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Shapes of Isobel (Adventure Tales as Constellations, or James Oliver Curwood and Hugo Pratt as producers of «objet imaginaires»Fourth Clipping)
Her face was pale and haggard now, but she smiled at him. Her eyes never left his face. They were dazzlingly blue in the firelight.
It was the blue flower Billy had given her. But now its petals were torn apart, and nine of them lay in the palm of her hand.
«It can’t go with one.» She spoke softly and the smile died on her lips. «There are nine petals, three for each of us.»
She gave three to her husband and three to Billy, and for a moment the men stared at them as they lay in their rough and calloused palms. Then Billy drew out the bit of buckskin in which he had placed the strands of Isobel’s hair and slipped the blue petals in with them. Deane had drawn a worn envelope from his pocket.
He had never seen her as he saw her now, with the light from a window falling upon her. She was dressed in a loose gown, and her long hair fell in disheveled profusion over her shoulders and bosom. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips burned an unnatural red. Her eyes were glowing with strange fires.
… a folded newspaper clipping was uncovered by the removal of the cloth. It was a half page from a Montreal daily, and out of it there looked straight up at him the face of Isobel Deane. It was a younger, more girlish-looking face, but to him it was not half so beautiful as the face of the Isobel who had come to him from out of the Barren. His fingers trembled and his breath came more quickly as he held the paper
in the light and read the few lines under the picture:
ISOBEL ROWLAND, ONE OF THE LAST OF MONTREAL’S DAUGHTERS OF THE NORTH, WHO HAS SACRIFICED A FORTUNE FOR LOVE OF A YOUNG ENGINEER
The paper was eight years old. And then he read what followed. In those few minutes, as the cold, black type revealed to him the story of Isobel and Deane, he forgot that he was in the cabin, and that he could almost hear the breathing of the woman whose sweet romance had ended now in tragedy.
He was with Deane that day, years ago, when he had first looked into Isobel’s eyes in the little old cemetery of nameless and savage dead at Ste. Anne de Beauprè; he heard the tolling of the ancient bell in the church that had stood on the hillside for more than two hundred and fifty years; and he could hear Deane’s voice as he told Isobel the story of that bell and how, in the days of old, it had often called the settlers in to fight against the Indians. the little old cracked bell, the ancient church, and the plot of nameless dead the little old cracked bell, a big white house on the top of a hill, shut in by stone walls and iron pickets …
… her beautiful hair flowing in a firelit glory about her, her eyes still filled with tender gratitude … he worked steadily in the dull glow of the lamp … And step by step he mapped out for her the trail that led to the little cabin on the edge of the Barren.
… «the bleeding moon»—red as blood, with an uneven, dripping edge … A picture of Isobel rose before him, her faith and trust in him broken, her face white and drawn with grief and despair, her blue eyes flashing at him—hatred.
And as he looked up again at the red moon the sight of it no longer brought him uneasiness, but a strange sort of joy. For an hour he sat there, and the fire died down. About him the rustle and whisper of the wild closed in nearer. It was his world, and he breathed more deeply and listened.
… in that strange man-play that comes of loneliness in the far north, he had given life and form to the star shadows about him, to the shadows of the tall spruce, the twisted shrub, the rocks, and even the mountains. And now it was no longer play and gave to him the presence of life in their movement, in the coming and going of their shadow forms.
Ten years from now he might go over their old trail and still find the charred remains of the campfire he had built for her that night beside the Barren. The wilderness would bear memory of her so long as he was a part of it; and now, as he came nearer to Churchill, he knew that he would always be a part of it. For it was the vision of Isobel Deane that he saw there, and her blue eyes were glowing at him as he had seen them for an instant that night a long time ago on the edge of the Barren.
… but in spite of his strongest efforts the sunlit garden suddenly darkened before his eyes. In that moment the vision became real … masses of her lustrous hair … blue eyes filled with a strange fire … her parted lips. Her hair was still undone and covered her in a shimmering veil …
It was the blue flower Billy had given her. But now its petals were torn apart, and nine of them lay in the palm of her hand.
«It can’t go with one.» She spoke softly and the smile died on her lips. «There are nine petals, three for each of us.»
She gave three to her husband and three to Billy, and for a moment the men stared at them as they lay in their rough and calloused palms. Then Billy drew out the bit of buckskin in which he had placed the strands of Isobel’s hair and slipped the blue petals in with them. Deane had drawn a worn envelope from his pocket.
