THE ROCK POOL
Ida was quietly gracious to Weston during the week that followed his
opposition to her wishes at the portage. This was not so much because
she knew she had been wrong in insisting on his taking her down the
fall, for, after all, that matter was a trifling one, but it was more
because she was pleased by the part that he had played. The man, it
seemed, had preferred to face her anger rather than to allow her to
run any personal risk, and afterward had undertaken a very laborious
task to prevent her from discovering why he had borne it. This was as
far as she would go, though she was aware that it left something to be
explained.
In any case, there was a subtle change in her manner toward Weston.
She had never attempted to patronize him, but now she placed him
almost on the footing of an intimate acquaintance. It was done
tactfully and naturally, but Mrs. Kinnaird noticed it, and took alarm.
Why she should do so was not very clear, for Stirling certainly had
not encouraged her to put herself to any trouble on his daughter's
account, but perhaps it was because Ida was going to England, and she
had a well-favored son. It is also possible that, being a lady of
conventional ideas, she acted instinctively and could not help
herself. That a young woman of extensive possessions should encourage
a camp-packer was, from her point of view, unthinkable.
For this reason, perhaps, it was not astonishing that there was for
some little time a quiet battle between the two. When Ida desired to
go fishing, Mrs. Kinnaird suggested something else, or contrived that
the packer should be busy. Failing this, she patiently bore
discomforts from which she usually shrank, and put her companions to a
good deal of trouble by favoring them with her company. The major
naturally did not notice what was going on, and she did not enlighten
him; nor did Weston, for that matter; while Arabella stood aside and
looked on with quiet amusement. It is probable that had Ida stooped to
diplomacy, she would have been beaten, but, as it was, her
uncompromising imperiousness stood her in good stead.
In any case, she went up the river alone with Weston on several
occasions, in spite of Mrs. Kinnaird, and one morning the two sat
together among the boulders beside a pool not far above the fall.
There had been heavy rain, and the stream, which had risen, swirled in
an angry eddy along the rock that rose close in front of them from
that side of the pool. A great drift-log, peeled white, with only
stumps of branches left, had jammed its thinner top on a
half-submerged ledge, and the great butt, which was water borne, every
now and then smote against the rock. The pines along the river were
still wet, and the wilderness was steeped in ambrosial odors. Ida sat
with thoughtful eyes regarding the endless rows of trunks, through
which here and there a ray of dazzling sunlight struck; but her whole
attention was not occupied with that great colonnade.
"I think you were right when you said that the bush gets hold of one,"
she said. "I sometimes feel that I don't want to go back to the cities
at all."
Weston smiled, though there was something curious in his manner. It
seemed to suggest that he was trying to face an unpleasant fact.
"Well," he said, "I told you that would probably be the case. In one
way it's unfortunate, because I suppose you will have to go. You
belong to civilization, and it will certainly claim you."
"And don't you?"
Weston made a little whimsical gesture.
"In the meanwhile, I don't quite know where I belong. It's
perplexing."
Ida noticed the "in the meanwhile." It had, she fancied, a certain
significance, and hinted that by and by he expected to be more sure of
his station.
"You don't wish to go back?" she asked.
"No," said Weston decisively. "Anyway, not to the packed
boarding-house and the flour-mill. Even in winter, when these rivers
are frozen hard and the pines stand white and motionless under the
Arctic frost, this is a good deal nicer."
"You're getting away from the point," said Ida, laughing. "I meant to
England."
Weston leaned forward a little, looking at her with a curious
expression in his eyes.
"For three or four months in the year England is the most beautiful
country in the world," he said. "We haven't your great pines and
foaming rivers, but, even in the land from which I come in the rugged
north, every valley is a garden. It's all so smooth and green and well
cared for. One could fancy that somebody loved every inch of it--once
you get outside the towns. I said the dales were gardens--in summer
they're more like Paradise."
It was evident that the exile's longing for the old land was awake
within him, and Ida nodded sympathetically.
"Won't you go on?" she begged.
"Ah!" said Weston. "If I could make you see them--the wonderful green
of the larch woods, the bronze of the opening oaks, and the smooth
velvet pastures between the little river and the gleaming limestone at
the foot of the towering fell! All is trimmed and clipped and cared
for, down to the level hedgerows and the sod on the roadside banks,
and every here and there white hamlets, with little old-world
churches, nestle among-the trees. You see, it has grown ripe and
mellow, while your settlements are crude and new."
The girl sat silent a brief space. She had read of the old country,
and seen pictures of it, and it seemed to her that his term, a garden,
described parts, at least, of it rather efficiently.
Then, though he had already assured her that he meant to stay in the
bush, she wondered whether he never longed to gather a flower of that
trim garden. In fact, it suddenly became a question of some moment to
her.
"You will go back to it some day?"
"No," said Weston, with a little wry smile; "I don't think so. After
all, why should I?"
Ida was sensible of a certain satisfaction, but she desired to make
more sure.
"There must be somebody you would wish to see, or somebody who would
care to see you?"
