Alas! not SHE alone! The contiguous forest
could not be bolted out, and the Indian wife heard all. Recognizing the
situation with aboriginal directness of purpose, she committed suicide
in the fond belief that it would reunite the survivors. But in vain; the
cousins parted on the spot to meet no more.
Even Mrs. Ashwood's predilection for the youthful writer could not
overlook the fact that the denouement was by no means novel nor the
situation human, but yet it was here that she was most interested and
fascinated. The description of the forest was a description of the wood
where she had first met Harcourt; the charm of it returned, until she
almost seemed to again inhale its balsamic freshness in the pages before
her. Now, as then, her youth came back with the same longing and regret.
But more bewildering than all, it was herself that moved there, painted
with the loving hand of the narrator. For the first time she experienced
the delicious flattery of seeing herself as only a lover could see her.
The smallest detail of her costume was suggested with an accuracy that
pleasantly thrilled her feminine sense. The grace of her figure slowly
moving through the shadow, the curves of her arm and the delicacy of her
hand that held the bridle rein, the gentle glow of her softly rounded
cheek, the sweet mystery of her veiled eyes and forehead, and the
escaping gold of her lovely hair beneath her hat were all in turn
masterfully touched or tenderly suggested.
Pages:
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207
208
209
210
211
212