THE CARNIVAL OF CANOES
Thou canst not wave thy staff in air,
Or dip thy paddle in the lake,
But it carves the bow of beauty there,
And the ripples in rhymes the oar forsake.
--_Emerson_.
I had dined alone and was lounging about the grounds when I heard
voices near the Glenarm wall. There was no formal walk there, and my
steps were silenced by the turf. The heavy scent of flowers from
within gave me a hint of my whereabouts; there was, I remembered, at
this point on the school lawn a rustic bench embowered in honeysuckle,
and Miss Pat and Helen were, I surmised, taking their coffee there. I
started away, thinking to enter by the gate and join them, when Helen's
voice rose angrily--there was no mistaking it, and she said in a tone
that rang oddly on my ears:
"But you are unkind to him! You are unjust! It is not fair to blame
father for his ill-fortune."
"That is true, Helen; but it is not your father's ill-fortune that I
hold against him. All I ask of him is to be sane, reasonable, to
change his manner of life, and to come to me in a spirit of fairness."
"But he is proud, just as you are; and Uncle Arthur ruined him! It was
not father, but Uncle Arthur, who brought all these hideous things upon
us."
I passed rapidly on, and resumed my walk elsewhere. It was a sad
business, the shadowy father; the criminal uncle, who had, as Helen
said, brought ruin upon them all; the sweet, motherly, older sister,
driven in desperation to hide; and, not less melancholy, this beautiful
girl, the pathos of whose position had struck me increasingly. Perhaps
Miss Pat was too severe, and I half accused her of I know not what
crimes of rapacity and greed for withholding her brother's money; then
I set my teeth hard into my pipe as my slumbering loyalty to Miss Pat
warmed in my heart again.
"It's the night of the carnival, sir," Ijima reminded me, seeking me at
the water-tower.
"Very good, Ijima. You needn't lock the boat-house. I may go out
later."
The cottagers at Port Annandale hold once every summer a canoe fete,
and this was the appointed night. I was in no mood for gaiety of any
sort, but it occurred to me that I might relieve the strained relations
between Helen and her aunt by taking them out to watch the procession
of boats. I passed through the gate and took a turn or two, not to
appear to know of the whereabouts of the women, and to my surprise met
Miss Pat walking alone.
She greeted me with her usual kindness, but I knew that I had broken
upon sad reflections. Her handkerchief vanished into the silk bag she
wore at her wrist. Helen was not in sight, but I strolled back and
forth with Miss Pat, thinking the girl might appear.
"I had a note from Father Stoddard to-day," said Miss Pat.
"I congratulate you," I laughed. "He doesn't honor me."
"He's much occupied," she remarked defensively; "and I suppose he
doesn't indulge in many letters. Mine was only ten lines long, not
more!"
"Father Stoddard feels that he has a mission in the world, and he has
little time for people like us, who have food, clothes and drink in
plenty. He gives his life to the hungry, unclothed and thirsty."
And now, quite abruptly, Miss Pat spoke of her brother.
"Has Henry gone?"
"Yes; he left ten days ago."
She nodded several times, then looked at me and smiled.
"You have frightened him off! I am grateful to you!"--and I was glad
in my heart that she did not know that Gillespie's money had sent him
away.
Helen had not appeared, and I now made bold to ask for her.
"Let me send the maid to tell her you are here," said Miss Pat, and we
walked to the door and rang.
The maid quickly reported that Miss Holbrook begged to be excused.
"She is a little afraid of the damp night air of the garden," said Miss
Pat, with so kind an intention that I smiled to myself. It was at the
point of my tongue to remark, in my disappointment at not seeing her,
that she must have taken sudden alarm at the lake atmosphere; but Miss
Pat talked on unconcernedly. I felt from her manner that she wished to
detain me. No one might know how her heart ached, but it was less the
appeal of her gentleness that won me now, I think, than the remembrance
that flashed upon me of her passionate outburst after our meeting with
the Italian; and that seemed very long ago. She had been magnificent
that day, like a queen driven to desperation, and throwing down the
gauntlet as though she had countless battalions at her back.
Indecision took flight before shame; it was a privilege to know and to
serve her!
"Miss Holbrook, won't you come out to see the water fete? We can look
upon it in security and comfort from the launch. The line of march is
from Port Annandale past here and toward the village, then back again.
You can come home whenever you like. I had hoped Miss Helen might
come, too, but I beg that you will take compassion upon my loneliness."
I had flung off my cap with the exaggerated manner I sometimes used
with her; and she dropped me a courtesy with the prettiest grace in the
world.
"I shall be with you in a moment, my lord!"
She reappeared quickly and remarked, as I took her wraps, that Helen
was very sorry not to come.
The gardener was on duty, and I called Ijima to help with the launch.
Brightly decorated boats were already visible in the direction of Port
Annandale; even the tireless lake "tramps" whistled with a special
flourish and were radiant in vari-colored lanterns.
"This is an ampler Venice, but there should be music to make it
complete," observed Miss Pat, as we stole in and out among the
gathering fleet. And then, as though in answer, a launch passed near,
leaving a trail of murmurous chords behind--the mournful throb of the
guitar, the resonant beat of banjo strings. Nothing can be so soothing
to the troubled spirit as music over water, and I watched with delight
Miss Pat's deep absorption in all the sights and sounds of the lake.
We drifted past a sail-boat idling with windless sails, its mast
trimmed with lanterns, and every light multiplying itself in the quiet
water. Many and strange craft appeared--farm folk and fishermen in
clumsy rowboats and summer colonists in launches, skiffs and canoes,
appeared from all directions to watch the parade.
