Next day we had a picnic on the Whi-Whi River, which, rising in the far
north, comes in varied moods to join the Long Cloud River at Viking.
[Dr. Marmion, in a note of his MSS., says that he has purposely
changed the names of the rivers and towns mentioned in the second
part of the book, because he does not wish the locale to be too
definite.]
Ruth Devlin, her young sister, and her aunt Mrs. Revel, with Galt Roscoe
and myself, constituted the party. The first part of the excursion
had many delights. The morning was fresh and sweet, and we were all in
excellent spirits. Roscoe’s depression had vanished; but there was an
amiable seriousness in his manner which, to me, portended that the faint
roses in Ruth Devlin’s cheeks would deepen before the day was done,
unless something inopportune happened.
As we trudged gaily up the canon to the spot where we were to take a big
skiff, and cross the Whi-Whi to our camping-ground, Ruth Devlin, who
was walking with me, said: “A large party of tourists arrived at Viking
yesterday, and have gone to the summer hotel; so I expect you will be
gay up here for some time to come. Prepare, then, to rejoice.”
“Don’t you think it is gay enough as it is?” I answered. “Behold this
festive throng.”
“Oh, it is nothing to what there might be. This could never make Viking
and ‘surrounding country’ notorious as a pleasure resort. To
attract tourists you must have enough people to make romances and
tragedies,--without loss of life, of course,--merely catastrophes
of broken hearts, and hair-breadth escapes, and mammoth fishing
and shooting achievements, such as men know how to invent,”--it was
delightful to hear her voice soften to an amusing suggestiveness, “and
broken bridges and land-slides, with many other things which you can
supply, Dr. Marmion. No, I am afraid that Viking is too humdrum to be
notable.”
She laughed then very lightly and quaintly. She had a sense of humour.
“Well, but, Miss Devlin,” said I, “you cannot have all things at once.
Climaxes like these take time. We have a few joyful things. We have
splendid fishing achievements,--please do not forget that basket
of trout I sent you the other morning,--and broken hearts and such
tragedies are not impossible; as, for instance, if I do not send you as
good a basket of trout to-morrow evening; or if you should remark that
there was nothing in a basket of trout to--”
“Now,” she said, “you are becoming involved and--inconsiderate.
Remember, I am only a mountain girl.”
“Then let us only talk of the other tragedies. But are you not a
little callous to speak of such things as if you thirsted for their
occurrence?”
“I am afraid you are rather silly,” she replied. “You see, some of the
land up here belongs to me. I am anxious that it should ‘boom’--that
is the correct term, is it not?--and a sensation is good for ‘booming.’
What an advertisement would ensue if the lovely daughter of an American
millionaire should be in danger of drowning in the Long Cloud, and a
rough but honest fellow--a foreman on the river, maybe a young member
of the English aristocracy in disguise--perilled his life for her! The
place of peril would, of course, be named Lover’s Eddy, or the Maiden’s
Gate--very much prettier, I assure you, than such cold-blooded things as
the Devil’s Slide, where we are going now, and much more attractive to
tourists.”
“Miss Devlin,” laughed I, “you have all the eagerness of the incipient
millionaire. May I hope to see you in Lombard Street some day, a very
Katherine among capitalists?--for, from your remarks, I judge that you
would--I say it pensively--‘wade through slaughter to a throne.’”
Galt Roscoe, who was just ahead with Mrs. Revel and Amy Devlin, turned
and said: “Who is that quoting so dramatically? Now, this is a picnic
party, and any one who introduces elegies, epics, sonnets, ‘and such,’
is guilty of breaking the peace at Viking and its environs. Besides,
such things should always be left to the parson. He must not be
outflanked, his thunder must not be stolen. The scientist has unlimited
resources; all he has to do is to be vague, and look prodigious; but the
parson must have his poetry as a monopoly, or he is lost to sight, and
memory.”
“Then,” said I, “I shall leave you to deal with Miss Devlin yourself,
because she is the direct cause of my wrong-doing. She has expressed the
most sinister sentiments about Viking and your very extensive parish.
Miss Devlin,” I added, turning to her, “I leave you to your fate, and I
cannot recommend you to mercy, for what Heaven made fair should remain
tender and merciful, and--”
“‘So young and so untender!’” she interjected, with a rippling
laugh. “Yet Cordelia was misjudged very wickedly, and traduced very
ungallantly, and so am I. And I bid you good-day, sir.”
Her delicate laugh rings in my ears as I write. I think that sun
and clear skies and hills go far to make us cheerful and harmonious.
Somehow, I always remember her as she was that morning.
She was standing then on the brink of a new and beautiful experience, at
the threshold of an acknowledged love. And that is a remarkable time to
the young.
