1
AT dawn Felix awoke with a sense of loneliness. The vague consciousness which had remained with him even in sleep of a beautiful and beloved body at his side, was gone; and the hand that he reached out in troubled half-sleep had found no warm and reassuring presence. For an instant it seemed as though the night had been only a dream. He felt a vast desolation, a profound fear. It was as if not this one night only had been taken from him, but the thousand nights and days which lay implicit in it—the lifetime of sweetness and intimacy which it had begun.
Startled awake by the pain of this loneliness, he looked about him. Rose-Ann was not there. The bed was still warm where she had lain, the pillow kept the impression of her head, but she was gone. The white light of the dawn lighted the room, the fire was dying in the grate, a cool little wind swept in through an open window, and one of the leaves of the long French window that opened on the balcony stood ajar. Rose-Ann’s clothing lay folded on a chair at the foot of the bed.
His reason told him that Rose-Ann had slipped out to the balcony to breathe the morning air. But he was still filled with the terror of that waking moment. Moved by an unreasoning fear, he leaped from the bed and ran to the French window. Outside the world was white. On the balcony, in the deep snow, were the imprints of her little naked feet. Still agitated, he followed those footprints where they led around the corner of the house. And then he stopped, and gazed.
She was there, standing unclothed and rosy in the morning wind, in the light of the dawn, leaning over the railing of the porch.
“Rose-Ann!” he called sharply.
She turned. “Good-morning, old sleepy-head!” she cried. “You were dozing so peacefully that I didn’t have the heart to wake you up. Isn’t it lovely!” And she waved a hand toward the ice-bound lake that stretched out to the east like an Arctic wilderness, tinged with the rose of dawn.
“What are you doing out here?” he demanded, commencing to shiver.
“I was thinking of taking a snow-bath!” she said. “I’ve always wanted to and never have. Look where the snow has drifted up here against the house. Wouldn’t it be wonderful just to drop off into that snow bank! Come, let’s do it!” She took his hand and led him to the edge of the porch, which was here only a few feet above the ground, with the snow piled up to its very edge.
“But how would we get out of that snow-bank once we had got in!” he expostulated. It was a crazy idea, and he had no intention of letting her carry it out.
“Oh, don’t let’s stand here and argue about it,” she said impatiently, “and get cold. I’m going to, anyway!” And before he could stop her she had climbed the railing and leaped down into the snow-bank.... He realized that he must do the same. There was no choice! And in an instant he had leaped down beside her, down crunching through soft feathery snow that stung the skin deliciously and made the blood hot in his veins—and an instant later, laughing, they were fighting their way out and stumbling up the steps to the balcony and into the house.
“Towels!” cried Rose-Ann, racing to the bathroom and back and flinging him one. “Now wasn’t that worth doing!”
“And no doubt very entertaining to the neighbours,” Felix grumbled—secretly rejoicing in their spectacular feat. It really seemed to him a splendidly pagan thing to have done.
“Our only neighbour for miles is Mrs. Cowan,” said Rose-Ann, “and she’s over somewhere the other way. Besides, for once in my life I’m going to do the things I want to do without stopping to think of other people first. Now, Felix, can you build a fire? If you can’t, I can!”
“Of course I can build a fire,” said Felix. “The real question is, can you cook an egg? Because if you can’t, I can.” He was a little nettled at her having taken the lead in the snow-bath, and he did not intend to let her carry off any more honours of leadership. “If Clive has not deceived and betrayed us,” he continued, “you ought to be able to find eggs and things in the kitchen.”
“All right,” she said obediently; and finished with the simple task of dressing, in an old skirt and a smock, but not without a look at herself in the glass, she started off to the kitchen.
Felix looked at the fire. It needed rebuilding, and he would have to chop some more kindling. He went down to the woodshed, and energetically chopped up one stick. Then he paused, laid down the hatchet, and commenced to whistle a plaintive, melancholy, tuneless tune. He picked up his hatchet, ran his thumb over the edge, and laid it down again.
He was not thinking about chopping kindling. He was thinking about Rose-Ann, there in the kitchen only a few feet away. What was she doing? He could see her in imagination, ransacking Clive’s cupboards. He wished he could see her in reality. He started to his feet impulsively, and then sat down again.
He was annoyed with himself. Couldn’t he be separated from her for a few minutes without wanting to tag after her? She would be surprised, and perhaps annoyed, by his coming in. She would ask, “Have you got the fire built? Well then, for heaven’s sake, go and build it, and leave me alone to get you some breakfast!”
He could not confess to her how utterly indispensable her presence had become to him.... Yesterday they had been two different and separate persons—but they were so no longer. A quaint churchly phrase leaped into his mind, a phrase that had never seemed real before: “these twain shall be made one flesh.” He knew its truth now. Last night they had lain and talked for hours of the things they were going to do—together. Together! Their life henceforth had pictured itself to them as something enjoyed always in common. They had not thought, last night, of ever being apart again. But of course they would be apart—a great deal of the time. And doubtless it was as well to begin now. There was no sense whatever to this feeling of loneliness. He was going to have the rest of a lifetime with Rose-Ann, and he certainly ought to be able to go off and chop a little wood without her. No, he must not go to the kitchen to see what she was doing! He must subdue this weakness—this absurd feeling of helpless loneliness when he left her for a moment.
He raised his hatchet and brought it down sharply on the stick of wood. The door opened, and there stood Rose-Ann, with an apron on, her cheeks flushed.
“Hello!” he said, and laid down the hatchet.
“I just came to see what you were doing,” she said.
“Chopping a little kindling, that’s all,” he said.
“Oh,” she said. She continued to look at him with interest.
He took up the hatchet again, and split the stick with a few efficient strokes. She looked about, up-ended a short log, and sat down, her hands in her lap. Felix chopped another stick, and another, with a sense of great peace and contentment. Chopping kindling had become very interesting. He chopped on, under her gaze. He did not need to look up at her. She was there with him; that was sufficient. He went on chopping.
“Don’t you think that’s enough kindling now, Felix?” she asked at last, hesitantly.
He looked at the pile. He had chopped an awful lot! “I thought I might as well cut enough to last for a while,” he explained.
“A good idea,” she agreed. “And we might as well take a lot upstairs while we’re about it. I’ll take some, if you’ll load me.” She held out her arms, and he piled them full, then loaded his own, and they went up together.
She knelt beside him, watching, while he laid the fire. He felt somewhat insecure in his knowledge of fire-making, and he tried to remember just how Clive had done it the day before. But he felt nothing critical in Rose-Ann’s watching; and apparently he remembered well, for the fire behaved quite as it should. He waited until the proper moment, put on the cannel coal, and drew the fire-screen in front of the fireplace.
Rose-Ann stood up. “Now we’ll go and get breakfast,” she said.
In the kitchen, she turned to him. “Do you like omelettes?” she asked.
“I love them,” he said.
“With peas and things in? There’s a can of little peas here.” She searched in a drawer and found a can-opener.
“Here, let me,” said Felix authoritatively, and took it from her.
She surrendered it, and bent to another drawer, bringing out another apron.
“Must wear,” she said, and tied it around him.
The touch of her fingers was too much. He turned and took her in his arms, and found himself tightly bound in hers, and kissed the eager lips uplifted to his.
“Oh, Felix!” she cried in a weak, smothered voice. “Felix, lover!”
“And now,” she said at last, smiling happily and rousing herself from their dream, “we really must get breakfast!”