A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada. Jones Susan Morrow
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 away to the bow of the Lethe, and Launa’s companion talked on, and she answered him.
She impressed him with her interest, her air of being fascinated by him, and all the while she was in torment. Harvey had held her hand! She took off her pale tan suede glove and threw it into the water. It burnt her; her hands felt hot.
Her quick action puzzled Mr. Evans.
“Miss Archer, your glove! Is it a challenge? Do you mean me to go after it?”
“No, no,” she answered. “I hate it; I do not want it. Oh, we are going.”
The Lethe had steam up, and was puffing and moving slowly.
“I am so glad. It is very hot. How cool the air is.”
They passed Paul in his canoe. He waved his hand to Launa, who was staring into the water, and appeared absorbed in the depths or in her companion.
CHAPTER IV
That night Launa could not sleep. She was so angry with Paul Harvey and with herself; she loathed herself. Her ideas of men and their passions were those of a young girl, to whom passion is unknown, to whom men appear as gods. She considered a man must love a woman by whom he has a child. Love, love! Paul was the father of a squaw’s child – of a squaw’s child; it reiterated in her brain until she almost writhed with anguish. She had thought of him as always her own. The shame of it! And worse than shame, the pain, because she would have to give him up. Oh, to get home! To be able to wander about alone! Away on the big barrens where she could move as she liked, and tire herself out. Their wind-laden sweetness would revive her, their vastness would bring peace; she was so tired of the life away from “Solitude.” She forgot how much joy hope had always given to her. She had hoped. The past tense is easily conjugated once, but to live in the past for ever, to regret for ever is torment, death-like torment. She resolved not to regret, not to suffer, and so she read Carlyle until daylight.
Next day Mrs. Montmorency’s party drove to Paradise. There were wonderful beech woods in which to walk. Paul met them there. His first look was for Launa; she was standing talking to two men, and he joined them and waited with patience, until at last he asked her to go for a walk.
“No, thank you,” she said. “I am too tired to walk.”
“I want to show you the trees. Come into the wood and sit down, you can rest there.”
“Well, I will walk,” she answered.
She looked at him with an involuntary air of appeal. She was not afraid of him, she assured herself,