CHAPTER XVI.
ARRESTED!
It was September before Philip Tremain turned his face homeward again, leaving behind him the deep, silent forests, already donning their wonderful autumn tints, and the silent waveless lake on whose bosom his boat had so often lain motionless for hours, drifting slowly with the almost imperceptible movement of the tide; while he, stretched full length along its narrow planking, his arms folded beneath his head, watched with speculative eyes the clear blue of the heavens, the passing of the fleecy clouds, the sweeping up of the rain mists, the birth of the stars, the rising loveliness of the crescent moon.
He had sought these solitudes to find some specific against the unrest and discontent of his heart. He had flown from the haunts of men, craving the healing power of nature, trusting to find forgetfulness in her potent charm. He had come to the very fountain head of nature, hoping to forget Patricia, and behold, nowhere was she more present to him. Nowhere did the spell of her beauty, her contradictions, work such havoc to his peace of mind.
The very motion of the boat, the blue waters of the lake, the "breath of the pine woods," the low rapid flight of a bird across the sky, all reminded him of her, and brought her so vividly before him as to cause him defined physical pain.
It was not, however, as the Miss Hildreth of the present, that she appeared to him—the successful beauty, the indifferent woman of the world, the jesting advocate of to-day's hateful creeds—but rather as the Patty of ten years ago; the Patty of his first passion, the love of his adolescence, the clear-eyed, honest-hearted, bewitching, wilful Patty of his first devotion.
He had sought for forgetfulness, but he had not found it; and so, after a month spent in unsatisfying and unsatisfactory inter-communion, he repacked his portmanteau one glorious autumn morning, bid good-bye to his little skiff, and to the silent sympathy of the pine woods, cast a long regretful look over the deep blue lake, and turning his steps towards the inartistic railway station, five miles distant, by afternoon of the same day was crossing the tortuous streets of Boston, preparatory to ensconcing himself comfortably in a "Pullman Express" for New York.
He reached that city in due time, and was at once immersed in the rush and go of its restless life. The streets were all alight, the open windows of hotels and restaurants displaying brightly dressed groups within, to whom the chief aim of existence for the hour was apparently, the excellence of a favourite ice, or the proper quality of the champagne frappé. Along the side-walks a varied crowd was constantly passing; shop-girls mostly, in large hats and pretty frocks, whose tired faces were flushed and eager, or pale and weary, according as they walked alone, or kept company with some smart young male assistant. Philip noticed with a half wonder, that each of these work-girls wore long gloves half-way up their arms, and that their low shoes were "dressy" to a degree, with patent tips and abnormally high heels, on which they limped along with heroic courage. The theatres were not out as yet; but Delmonico's and the Brunswick, were in the full swing of early evening traffic, and many were the envious glances cast by the weary pedestrians upon the more favoured few of fortune within those hospitable walls.
As Mr. Tremain let himself into his rooms with a pass key, he could not but feel how dreary and un-homelike was such a return. He had not telegraphed word of his arrival, and so found himself the sole occupant of the dark building; his servant and the care-taker were evidently enjoying life abroad this fine evening, and apparently the other habitués of the place were similarly employed.