The assembling canoes flashed out of the dark like fireflies. Not even
the spirits that tread the air come and go more magically than the
canoe that is wielded by a trained hand. The touch of the skilled
paddler becomes but a caress of the water. To have stolen across
Saranac by moonlight; to have paddled the devious course of the York or
Kennebunk when the sea steals inland for rest, or to dip up stars in
lovely Annandale--of such experiences is knowledge born!
I took care that we kept well to ourselves, for Miss Pat turned
nervously whenever a boat crept too near. Ijima, understanding without
being told, held the power well in hand. I had scanned the lake at
sundown for signs of the _Stiletto_, but it had not ventured from the
lower lake all day, and there was scarce enough air stirring to ruffle
the water.
"We can award the prize for ourselves here at the turn of the loop," I
remarked, as we swung into place and paused at a point about a mile off
Glenarm. "Here comes the flotilla!"
"The music is almost an impertinence, lovely as it is. The real song
of the canoe is 'dip and glide, dip and glide,'" said Miss Pat.
The loop once made, we now looked upon a double line whose bright
confusion added to the picture. The canoe offers, when you think of
it, little chance for the decorator, its lines are so trim and so
founded upon rigid simplicity; but many zealous hands had labored for
the magic of this hour. Slim masts supported lanterns in many and
charming combinations, and suddenly, as though the toy lamps had taken
wing, rockets flung up their stars and roman candles their golden
showers at a dozen points of the line and broadened the scope of the
picture. A scow placed midway of the loop now lighted the lake with
red and green fire. The bright, graceful argosies slipped by, like
beads upon a rosary. When the last canoe had passed, Miss Pat turned
to me, sighing softly:
"It was too pretty to last; it was a page out of the book of lost
youth."
I laughed back at her and signaled Ijima to go ahead and then, as the
water churned and foamed and I took the wheel, we were startled by an
exclamation from some one in a rowboat near at hand. The last of the
peaceful armada had passed, but now from the center of the lake,
unobserved and unheralded, stole a canoe fitted with slim masts carried
high from bow to stern with delightful daring. The lights were set in
globes of green and gold, and high over all, its support quite
invisible, shone a golden star that seemed to hover and follow the
shadowy canoe.
We all watched the canoe intently; and my eyes now fell upon the figure
of the skipper of this fairy craft, who was set forth in clear relief
against the red fire beyond. The sole occupant of the canoe was a
girl--there was no debating it; she flashed by within a paddle's length
of us, and I heard the low bubble of water under her blade. She
paddled kneeling, Indian fashion, and was lessening the breach between
herself and the last canoe of the orderly line, which now swept on
toward the casino.
"That's the prettiest one of all--" began Miss Pat, then ceased
abruptly. She bent forward, half rising and gazing intently at the
canoe. What she saw and what I saw was Helen Holbrook plying the
paddle with practised stroke; and as she passed she glanced aloft to
make sure that her slender mast of lights was unshaken; and then she
was gone, her star twinkling upon us bewilderingly. I waited for Miss
Pat to speak, but she did not turn her head until the canoe itself had
vanished and only its gliding star marked it from the starry sisterhood
above.
An exclamation faltered on my lips.
"It was--it was like--it _was_--"
"I believe we had better go now," said Miss Pat softly, and, I thought,
a little brokenly.
But we still followed the star with our eyes, and we saw it gain the
end of the procession, sweep on at its own pace, past the casino, and
then turn abruptly and drive straight for Glenarm pier. It was now
between us and our own shore. It shone a moment against our pier
lights; then the star and the fairy lanterns beneath it vanished one
after another and the canoe disappeared as utterly as though it had
never been.
I purposely steered a zigzag course back to St. Agatha's. Since Helen
had seen fit to play this trick upon her aunt I wished to give her
ample time to dispose of her canoe and return to the school. If we had
been struck by a mere resemblance, why did the canoeist not go on to
the casino and enjoy the fruits of her victory? I tried to imagine
Gillespie a party to the escapade, but I could not fit him into it.
Meanwhile I babbled on with Miss Pat. An occasional rocket still broke
with a golden shower over the lake, and she now discussed the carnival
and declared the gondola inferior for grace to the American canoe. Her
phrases were, however, a trifle stiff and not in her usual light manner.
I walked with her from the pier to St. Agatha's.
Sister Margaret, who had observed the procession from an upper window,
threw open the door for us.
"How is Helen?" asked Miss Pat at once.
"She is very comfortable," replied the Sister. "I went up only a
moment ago to see if she wanted anything."
Miss Pat turned and gave me her hand in her pretty fashion.
"You see, it could not have been--it was not--Helen; our eyes deceived
us! Thank you very much, Mr. Donovan!"
There was no mistaking her relief; she smiled upon me beamingly as I
stood before her at the door.
"Of course! On a fete night one can never trust one's eyes!"
"But it was all bewilderingly beautiful. You are most compassionate
toward a poor old woman in exile, Mr. Donovan. I must go up to Helen
and make her sorry for all she has missed."
I went back to the launch and sought far and near upon the lake for the
canoe with the single star. I wanted to see again the face that was
uplifted in the flood of colored light--the head, the erect shoulders,
the arms that drove the blade so easily and certainly; for if it was
not Helen Holbrook it was her shadow that the gods had sent to mock me
upon the face of the waters.