A Girl of the North. A Story of London and Canada. Jones Susan Morrow
These questions opened an endless vista of ideas and feelings before her. She felt indifferent for the moment, as no doubt he did.
“The view is lovely,” she exclaimed at last. “Let us go to the village.”
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, coming nearer and looking at her.
“Of many things. I think in heaven I should miss the sweetness of the air which is here.”
“So should I.”
They walked down the road past a cluster of Indian cottages. A young squaw with a baby in her arms sat in front of one of them. Launa looked at her and at the child; its hair was more curly, and not quite so black as the long, straight locks of Indian children.
“What a queer baby!” she exclaimed.
She looked at her companion. He was digging with his stick in the red clay of the road; his eyes were hidden; a red flush mounted to his forehead, and he was singularly embarrassed. She turned away and walked slowly on, followed by him in silence.
“What is that noise?” she said.
They heard a sound like a moan quite near them, and it grew louder; something – some animal – was suffering intensely.
“Look!” she cried.
In a ditch by the roadside lay a horse, thin, so thin that his bones seemed as if they would come through his skin. A few children clustered round, throwing stones at it at intervals and poking it with sticks. Blood slowly oozed from a wound in its head, and its poor body was covered with sores.
“Do something,” she said, and her voice quivered with the horror of it. “Can’t we put it out of its misery? Whose horse is it?”
Paul had driven away the children, and gone close to it.
“Someone has half shot it; it must be in torture.”
“Go and borrow a rifle,” she said. “I will stay here and keep away those little fiends. Do go.”
“You are not afraid?”
“Afraid? No, only so sorry. What horrible, unavailing suffering! Go, and be quick.”
He walked briskly away, and she strolled up and down. The children came near to stare at her, but they ceased to torment the horse. She could not bear its eyes; they seemed to beg of her to kill it, and she could do nothing. She clasped her hands together with such force that they hurt her as she longed and longed for Paul’s return. It began to grow dusk. She had forgotten tea, and the rest of the party – would they be looking for her, and imagining all sorts of things? Meanwhile the horse’s moans grew louder; the young squaw with the baby came slowly down the road – the baby was crying.
Launa asked if she knew who owned the horse.
“A man named Morris, who lives down the road four miles away. He turned him out to die; he is too old to work or eat.”
The baby wailed.
“Your child is ill,” said Launa.
“Yes,” grunted the girl, who was so young and almost pretty; “my grandmother cursed him.”
“Cursed him?”
“Because of his father, he – ”
“Oh,” interrupted the other, “will Paul never come? If he would only be quick.”
She could not bear these revelations. The moans of the horse and the shrill misery of the child were torturing her.
Someone suddenly threw a stone from behind the shelter of a spruce tree; it struck the horse, which gave a sharp scream. In the distance Launa heard footsteps. She ran down the road. It was Paul.
“I am so glad you have come,” she said breathlessly, quickly. “Hurry. Did you get a rifle?”
“Are you glad?” his voice changed. “Yes, I have it.”
“The horse is suffering so terribly.”
He looked at her with a certain wistfulness which was unusual.
He is going to tell me he is sorry for that, she thought, remembering the squaw and the child who had come near them.
“Go, go and put him out of his misery,” she said, with quick anger and excitement. “There is so much torture, so much suffering for animals, women, and children. Oh, God! it is awful!”
He turned and saw the Indian girl.
“You,” he said merely, but with bitterness, almost hatred, in his tone. “Go away.”
“You are a brute,” said Launa, “to talk to her in that way. What has she done? Go and kill the horse.”
“Not until you are further away,” he said, with gentleness. “He may, and probably will, scream. That woman is not fit for you to talk to or to touch.”
For one moment Launa felt afraid, and she wanted to ask him to come with her down the road out of earshot, away from it all. The twilight was growing dense. The horse would scream; ugh! how horrible the suffering! There were witches abroad in the night – witches of selfishness, of pain, of terror. She wanted Paul to put his arms round her, to kiss her, even with the girl near with his child in her arms. She felt degraded, and yet loath to let him leave her, until she remembered the horse.
“Come with me,” said Paul, and he took her hand and led her down the road. “There is a big rock here. You will wait for me? Sit down and I will wrap your cloak round you; you are cold.”
Her teeth chattered with apprehension as he walked firmly back. She listened with her fingers in her ears, hearing only the thump of her heart beating. One, two sharp reports and a sort of checked scream told her it was over before he came back.
They walked quickly to the hotel, where the rest of the party were waiting dinner. They were curious as well as hungry, and anxious to hear the result of all this wood walking. They discovered nothing; neither Launa nor Paul appeared happy, or at ease. He ate his dinner with indifference; she ate nothing, and felt as if all her body, beginning with her teeth, was beyond her control.
Before they left to drive home he said: —
“You misunderstood me to-night. I want to tell you about that squaw.”
“I know it. Do not tell me.”
“You are angry with me because of her. I could not help it.”
“I despise a man who could not help it,” she answered. “I am sorry for her and for you. You could shoot the horse.”
“You are angry about her?” he asked again.
“I am outraged, not merely angry. Why,” she continued suddenly, “should there be one law for me and one for her? I could not bear anyone who treated her claim as nothing. She will belong to you, be one of you – ” she paused.
“I would never treat her claim as of no value,” he said quickly, “but – ”
“You will never come again to me,” she said.
Had she said too much? Would he understand? She continued:
“Do not explain. Be careful – they may think of revenge.”
“That is enough. And so it is good-bye? Good-bye, then.”
Mrs. Montmorency took Launa home with her in the brougham. They talked about clothes, while Launa remembered the queer dark evening, the half-pretty Indian girl, and heard the wailing sobs of her baby, and then she saw Paul’s face full of anger. Love was there, hatred as well, as he said, “Go away,” to the girl. She shuddered, and he thought her angry – simply angry – good that he could think she felt so slight an emotion. Women are angry every day with their maids, and their dressmakers, and their rivals, and it leaves no impression, not even a wrinkle; there remains no ache whatever, unless it be weariness.
“I love crepon,” she said to Mrs. Montmorency. “It is so soft and graceful.”
Paul Harvey did not go again to “Solitude.”