When Paul got her letter, she and her maid were out on the Atlantic, rapidly going farther away.
Launa was beginning to forget the Wainbridge incident, though at first her anger had seemed unending.
The weather became very cold as they neared Halifax. The big blue harbour, with its white-capped waves and white-covered shores, was home. The drifting bits of ice were gaily rushing on, tossed by the waves, the tide, and the wash of the big steamer. The decks and rigging were covered with ice, the sea had swept the ship, and, after sweeping it, the frost demon bound everything in his cold arms. She wondered how she had existed so long in that grey land without sun. The sky looked higher and more deeply blue.
“Solitude” was quite ready for her, huge fires blazed everywhere, old servants had come back. She drove ten miles from the nearest station, how the sleigh runners creaked, and the bells rang clear, a big yellow moon was up before she arrived; everything was so strong, so intense, so cold.
“Solitude” was lonely. She spent the greater part of the days out of doors. She was young, and the horribleness of Mr. Wainbridge’s behaviour became dimmer. She had only been angry, how would she have felt if she had loved him?
After a week of driving and snowshoeing she got out her toboggan.
The land from “Solitude” to the Bay sloped down for about half a mile, and then the Bay was frozen, the ice covered with snow, and she could toboggan straight across it. The crust of the snow was very hard. The toboggan started slowly, then went faster, faster, little bits of crisp snow flew in her face, the air whistled past her as she rushed along, the pace became swifter,—it was glorious: the sun, the air, and the clear blue sky were life-giving as she tore on. The toboggan bounded over the rough blocks of ice on the edge of the Bay which were broken by the tide. On the flat stretch of ice it began to move more slowly and then stopped. It was splendid. She spent all the afternoon at it; the thermometer was ten below zero, but it was so still and sunny that she could not feel cold.
It was snowing hard and blowing from the north-east; the view from “Solitude” was dim, whirling snow hurled by the wind, little drifting eddies of snow curled round the top of the drifts already forming quickly.
Launa started on snowshoes. The wind knocked her about and she staggered before it. She waited in the shelter of the porch until the fury of the blast seemed to have swept past, then she went on again. The snow was loose, and the walking, even on snowshoes, very heavy. She struggled to the little post-office, though there was no need for this, for they would have sent up her letters; the one she wanted was not there. She wandered on in the storm to pass the time hoping to grow very tired. The road was gone, it had disappeared in a level plain of snow, only like black specks occasional stones showed up in the walls. The snow drifted and whirled, and the wind was so keen and cold, like knives, with a stinging burning sensation. The snow made its way under her big fur collar and chilled her neck and face though she was so hot.
Suddenly she saw a dark figure coming nearer. It was a man. “Good-night,” she said as they passed. She doubted if he could hear, the wind crashed by them, it roared over their heads and howled behind them.