One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 13
XIII.
The fall and early winter had been mild. In January it came on to snow and to blow; and with the snowing and blowing the thermometer dropped many degrees. Old inhabitants told each other it was real “Chicago weather;” and new inhabitants shivered in their sealskins, or, lacking these, put on extra flannels.
It was during the cold weather that Derring's work took him one afternoon to Lakeview to look over the work of the Amateur Art Club. As he left the house after finishing his task a dull roar fell on his ear. He started and listened eagerly—yes, it was the Lake. In a moment more his coat-collar was pulled up about his ears, his hat settled more firmly over his eyes, and he was on his way to the shore. The Lake had a peculiar fascination for him. He could never resist it, especially when it was roaring and thundering like this.
A few minutes' walk brought him in sight of the mounting, threatening, white-capped breakers. His heart leaped with exultation. The power of the storm was on him. He longed to run, to leap, to wrestle with it and scream himself hoarse against its tumult. It was like the ocean—that long stretch of lonely shore as yet unprotected by the breakwater.
Gradually, as he looked, he became conscious of something home-like and protected in the midst of the uproar. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney of a small, rude house, far down the shore, almost within reach of the threatening waves that ran up the sandy beach. All about the house boats lay stacked, evidently in winter quarters; and here and there remnants of fishing-tackle showed the occupation of fair weather. The house was sheathed in rough red boards and patched with artistic regularity. It was a sketch made to hand—a touch of nature within arm's reach of Chicago.
Helen was filled with enthusiasm and scoffed at his suggestion of waiting for warmer weather. “Half its charm is in the contrast,” she protested. “Don't you see?—Winter quarters in the midst of all that tumult.—I shall go up this afternoon.”
Derring consented unwillingly. He was obliged to go to Hyde Park for the day, and it was not till four o'clock that he was free to seek her on the North Shore.
She was seated near the point from which he had first seen the house, an old piece of sail-cloth, fastened between two stakes, sheltering her from the wind.
She looked up when he approached, as casually as if he had stood there all the afternoon. “I haven't caught that wind and it isn't cold enough—too much blue, isn't there?” she asked, holding her head back and surveying her work critically.
“Really, aren't you blue with too much cold?” he responded meekly.
“Don't be foolish. I am all right.”
He had taken off his overcoat and was fastening it around her shoulders.
“Oh, you mustn't do that. You'll take cold. Well, then, if you will—only you must go into the house and get warm. You'll find them highly entertaining, besides being good,” she added. “They made me some hot coffee and the man rigged up this sail-cloth to keep off the wind. And there's a pair of candlesticks in there I would give my eyes for. But they're not for sale. So you're not to raise my bid.”
“I couldn't raise it—if it were only a glance of your eyes—let alone the eyes themselves.”
“I hope you didn't come all the way up here in the cold just to be funny,” she responded severely. But she did not vouchsafe him the glance. She was absorbed in washing out the unsatisfactory sky for a second trial.
Derring did not go into the house. He walked rapidly up and down the beach, watching the angry sky and the isolated little house. He fancied that, as the early twilight settled down, it stood out more distinctly and vividly,—emphasizing its individuality—the work of man against the power of darkness.
At last he came and looked over her shoulder.
“Rather better, isn't it?” she asked complacently without looking up.
“You have caught the very demon of the storm in those clouds.”
It was true. She had done what the water-colorist seldom achieves—succeeded in washing out her first attempt and replacing it with the desired effect. The thorough wetting of the paper or a touch of genius had aided the second attempt, and the result was a wash—clean and fresh in color—and in the clouds what Derring had called the demon of the storm.
“Come,” he said decisively as she sat putting in the last few touches lingeringly. “Come. You must stop. It is too dark. You will be frozen.”
She began to collect her sketching materials.
“Leave those for me. Go on to the house and get warm. I'll bring your traps.”
She started obediently towards the house, breathing on her cold fingers to warm them. But—so fierce was the wind—she made slow progress, and before she reached the house he was at her side. He opened the door that ushered them into the low room.
The round-faced Dutchwoman who greeted them looked with kindly eyes on the young lady. She bustled about the room and placed an armchair near the fire. “You stayed out longer this time,” she said in a deep guttural voice. She gave a quick look of interest from Helen to Derring.
Helen sank into the chair with a grateful smile. “Yes, I stayed out to fin” She had slipped noiselessly from the armchair to the floor.
With a quick exclamation Derring dropped to his knees beside her.
“It's only the heat,” said the Dutchwoman practically. “Give her this.” She had prepared a draught of brandy.
Derring poured it between the white lips, around which a blue line was slowly settling.
They watched for the effect—Derring eagerly, the woman with close attention. There was no sign of returning life. Derring looked up in despair and the woman hurried away into an inner room for some other remedy.
He leaned over the motionless figure, listening. Slowly he gathered it in his arms. Tenderly, passionately, he drew her to him and pressed his lips on the white mouth with its shadow. She seemed to him already dead—removed from caresses. Slowly the lids fluttered, a breath trembled through the lips, and she lifted her eyes to his, faintly.
The good Dutchwoman appeared, bearing a large bottle of ammonia. She figured in Derring's eyes as a ministering angel and the bottle as a heaven-sent chalice. But it brought tears to Helen's eyes and she pushed it away with the assurance, half-laughing, half-tearful, that she should be all right in a minute.
Derring lifted her to an improvised couch and she lay, with eyes like stars, looking about the little room. He held one of the hands in his and chafed it gently now and then, under the pretence that it was still cold. Her brown hair had escaped from its fastening and was pushed carelessly back. Against the dark covering of the couch it formed a halo about her face. Derring had always fancied that the Madonna might have been at home in such a room as this. It was a Holbein face.
The old woman had lighted the candles on the low table and was spreading the table for supper. She entertained her guests by leaving them free. The two candles gave out a dull glow and completed the effect of an old Dutch interior.
Helen and Derring exchanged glances of appreciation.
“Think of finding it within five miles of Washington Street! I am going to sketch it some day. She has promised to sit for me and it will be nice and warm.” She shivered a little.
Derring suddenly held fast in both his hands the one he had been idly stroking. “You must never do such a foolhardy thing again.”
“Not even for a success?—But I am glad I did it. It is a success.” Her eyes rested lovingly on the sketch on the floor by the wall.
She was still looking at it when he left the house to telephone for a carriage. But when he returned, half an hour later, she was seated at the table, laughing and talking with her hostess. She declared she had never felt better in her life, and she started out bravely to walk to the carriage, which could not drive down to the beach, but was waiting on the road above. Before they had gone half the distance she found that she was very tired. With a sigh of relief she sank back in the corner of the carriage as the door was slammed after them.
Derring reached over promptly and drew her to him, placing her head against his shoulder and holding her close to protect her from the jar of the carriage.
“Rest here,” he said quietly, as she made a half protest. “I should care for my mother or a sister. Why not you—dear one?”
She did not protest again, but yielded to the protecting arms like a child. He watched her face as they whirled into the light of the street-lamps and out again into the shadow. It was still pale, but full of content. They flew through the Park and down the long avenue beyond. Never were two miles traversed so quickly. Not a word was spoken. It was as if the time were too precious for speech. Once she raised her face with a contented sigh and breathed his name softly, more as if to herself than to him.
As for Derring, he dared not realize his happiness. Underneath its pulsing was a half superstition. Fate would not allow a man to be so happy. But she had been given back to him from the dead. She rested close to him. That could not be taken from him. He held her closer—defying an unseen fate.