The Reckoning

"Elsin, I fear you are."

"Why? Because you waked me from my dream?"

"What dream? That nightmare tenanted by Walter Butler that haunted you? Is it not fortunate that you awoke in time, even if you had loved him? But you never did!"

"No, I never loved him. But that was not the dream you waked me from."

"More than that, child, you do not know what love means. How should you know? Why, even I do not know, and I am twenty-three."

"Once," she said, smiling, "I told you that there is no happiness in love. It is the truth, Mr. Renault; there is no joy in it. That much I know of love. Now, sir, as you admit you know nothing of it, you can not contradict me, can you?"

She smiled gaily, leaning forward in her saddle, stroking her horse's mane.

"No, I am not your enemy," she continued. "There is enough of war in the world, is there not, Mr. Renault? And I shall soon be on my way to Canada. Were I your enemy, how impotent am I to compass your destruction—impotent as a love-sick maid who chooses as her gallant a gentleman most agreeable, gently bred, faultless in conduct and address, upon whose highly polished presence she gazes, seeking depth, and finds but her own silly face mirrored on the surface."

She turned from me and raised her head, gazing up through interlacing branches into the blue above.

"Ah, we must be friends, Carus," she said wearily; "we have cost each other too dear."

"I have cost you dear enough," I muttered.

"Not too dear for all you have taught me."

"What have I taught you?"

"To know a dream from the reality," she said listlessly.

"Better you should learn from me than from Walter Butler," I said bluntly.

"From him! Why, he taught me nothing. I fell in love again—really in love—for an hour or two—spite of the lesson he could not teach me. I tell you he taught me nothing—not even to distrust the vows of men. If it was a wrong he dared to meditate, it touches not me, Carus—touches me no more than his dishonoring hand, which he never dared to lay upon me."

"What do you mean?" I asked, troubled. "Have you taken a brief fancy to another? Do you imagine that you are in love again? What is it that you mean, Elsin?"

"Mean? God knows. I am tired to the soul, Carus. I have no pride left—not a shred—nothing of resentment. I fancy I love—yes—and the mad fancy drags me on, trailing pride, shame, and becoming modesty after me in the dust." She laughed, flinging her arm out in an impatient gesture: "What is this war to me, Carus, save as it concerns him? In Canada we wag our heads and talk of rebels; here we speak of red-coats and patriots; and it's all one to me, Carus, so that no dishonor touches the man I love or my own Canada. Your country here is nothing to me except for the sake of this one man."

She turned toward me from her saddle.

"You may be right, you rebels," she said. "If aught threatened Canada, no loyalty to a King whom I have never seen could stir me to forsake my own people. That is why I am so bitter, I think; not because Sir Frederick Haldimand is kin to me, but because your people dared to storm Quebec."

"Those who marched thither march no more," I said gravely.

"Then let it be peace betwixt us. My enmity stops at the grave—and they march no more, as you say."

"Do you give me your friendship again, Elsin?"

She raised her eyes and looked at me steadily.

"It was yours before you asked me, Carus. It has always been yours. It has never faltered for one moment even when I said the things that a hurt pride forced from me." She shook her head slowly, reining in. I, too, drew bridle.

"The happiest moment of my life was when I knew that I had been the instrument to unlock for you the door of safety," she said, and stripped the glove from her white fingers. "Kiss my hand and thank me, Carus. It is all I ask of friendship."

Her hand lay at my lips, pressed gently for an instant, then fell to her side.

"Dear, dear Elsin!" I cried, catching her hand in both of mine again, crushing it to my lips.

"Don't, Carus," she said tremulously. "If you—if you do that—you might—you might conceive a—a regard for me."

"Lord, child!" I exclaimed, "you but this moment confessed your fancy for a man of whose very name and quality I stand in ignorance!"

She drew her hand away, laughing, a tenderness in her eyes I never had surprised there before.

"Silly," she said, "you know how inconstant I can be; you must never again caress me as you did—that first evening—do you remember? If we do that—if I suffer you to kiss me, maybe we both might find ourselves at love's mercy."

"You mean we might really be in love?" I asked curiously.

"I do not know. Do you think so?"

I laughed gaily, bending to search her eyes.

"What is love, Elsin? Truly, I do not know, having never loved, as you mean. Sir Peter wishes it; and here we are, with all the credit of Gretna Green but none of the happiness. Elsin, listen to me. Let us strive to fall in love; shall we? And the devil take your new gallant!"

"If you desire it–"

"Why not? It would please all, would it not?"

"But, Carus, we must first please one another–"

"Let us try, Elsin. I have dreamed of a woman—not like you, but statelier, more mature, and of more experience, but I never saw such a woman; and truly I never before saw so promising a maid as you. Surely we might teach one another to love—if you are not too young–"

"I do not think I am," she said faintly.

"Then let us try. Who knows but you may grow into that ideal I cherish? I shall attend you constantly, pay court to you, take counsel with you, defer to you in all things–"

"But I shall be gone northward with the flag, Carus."

"A flag may not start for a week."

"But when it does?"

"By that time," said I, "we will be convinced in one fashion or another."

"Maybe one of us will take fire slowly."

"Let us try it, anyhow," I insisted.

She bent her head, riding in silence for a while.

"Sweetheart," I said, "are you hungry?"