There was something thrilling about the experiences of that morning,
and I think we all felt it. Even the great frowning precipices seemed
to have lost their ordinary gloom, and when some young white eagles rose
from a crag and flew away, growing smaller as they passed, until they
were one with the snow of the glacier on Mount Trinity, or a wapiti
peeped out from the underwood and stole away with glancing feet down the
valley; we could scarcely refrain from doing some foolish thing out of
sheer delight. At length we emerged from a thicket of Douglas pine upon
the shore of the Whi-Whi, and, loosening our boat, were soon moving
slowly on the cool current. For an hour or more we rowed down the river
towards the Long Cloud, and then drew into the shade of a little
island for lunch. When we came to the rendezvous, where picnic parties
generally feasted, we found a fire still smoking and the remnants of a
lunch scattered about. A party of picnickers had evidently been there
just before us. Ruth suggested that it might be some of the tourists
from the hotel. This seemed very probable.
There were scraps of newspaper on the ground, and among them was
an empty envelope. Mechanically I picked it up, and read the
superscription. What I saw there I did not think necessary to disclose
to the other members of the party; but, as unconcernedly as
possible, for Ruth Devlin’s eyes were on me, I used it to light a
cigar--inappropriately, for lunch would soon be ready.
“What was the name on the envelope?” she said. “Was there one?”
I guessed she had seen my slight start. I said evasively: “I fancy there
was, but a man who is immensely interested in a new brand of cigar--”
“You are a most deceitful man,” she said. “And, at the least, you are
selfish in holding your cigar more important than a woman’s curiosity.
Who can tell what romance was in the address on that envelope--”
“What elements of noble tragedy, what advertisement for a certain
property in the Whi-Whi Valley,” interrupted Roscoe, breaking off the
thread of a sailor’s song he was humming, as he tended the water-kettle
on the fire.
This said, he went on with the song again. I was struck by the wonderful
change in him now. Presentiments were far from him, yet I, having read
that envelope, knew that they were not without cause. Indeed, I had an
inkling of that the night before, when I heard the voices on the hill.
Ruth Devlin stopped for a moment in the preparations to ask Roscoe
what he was humming. I, answering for him, told her that it was an old
sentimental sea-song of common sailors, often sung by officers at
their jovial gatherings. At this she pretended to look shocked, and
straightway demanded to hear the words, so that she could pronounce
judgment on her spiritual pastor and master.
He good-naturedly said that many of these old sailor songs were amusing,
and that he often found himself humming them. To this I could testify,
and he sang them very well indeed--quietly, but with the rolling tone of
the sailor, jovial yet fascinating. At our united request, his humming
became distinct. Three of the verses I give here:
“The ‘Lovely Jane’ went sailing down
To anchor at the Spicy Isles;
And the wind was fair as ever was blown,
For the matter of a thousand miles.
“Then a storm arose as she crossed the line,
Which it caused her masts to crack;
And she gulped her fill of the whooping brine,
And she likewise sprained her back.
“And the capting cried, ‘If it’s Davy Jones,
Then it’s Davy Jones,’ says he,
‘Though I don’t aspire to leave my bones
In the equatorial sea.’”
What the further history of the ‘Lovely Jane’ was we were not informed,
for Ruth Devlin announced that the song must wait, though it appeared to
be innocuous and child-like in its sentiments, and that lunch would be
served between the acts of the touching tragedy. When lunch was over,
and we had again set forth upon the Whi-Whi, I asked Ruth to sing an old
French-Canadian song which she had once before sung to us. Many a time
the woods of the West had resounded to the notes of ‘En Roulant ma
Boule’, as the ‘voyageurs’ traversed the long paths of the Ottawa, St.
Lawrence, and Mississippi; brave light-hearted fellows, whose singing
days were over.
By the light of coming events there was something weird and pathetic in
this Arcadian air, sung as it was by her. Her voice was a mezzo-soprano
of rare bracing quality, and she had enough natural sensibility to
give the antique refinement of the words a wistful charm, particularly
apparent in these verses:
“Ah, cruel Prince, my heart you break,
In killing thus my snow-white drake.
“My snow-white drake, my love, my King,
The crimson life-blood stains his wing.
“His golden bill sinks on his breast,
His plumes go floating east and west--
“En roulant ma boule:
Rouli, roulant, ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule roulant,
En roulant ma boule!”
As she finished the song we rounded an angle in the Whi-Whi. Ahead of
us lay the Snow Rapids and the swift channel at one side of the rapids
which, hurrying through a rocky archway, was known as the Devil’s Slide.
There was one channel through the rapids by which it was perfectly safe
to pass, but that sweep of water through the Devil’s Slide was sometimes
a trap of death to even the most expert river-men. A half-mile below the
rapids was the confluence of the two rivers. The sight of the tumbling
mass of white water, and the gloomy and colossal grandeur of the Devil’s
Slide, a buttress of the hills, was very fine.
