
to them to fly from their sight, lest in spite of themselves
an irreparable injury be inflicted. And so I urge
you to continue avoiding me, to cast behind not even
a single glance of pity, lest in spite of your pride,
in spite of my reason, I should bend all my power to
the one object of winning you.”
This calamity, it may
be supposed, was not quite so great and horrible to
the mind of the young lady as it was in the excited
imagination of her lover. “I do not understand
you,” she said quietly. “What is it
you wish to ask of me?”
“Only this: that
you will never think of me with the slightest degree
of kindness; that you will drop me from your acquaintance;
that you will forget that I ever existed.”
“Very well;”
her tones were even quieter than before, and a great
deal colder! “I promise never to think any
more of you than I do at this moment.” And
all the time she was crying with inward tears, “O,
darling, darling, as though I could think any
more of you than I do now! As though I could,
as though I could!”
“Thank you,”
said Edward, “you are removing a terrible temptation
from my way, and helping to make me stronger and less
ignoble than I am. Let me tell you all about it,
Hélène. Do you remember that night
in the conservatory last winter, when you treated me
so cruelly? Yes, I own I [Page 214]
was a wild animal; but you might have tamed me, and
instead you infuriated me. I went from you to
Wanda, the Indian girl with whom I flirted last summer.
She was in civilized garb, in my mother’s home,
quiet as a bird that has been driven by the storms of
winter into a place of shelter. I too had been
tempest-driven, and her warm welcome, her beauty and
tenderness, stole away my senses. She soothed
my injured vanity, satisfied my desperate hunger for
love, and I lived for weeks in the belief that we were
made for each other. But with the return of summer
the untamed spirit of her race took possession of her,
and when I saw her with you,—ah, dearest, is there
need for me to say more? I cannot marry her; every
fibre of my being, every sentiment of my soul, revolts
from it; but neither am I such a monster of iniquity
as to try to win any one else, and found my life-long
happiness upon that poor girl’s broken-hearted
despair. No, Hélène, you have no
right to look at me in that way. I never wronged
her in the base brutish sense of the word—never
in a way that the spirit of my dead mother might not
have witnessed—but I have robbed her of her heart,
and find too late that I do not want it. I cannot
free her from her suffering, but at least I shall always
share it.”
And I too, was Hélène’s
internal response. Aloud she suggested that it
was time for them to return. Her indifference
was precisely what Edward had begged for, but now in
return for his confidence it chilled him. She
noticed his disappointment, and with a sudden impulse
of sympathy, she laid a tiny gloved hand upon his arm.
“Oh, you are right,” she breathed, “perfectly
right. It is infinitely better to suffer with
her than to be happy and contemptible and forget her.
Believe me I shall not be a hindrance to you.”
He took in his own the
little fluttering hand, and held it in what he believed
to be a quiet friendly clasp. It was an immense
relief to unburden his mind to any one, and her approval
was very sweet to a heart that had been torn for [Page
215] weary days and nights by self-accusation
and self-contempt. Unconscious- ly he leaned nearer
to her, still holding the little hand, which its owner
did not withdraw, because it was for “the last
time.” In the reaction from the severe strain
of the days and weeks gone past they were almost light-hearted.
Before re-entering the village Edward stopped the horse
in a leafy covert, where for a few minutes they might
be secure from observation.
“It is only to say
good-bye, my heart’s idol,” he explained.
“Since I have proved myself unworthy even of your
liking I must go away from you forever. But our
parting must be here in private.” He held
both her hands now in a tight, strong grasp, and looked
into her face with unutterable love. “Ah,
heaven,” he groaned, “I cannot give you
up! I cannot, I cannot!” He bowed his face
upon the lilies in her lap, but the languid bloodless
things could not cool the fever in his cheeks.
For her life she could not help laying her hand tenderly
upon his head—the young golden head that lay so
wearily close to her empty arms; but she said nothing.
A woman’s heart is dumb, not because it is created
so, but because society has decreed that that is the
only proper thing for it to be. “Hélène,”
he murmured, lifting his head with a strange dazed look,
“I believe I have been delirious all the morning.
What possible good could my suffering be to Wanda?
I don’t know what I have said, but I wish you
would forget it all. I wish you would remember
nothing except that I love you—love you—love
you!”
The girl laughed aloud
and bitterly. “So that is the length of
a man’s remorse! No! You have begged
me to despise you, and now I shall beg you not to make
it dangerously easy for me to do so.”
Her contempt was a tonic.
It reminded the young man that he deserved, not only
that but his own contempt as well. They drove
home without exchanging another word. [Page
216]
[Chapter
XX]
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