He had never seen her as he saw her now, with the light from a window falling upon her. She was dressed in a loose gown, and her long hair fell in disheveled profusion over her shoulders and bosom. Her cheeks were flushed. Her lips burned an unnatural red. Her eyes were glowing with strange fires.
… a folded newspaper clipping was uncovered by the removal of the cloth. It was a half page from a Montreal daily, and out of it there looked straight up at him the face of Isobel Deane. It was a younger, more girlish-looking face, but to him it was not half so beautiful as the face of the Isobel who had come to him from out of the Barren. His fingers trembled and his breath came more quickly as he held the paper
in the light and read the few lines under the picture:
ISOBEL ROWLAND, ONE OF THE LAST OF MONTREAL’S DAUGHTERS OF THE NORTH, WHO HAS SACRIFICED A FORTUNE FOR LOVE OF A YOUNG ENGINEER
The paper was eight years old. And then he read what followed. In those few minutes, as the cold, black type revealed to him the story of Isobel and Deane, he forgot that he was in the cabin, and that he could almost hear the breathing of the woman whose sweet romance had ended now in tragedy.
He was with Deane that day, years ago, when he had first looked into Isobel’s eyes in the little old cemetery of nameless and savage dead at Ste. Anne de Beauprè; he heard the tolling of the ancient bell in the church that had stood on the hillside for more than two hundred and fifty years; and he could hear Deane’s voice as he told Isobel the story of that bell and how, in the days of old, it had often called the settlers in to fight against the Indians. the little old cracked bell, the ancient church, and the plot of nameless dead the little old cracked bell, a big white house on the top of a hill, shut in by stone walls and iron pickets …
… her beautiful hair flowing in a firelit glory about her, her eyes still filled with tender gratitude … he worked steadily in the dull glow of the lamp … And step by step he mapped out for her the trail that led to the little cabin on the edge of the Barren.
… «the bleeding moon»—red as blood, with an uneven, dripping edge … A picture of Isobel rose before him, her faith and trust in him broken, her face white and drawn with grief and despair, her blue eyes flashing at him—hatred.
And as he looked up again at the red moon the sight of it no longer brought him uneasiness, but a strange sort of joy. For an hour he sat there, and the fire died down. About him the rustle and whisper of the wild closed in nearer. It was his world, and he breathed more deeply and listened.
… in that strange man-play that comes of loneliness in the far north, he had given life and form to the star shadows about him, to the shadows of the tall spruce, the twisted shrub, the rocks, and even the mountains. And now it was no longer play and gave to him the presence of life in their movement, in the coming and going of their shadow forms.
Ten years from now he might go over their old trail and still find the charred remains of the campfire he had built for her that night beside the Barren. The wilderness would bear memory of her so long as he was a part of it; and now, as he came nearer to Churchill, he knew that he would always be a part of it. For it was the vision of Isobel Deane that he saw there, and her blue eyes were glowing at him as he had seen them for an instant that night a long time ago on the edge of the Barren.
… but in spite of his strongest efforts the sunlit garden suddenly darkened before his eyes. In that moment the vision became real … masses of her lustrous hair … blue eyes filled with a strange fire … her parted lips. Her hair was still undone and covered her in a shimmering veil …
All the above assembled scraps are taken out from James Oliver Curwood, Isobel: A Romance of the Northern Trail, New York, Grosset & Dunlap,1913.
Hard Cover. Decorative Cloth, Early green cloth G&D, with black lettering on front cover and spine, floral embossed design on front cover & spine. No Jacket, or jacket a bit shelfworn, with some minor chipping to the spine head; otherwise a very good copy. Frontispiece illustration by John Newton Howitt. 8vo. 280 pages. Light spine canting. Spine is faded, wear and bit of cloth missing on spine ends, green boards with embossed design and black lettering have wear and some fraying at corners and edges, and tanned fore edges. Slight wear to ends of spine and corners. Corners bumped, heavy wear to cover. This is an ex-library book with the usual markings.There is significant foxing on the endpapers and through the dedication page, contents very tight, a solid copy. Front hinge is cracked, but binding appears tight, with some light foxing to pages, black & white frontispiece. Previous owner’s name inside front cover (neatly penned name on fep). Some general wear, some soiling, title page loose at the bottom , gift inscription on fly dated 1920.