She could hardly breathe for delight. The Alps, whether in their Swiss or Italian aspects, were dear and familiar to her. She climbed nimbly and well; and her senses knew the magic of high places. But never surely had even travelled eyes beheld a nobler fantasy of Nature than that composed by these snows and forests of Lake Louise; such rocks of opal and pearl; such dark gradations of splendour in calm water; such balanced intricacy and harmony in the building of this ice-palace that reared its majesty above the lake; such a beauty of subordinate and converging outline in the supporting mountains on either hand; as though the Earth Spirit had lingered on his work, finishing and caressing it in conscious joy.
And in Elizabeth's heart, too, there was a freshness of spring; an overflow of something elemental and irresistible.
Yet, strangely enough, it was at that moment expressing itself in regret and compunction. Since the dawn, that morning, she had been unable to sleep. The strong light, the pricking air, had kept her wakeful; and she had been employing her time in writing to her mother, who was also her friend.
"... Dear little mother--You will say I have been unkind--I say it to myself. But would it really have been fairer if I had forbidden him to join us? There was just a chance--it seems ridiculous now--but there was--I confess it! And by my letter from Toronto--though really my little note might have been written to anybody--I as good as said so to him, 'Come and throw the dice and--let us see what falls out!' Practically, that is what it amounted to--I admit it in sackcloth and ashes. Well!--we have thrown the dice--and it won't do! No, it won't, it won't do! And it is somehow all my fault--which is abominable. But I see now, what I never saw at home or in Italy, that he is a thousand years older than I--that I should weary and jar upon him at every turn, were I to marry him. Also I have discovered--out here--I believe, darling, you have known it all along!--that there is at the very root of me a kind of savage--a creature that hates fish-knives and finger-glasses and dressing for dinner--the things I have done all my life, and Arthur Delaine will go on doing all his. Also that I never want to see a museum again--at least, not for a long time; and that I don't care twopence whether Herculaneum is excavated or not!
"Isn't it shocking? I can't explain myself; and poor Mr. Arthur evidently can't make head or tail of me, and thinks me a little mad. So I am, in a sense. I am suffering from a new kind of folie des grandeurs. The world has suddenly grown so big; everything in the human story--all its simple fundamental things at least--is writ so large here. Hope and ambition--love and courage--the man wrestling with the earth--the woman who bears and brings up children--it is as though I had never felt, never seen them before. They rise out of the dust and mist of our modern life--great shapes warm from the breast of Nature--and I hold my breath. Behind them, for landscape, all the dumb age-long past of these plains and mountains; and in front, the future on the loom, and the young radiant nation, shuttle in hand, moving to and fro at her unfolding task!
"How unfair to Mr. Arthur that this queer intoxication of mine should have altered him so in my foolish eyes--as though one had scrubbed all the golden varnish from an old picture, and left it crude and charmless. It is not his fault--is mine. In Europe we loved the same things; his pleasure kindled mine. But here he enjoys nothing that I enjoy; he is longing for a tiresome day to end, when my heart is just singing for delight. For it is not only Canada in the large that holds me, but all its dear, human, dusty, incoherent detail--all its clatter of new towns and spreading farms--of pushing railways and young parliaments--of roadmaking and bridgemaking--of saw-mills and lumber camps--detail so different from anything I have ever discussed with Arthur Delaine before. Some of it is ugly, I know--I don't care! It is like a Rembrandt ugliness--that only helps and ministers to a stronger beauty, the beauty of prairie and sky, and the beauty of the human battle, the battle of blood and brain, with the earth and her forces.
"'Enter these enchanted woods, ye who dare!'"
"There is a man here--a Mr. George Anderson, of whom I told you something in my last letter--who seems to embody the very life of this country, to be the prairie, and the railway, and the forest--their very spirit and avatar. Personally, he is often sad; his own life has been hard; and yet the heart of him is all hope and courage, all delight too in the daily planning and wrestling, the contrivance and the cleverness, the rifling and outwitting of Nature--that makes a Canadian--at any rate a Western Canadian. I suppose he doesn't know anything about art. Mr. Arthur seems to have nothing in common with him; but there is in him that rush and energy of life, from which, surely, art and poetry spring, when the time is ripe.
"Don't of course imagine anything absurd! He is just a young Scotch engineer, who seems to have made some money as people do make money here--quickly and honestly--and is shortly going into Parliament. They say that he is sure to be a great man. To us--to Philip and me, he has been extremely kind. I only meant that he seems to be in place here--or anywhere, indeed, where the world is moving; while Mr. Arthur, in Canada, is a walking anachronism. He is out of perspective; he doesn't fit.
"You will say, that if I married him, it would not be to live in Canada, and once at home again, the old estimates and 'values' would reassert themselves. But in a sense--don't be alarmed--I shall always live in Canada. Or, rather, I shall never be quite the same again; and Mr. Arthur would find me a restless, impracticable, discontented woman.