"Ah," said Weston, "the failures are soon forgotten over yonder.
Perhaps it's fortunate that it happens so."
A shadow crept into his face.
"No," he added, "unless it is as a successful man, it is scarcely
likely that I shall go back again."
Ida glanced at him covertly, with thoughtful eyes. Though his attire
was neater than it had been when she had seen him on other occasions,
he still wore the bush packer's usual dress. There was, however, a
subtle grace in his manner, and, though he was by no means a brilliant
conversationalist, there was something in his voice and the
half-whimsical tricks of fancy which now and then characterized him
that made a wide distinction between him and the general hired hand.
Once more it seemed to her that when he had called the old country a
garden it was a somewhat apt description, for this man had evidently
been subjected to careful training and pruning in his youth. He was,
she felt, one who had grown up under a watchful eye.
"Well," she said, with a little laugh, "perhaps you are wise. One
could almost fancy that the old land is overcrowded, and even on the
richest soil one needs light and air."
Weston's smile showed that he could understand her train of thought.
"I certainly think that some of us are hardier for transplanting," he
replied. "It is easier to make a vigorous growth out in the open, in
the wind and the sun. Besides, over yonder every one is pinched and
trimmed back to the same conventional pattern. They sacrifice too much
for uniformity."
"Still," said Ida, once more harping on the idea that troubled her,
"there are only wild flowers in the wilderness. One understands that
we have nothing like your peerless English blooms."
Weston looked at her with a little gleam in his eyes.
"Oh," he said, "one must be honest, and even for the credit of the old
land I can't admit that. It couldn't be, when you have your sunlight
and your crystal skies. It always seems to me that strength is
essential to perfect grace, and one finds both, and sweetness
unexcelled, out here in Canada."
He rose, and, taking up the rod, straightened the gut trace.
"There is a big trout rising in the slack," he said. "I think you
could cast from the bank."
Ida took the rod from him, and a little thrill of satisfaction ran
through her as she poised herself upon a jutting stone at the water's
edge. He had spoken vaguely, and she would have resented any undue
explicitness, but she had watched his face, and it had set her doubts
at rest. If any English girl had ever looked upon this man with favor,
which seemed probable, it was evident that he had long ago forgotten
her; and she fancied that if he had once been stirred to passion he
was not a man who would lightly forget. Then she set about casting for
the trout, which rose again; for, in view of her encounters with Mrs.
Kinnaird, it seemed advisable to take a few fish back with her, if
only to show how she had spent the time.
At the third cast there was a splash and a sudden silvery gleam, and a
tightening of the line. Then the reel clinked furiously, a bright
shape flashed through the froth of the eddy, and went down, after
which the line ripped athwart the surface of the pool. Weston, who
whipped up the net, waded in knee-deep.
"Keep the butt down!" he called. "Reel in! Take up every inch of
slack."
The fish broke the surface and went down again, and a flush of crimson
crept into Ida's face as she stood quivering while the line went round
the pool. Then the strain eased a little, and she spun the reel, until
the fish, showing a gleaming side in the swing of the eddy, made a
rush again.
"Hold on this time," said Weston. "It's making for the drift-log.
There are branches under it."
The rod bent, but the moving line led straight toward the drift-log,
until, in a moment, it stopped suddenly. Ida turned to the man with a
gasp.
"It's in under those branches," she said.
Weston, glancing at the line, threw down the net, for, though he
scarcely had expected this, the fish evidently had not snapped the gut
trace, which was now entangled among the broken branches.
"Give me some slack when I call," he said.
It was rather a long jump, but he managed to reach the butt of the
log, and he scrambled along it toward its thinner top, which stretched
out along the side of the rock. There was deep water under it, and the
eddy swung fiercely toward the rapid which swept on to the fall; but
the trunk provided a tolerably safe pathway to one accustomed to the
bush, and he reached a spot where a snapped-off branch projected into
the river. Then, stripping off his jacket, he lay down and crawled
along the branch. As he lowered one arm and shoulder into the water,
it seemed to Ida that the log rolled a little, and when he raised
himself again, with the water dripping from him, she called out to
warn him.
"The log's not safe," she said.
It was not evident that Weston heard her through the roar of the short
rapid above the fall, for he lowered himself once more. Ida was quite
sure that the trunk tilted a little now, but when he turned a wet face
toward her, in her eagerness she forgot that the thing might be
perilous. Weston did not notice that he was disturbing the equilibrium
of the tree.
"Let your reel run!" he cried.
He groped around among the branches, with a good deal of the upper
part of his body under water, and when at length he emerged there was
a big, gleaming fish in one hand. Ida saw him jerk its head back, with
his fingers in its gills, and then, standing upright, he hurled it
toward her.
"It beats the major's largest one!" he announced.
Ida laid down her rod and scrambled toward the fish; but there was a
splashing sound as she bent over it, and when she looked around
sharply she saw the big pine slide out into the stream. Weston stood
with his back toward her, apparently gazing at the rock, until he
suddenly leaped forward and clutched at it. She could not see what he
clung to, but the surface was uneven, and he evidently had found a
foothold. Then, while a thrill of horror ran through her, she glanced
at the pine and saw it whirl out into the rapid. Twice the top of it,
which swung clear, came down with a splash, and then it plunged wildly
into spray about the fall. She did not care to watch what became of
it, and she clenched her hands hard as she looked around again.
