In the dreamy happiness of these thoughts the colour came to her cheeks, the roses of light gathered in her eyes. In her tremulous ardour she scarcely realised how time passed, and her reverie deepened as the afternoon shadows grew and the sun made to its covert behind the hills. She was roused by a man’s voice singing, just under the bluff where she sat. To her this voice represented the battle-call, the home-call, the life call of the universe. The song it sang was known to her. It was as old as Rizzio. It had come from old France with Mary, had been merged into English words and English music, and had voyaged to New France. There it had been sung by lovers in fair vales, on wide rivers, and in deep forests:
“What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!),
And what is thine may not be sold,
(My love comes through the corn!);
And none shall buy
And none shall sell
What Love works well?”
In the walk back from Vadrome Mountain, a change—a fleeting change—had passed over Charley’s mind and mood. The quiet of the woodland, the song of the birds, the tumbling brook, the smell of the rich earth, replenishing its strength from the gorgeous falling leaves, had soothed him. Thoughts of Rosalie took a new form. Her image possessed him, excluding the future, the perils that surrounded them. He had gone through so much within the past twenty-four hours that the capacity for suffering had almost exhausted itself, and in the reaction endearing thoughts of Rosalie had dominion over him. It was the reassertion of primitive man, the demands of the first element. The great problem was still in the background. The picture of Kathleen and the other man was pushed into the distance; thoughts of Billy and his infamy were thrust under foot—how futile to think of them! There was Rosalie to be thought of, the to-day and to-morrow of the new life.
Rosalie was of to-day. How strong and womanly she had been this morning, the girl whose life had been bounded by this Chaudiere, with a metropolitan convent and hospital as her only glimpses of the busy world. She would fit in anywhere—in the highest places, with her grace, and her nobleness of mind, arcadian, passionate and beautiful. There came upon him again the feeling of the evening before, when he saw her standing in his doorway, the night about them, jealous affection, undying love, in her eyes. It quickened his steps imperceptibly. He passed a stream, and glanced down into a dark pool involuntarily. It reflected himself clearly. He stopped short. “Is this you, Beauty Steele?” he said, and he caught his brown beard in his hand. “Beauty Steele had brains and no heart. You have heart, and your wits have gone wool-gathering. No matter!
What is not mine I may not hold,
(Ah, hark the hunter’s horn!)’”
he sang, and came quickly along the stream where the flax-beaters worked in harvest-time, then up the hill, then—Rosalie.
She started to her feet. “I knew you would come—I knew you would!” she said.
“You have been waiting here for me?” he asked breathless, taking her hand.
“I felt you would come. I made you,” she added smiling, and, eagerly answering the look in his eyes, threw her arms round his neck. In that moment’s joy a fresh realisation of their fate came upon him with dire force, and a bitter protest went up from his heart, that he and she should be sacrificed.
Yet the impasse was there, and what could remove it—what clear the way?