But there was more than scenery to interest us here, for, moving
quickly towards the Slide, was a boat with three people in it. They
were evidently intending to attempt that treacherous passage, which
culminated in a series of eddies, a menace to even the best oarsman
ship. They certainly were not aware of their danger, for there came over
the water the sound of a man’s laughing voice, and the two women in the
boat were in unconcerned attitudes. Roscoe shouted to them, and motioned
them back, but they did not appear to understand.
The man waved his hat to us, and rowed on. There was but one thing for
us to do: to make the passage quickly through the safe channel of the
rapids, and to be of what service we could on the other side of the
Slide, if necessary. We bent to the oars, and the boat shot through the
water. Ruth held the rudder firmly, and her young sister and Mrs. Revel
sat perfectly still. But the man in the other boat, thinking, doubtless,
that we were attempting a race, added his efforts to the current of the
channel. I am afraid that I said some words below my breath scarcely
proper to be spoken in the presence of maidens and a clerk in holy
orders. Roscoe was here, however, a hundred times more sailor than
parson. He spoke in low, firm tones, as he now and then suggested a
direction to Ruth Devlin or myself. Our boat tossed and plunged in the
rapids, and the water washed over us lightly once or twice, but we went
through the passage safely, and had turned towards the Slide before the
other boat got to the rocky archway.
We rowed hard. The next minute was one of suspense, for we saw the boat
shoot beneath the archway. Presently it emerged, a whirling plaything in
treacherous eddies. The man wildly waved his arm, and shouted to us.
The women were grasping the sides of the boat, but making no outcry. We
could not see the faces of the women plainly yet. The boat ran forward
like a race-horse; it plunged hither and thither. An oar snapped in the
rocks, and the other one shot from the man’s hand. Now the boat swung
round and round, and dipped towards the hollow of a whirlpool. When we
were within a few rods of them, it appeared to rise from the water,
was hurled on a rock, and overturned. Mrs. Revel buried her face in her
hands, and Ruth gave a little groan, but she held the rudder firmly,
as we swiftly approached the forms struggling in the water. All,
fortunately, had grasped the swamped boat, and were being carried down
the stream towards us. The man was caring resolutely for himself,
but one, of the women had her arm round the other, supporting her. We
brought our skiff close to the swirling current. I called out words of
encouragement, and was preparing to jump into the water, when Roscoe
exclaimed in a husky voice: “Marmion, it is Mrs. Falchion.”
Yes, it was Mrs. Falchion; but I had known that before. We heard her
words to her companion: “Justine, do not look so. Your face is like
death. It is hateful.”
Then the craft veered towards the smoother water where we were. This
was my opportunity. Roscoe threw me a rope, and I plunged in and swam
towards the boat. I saw that Mrs. Falchion recognised me; but she made
no exclamation, nor did Justine Caron. Their companion, however, on the
other side of the boat, was eloquent in prayers to be rescued. I caught
the bow of the boat as it raced past me, and with all my strength swung
it towards the smoother water. I ran the rope I had brought, through
the iron ring at the bow, and was glad enough of that; for their lives
perhaps depended on being able to do it. It had been a nice calculation
of chances, but it was done. Roscoe immediately bent to the oars, I
threw an arm around Justine, and in a moment Roscoe had towed us into
safer quarters. Then he drew in the rope. As he did so, Mrs. Falchion
said: “Justine would drown so easily if one would let her.”
These were her first words to me. I am sure I never can sufficiently
admire the mere courage of the woman and her presence of mind in danger.
Immediately afterwards she said--and subsequently it seemed to me
marvellous: “You are something more than the chorus to the play this
time, Dr. Marmion.”
A minute after, and Justine was dragged into our boat, and was followed
by Mrs. Falchion, whose first words to Roscoe were: “It is not such a
meeting as one would plan.”
And he replied: “I am glad no harm has come to you.”
The man was duly helped in. A poor creature he was, to pass from this
tale as he entered it, ignominiously and finally here. I even hide
his nationality, for his race are generally more gallant. But he was
wealthy, had an intense admiration for Mrs. Falchion, and had managed
to secure her in his boat, to separate from the rest of the picnic
party--chiefly through his inefficient rowing.
Dripping with water as Mrs. Falchion was, she did not, strange to say,
appear at serious disadvantage. Almost any other woman would have
done so. She was a little pale, she must have felt miserable, but she
accepted Ruth Devlin’s good offices--as did Justine Caron those of Mrs.
Revel--with much self-possession, scanning her face and form critically
the while, and occasionally turning a glance on Roscoe, who was now cold
and impassive. I never knew a man who could so banish expression
from his countenance when necessary. Speaking to Belle Treherne long
afterwards of Mrs. Falchion’s self-possessed manner on this occasion,
and of how she rose superior to the situation, I was told that I must
have regarded the thing poetically and dramatically, for no woman could
possibly look self-possessed in draggled skirts. She said that I always
magnified certain of Mrs. Falchion’s qualities.