Weston was clinging to the rock, and his face, which was turned partly
toward her, was set and grim. In a moment he moved forward a little,
feeling with outstretched hand for a fresh hold, while one foot
splashed in the swirling water. Ida held her breath as she watched
him. He swung suddenly forward a yard or so, and then, with a wild
scramble, found a foothold. Ida, who was conscious that her heart was
beating painfully fast, wondered what kept him from falling. There was
not a crevice or a cranny that she could see; but she could not see
anything very well, except the tense figure stretched against the
stone and the set, white face. Dark pines and foaming water had faded
into insignificance.
He moved again, and crept forward with agonizing slowness, until at
length he stopped and gazed at the wall of rock still in front of him.
That part of it was very smooth and overhung a little between where he
was and the steeply sloping strip of shingle on which the girl stood.
The stream swirled past furiously, and it was evident to Ida that if
he lost his hold it must sweep him down the rapid and over the fall.
She was never sure how long he clung there, but his white face and the
poise of his strung-up figure impressed themselves indelibly on her
memory. Strain was expressed in every line of his body and in his
clutching hands. Then the strength and decision that was in her
asserted itself, and she overcame the numbing horror that had held her
powerless. Snatching up her rod, she turned to him resolutely.
"You must jump!" she called.
Weston looked at the slender point of the rod she held out, and
somewhat naturally hesitated. It was some distance from him, but in
another moment the girl was wading out from the shingle. Her skirt
trailed in the water which swirled by her, but, though the shingle
dropped steeply, it afforded her a foothold, and she stretched out the
rod a little farther.
"Jump!" she cried commandingly. "Jump right now!"
The man flung up his hands. As a matter of fact, there was not room
for him to jump at all. Ida braced herself for an effort as he lurched
down from the rock. There was a great splash and a wrench that almost
dragged her off her feet; then he was close beside her, waist-deep in
the stream. He did not stop, but clutched her by the shoulder and
drove her before him up the shingle. Then he sat down, gasping, while
the water ran from him; and she moved back a pace or two and leaned on
a boulder, with her face almost as white as his.
"You must be very wet. I thought the river had us both," he said.
Ida laughed, a rather harsh and foolish laugh, for now that the
tension had slackened she felt curiously shaken. The man turned and
looked back at the pool.
"No," he said, "I don't think I ever could have got out of there
alone."
Then he scrambled in a half-dazed fashion to his feet, and raised a
hand to where his hat should have been. The hat was, however, a long
way down the river by this time; and when Ida noticed his astonishment
at not finding it on his head, she once more broke into strained
laughter. After that she pulled herself together with an effort.
"You won't mind? I can't help it," she said. "Didn't you know your hat
was gone?"
Weston looked at her more steadily than perhaps he should have done.
There was something in her face that suggested that the last few
moments had almost unnerved her. This, as he could realize, was not
altogether unnatural; and then a sudden thrill that set his nerves
tingling ran through him, as their eyes met. The events of the past
minute had shown them, in part, at least, how they stood toward each
other, and for the moment they could not hide it. Then Weston
recovered the self-command that was rapidly deserting him.
"I don't think that matters," he said, apparently referring to the
hat. "I want to thank you, Miss Stirling. It's quite clear that I owe
a good deal to your quickness and nerve."
There were signs that his formal tone had cost him an effort, but the
fact that, slightly dazed as he was, he had forced himself to make it,
and had called her Miss Stirling, was significant, and Ida fell in
with the course he had adopted. It was difficult for both of them, but
she recognized that the matter must be passed over as lightly and as
speedily as possible.
"You shouldn't have gone out on that log at all," she said. "You must
have seen it wasn't safe."
Weston laughed, though the signs of struggle were still on his face.
"Did you notice that?" he asked.
"I didn't," said Ida, and then a curious little thrill of anger ran
through her. The man's attitude was only what should be expected of
him in view of the difference between their stations, but, after all,
it seemed to her that he had almost too much self-control.
"That is, not at first," she added. "Afterward I did notice it, and I
called to you. You didn't hear?"
"No," said Weston, "I didn't hear you."
He looked at her steadily; and the girl, who felt the impulsive desire
to wound him too strong for her, made a little gesture.
"I am rather ashamed of it, but the next moment I quite forgot that
there was any danger," she said. "You see I was so intent upon the
fish."
"Then," said Weston, very quietly, "I don't think you could blame me."
He stooped, and, picking up the rod, set about taking it to pieces
with a curious deliberation. Then he glanced at the girl.
"I can only offer you my thanks, Miss Stirling, but they're very
sincere," he said. "Don't you think it would be better if we went back
to camp?"
Ida rose and returned with him through the scented bush, but neither
said anything further, for the same restraint was upon both of them.