A Girl of the North. Susan Morrow Jones
a crosscut. He started Micmac at a gallop. If the fire were before them! There was a long hill to climb.
The trap swayed and jolted, for the road was bad. They were tearing along; the wind was behind them, and they could hear the crackle which was getting nearer, rising to a hideous roar. A river crossed the road below the hill—had they time to get to it?
Paul wrapped the rug round his companion, put it over her head, and covered her mouth.
“Keep it tight,” he exclaimed, “and sit still.”
Then he began to use his whip, having tied his own handkerchief over his mouth. Micmac was going more slowly in spite of the whip; it seemed as if he were terrified and paralysed by the pursuing fiend.
“You are not afraid,” said Paul with difficulty, through his handkerchief.
“No,” gasped Launa, “not with you.”
He put his hand on her shoulder.
“Keep your mouth well covered; the fire is before us. We must go through it.”
On, on they tore; the smoke almost choked her. It was so terribly thick that Paul could not see Micmac, though his eyes burnt, and he kept them open with difficulty. Then the flames ran up a dead pine tree in front of him, and shed a lurid light through the smoke. The heat was intense; he shut his smarting eyes, and trusted Micmac would keep the road.
“Oh, if the bridge—a wooden bridge—were not down!” “Were not down!” repeated itself; “Were not down!”
They were in the midst of the fire now; the roaring was tremendous, and the trees were flaming and crackling on all sides. Paul covered his eyes with one hand, and used the whip with the other. It was like the finish of a race, a race for life, down the hill at a gallop. But the bridge? It had already caught, and the wood was smoking, when Micmac stopped with a jerk, and Paul jumped out and took hold of him.
“You must, old boy, you must,” he murmured. “Once over we are pretty safe. Good horse, good horse!”
The trembling Micmac refused again; the bridge was hot, and frightened him. Then he went at it with a rush, with Paul still at his head, half-running, half-dragged by the horse. The river was wide, and the wind was from the north, blowing the fire down on them over the road, but not across the stream in the direction in which they were going.
Paul got into the trap quickly, and Micmac galloped on and on and on until, though the smoke was still thick, they were safe. At last Paul pulled up, and looked back. The road along which they had come was a sheet of flame, and he shuddered as he thought of what might have happened. There were so many pine trees to burn, and to fall burning, while the side of the river on which they were was covered with alder bushes and rocks, and the wind, too, was blowing that way.
“Now!” he gasped hoarsely, for his throat was dry and parched. “Now!”
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.