That may be so, and yet it must be remembered that I was not predisposed
towards her, and that I wished her well away from where Roscoe was.
As for Justine Caron, she lay with her head on Mrs. Revel’s lap,
and looked from beneath heavy eyelids at Roscoe with such gratitude
and--but, no, she is only a subordinate in the story, and not a chief
factor, and what she said or did here is of no vital consequence at this
moment! We rowed to a point near the confluence of the two rivers, where
we could leave our boats to be poled back through the rapids or portaged
past them.
On the way Mrs. Falchion said to Roscoe: “I knew you were somewhere in
the Rockies; and at Vancouver, when I came from San Francisco, I heard
of your being here. I had intended spending a month somewhere in the
mountains, so I came to Viking, and on to the summer hotel: but really
this is too exciting for recreation.”
This was spoken with almost gay outward manner, but there was a note in
her words which I did not like, nor did I think that her eye was very
kind, especially when she looked at Ruth Devlin and afterwards at
Roscoe.
We had several miles to go, and it was nightfall--for which Mrs.
Falchion expressed herself as profoundly grateful--when we arrived at
the hotel. Our parting words were as brief as, of necessity, they had
been on our journey through the mountains, for the ladies had ridden
the horses which we had sent over for ourselves from Viking, and we men
walked in front. Besides, the thoughts of some of us were not at all
free from misgiving. The spirit possessing Roscoe the night before
seemed to enter into all of us, even into Mrs. Falchion, who had lost,
somewhat, the aplomb with which she had held the situation in the
boat. But at the door of the hotel she said cheerfully: “Of course, Dr.
Marmion will find it necessary to call on his patients to-morrow--and
the clergyman also on his new parishoners.”
The reply was left to me. I said gravely: “Let us be thankful that both
doctor and clergyman are called upon to use their functions; it might
easily have been only the latter.”
“Oh, do not be funereal!” she replied. “I knew that we were not to drown
at the Devil’s Slide. The drama is not ended yet, and the chief actors
cannot go until ‘the curtain.’--Though I am afraid that is not quite
orthodox, is it, Mr. Roscoe?”
Roscoe looked at her gravely. “It may not be orthodox as it is said, but
it is orthodox, I fancy, if we exchange God for fate, and Providence for
chance.... Good-night.”
He said this wearily. She looked up at him with an ironical look, then
held out her hand, and quickly bade him good-night. Partings all round
were made, and, after some injunctions to Mrs. Falchion and Justine
Caron from myself as to preventives against illness, the rest of us
started for Sunburst.
As we went, I could not help but contrast Ruth and Amy Devlin, these
two gentle yet strong mountain girls, with the woman we had left. Their
lives were far from that dolorous tide which, sweeping through a selfish
world, leaves behind it the stain of corroding passions; of cruelties,
ingratitude, hate, and catastrophe. We are all ambitious, in one way or
another. We climb mountains over scoria that frays and lava that burns.
We try to call down the stars, and when, now and then, our conjuring
succeeds, we find that our stars are only blasting meteors. One moral
mishap lames character for ever. A false start robs us of our natural
strength, and a misplaced or unrighteous love deadens the soul and
shipwrecks just conceptions of life.
A man may be forgiven for a sin, but the effect remains; it has found
its place in his constitution, and it cannot be displaced by mere
penitence, nor yet forgiveness. A man errs, and he must suffer; his
father erred, and he must endure; or some one sinned against the man,
and he hid the sin--But here a hand touched my shoulder! I was startled,
for my thoughts had been far away. Roscoe’s voice spoke in my ear: “It
is as she said; the actors come together for ‘the curtain.’”
Then his eyes met those of Ruth Devlin turned to him earnestly and
inquiringly. And I felt for a moment hard against Roscoe, that he should
even indirectly and involuntarily, bring suffering into her life. In
youth, in early manhood, we do wrong. At the time we seem to be injuring
no one but ourselves; but, as we live on, we find that we were wronging
whomsoever should come into our lives in the future. At the instant I
said angrily to myself: “What right has he to love a girl like that,
when he has anything in his life that might make her unhappy, or
endanger her in ever so little!”
But I bit my tongue, for it seemed to me that I was pharisaical; and I
wondered rather scornfully if I should have been so indignant were
the girl not so beautiful, young, and ingenuous. I tried not to think
further of the matter, and talked much to Ruth,--Gait Roscoe walked with
Mrs. Revel and Amy Devlin,--but I found I could not drive it from my
mind. This was not unnatural, for was not I the “chorus to the play”?