He found his cap and went out on the porch, taking care that the screen
door should not slam. But instead of obeying orders, he sat down and
enjoyed the landscape.
Beyond the Duckling appeared the Canadian shore, a forest retreating
slowly to a mountain. He knew from his map that he was looking at a
Canadian island thirty miles long. The name on the map was St.
Joseph, but according to the old gunsmith the real name was
Bay-quah-de-nah-shing, the island with a mountain.
From his own explorations he knew that the mountain must command a
wonderful view. But it was ten miles away, and it stood to reason that
the Riches could not afford to visit such heights. Therefore it would be
decent in him to send them up there. While they were gone he could take
a good look at their larder and see if it needed replenishing.
He stole around to the back door and entered. She paid no attention to
him, because he was violating orders.
He seated himself on the woodbox, which was full of newspapers and
silvery birch, and offered a few well chosen words about the neatness of
the kitchen. No response.
He watched her wield the dishmop with bewildering rapidity, and scald
the china with floods.
He watched her wipe it, seizing each piece with a quick firmness that
seemed likely to break it, but never did. He kept still, but since he
was very close to her he at last made her nervous, and she dropped a bit
of Worcester Royal. He caught it, and remarked that the robin’s egg rim
was exquisite.
She received the treasure back with a smile of gratitude, but did not
deign to tell him the origin of the plate. She knew that it had been
ordered from the pottery for her mother as a wedding gift and that it
did not arrive till months after her mother was married. It was from a
friend down east to whom her mother used to refer as Susan Endicott.
By and by Jean filled a fry pan with odds and ends for her dog, and
stepped outside to find him. The minute she was gone, Marvin slipped
into the storeroom and lifted cover after cover. Almost every container
was empty.
When she returned, he was sitting as before on the woodbox, pinching
Pat’s fingers as if to restore circulation.
“Now that you are so rich with your ten dollars, don’t you want to go
shopping? I have a borrowed launch up at the post-office pier.”
She shook her head.
He reached down into the woodbox, extracted a newspaper, and proceeded
to return scorn for scorn by reading to himself. But suddenly he made an
exclamation.
“Why, it says here that Dr. Ambrose Rich and his charming daughter are
going to take a drive tomorrow afternoon, leaving the Rich pier at two
o’clock fast time, in order to view the landscape from the top of the
mountain!”
She dropped her dry towel and exclaimed,
“Oh, how wonderful!”
It was enough. He was off before she could take it back. The dog
followed him and crossed with him to Canada. He made his way through the
woods to the first clearing, and was allowed to telephone for a car, and
to leave the payment.
Then he returned to the shore and viewed the Duckling as it lay against
the western sky. From this side it was a smooth lump of silver rising
into malachite pinnacles. He could imagine it in sunset as a cathedral
with windows of glory, and after sunset as a smoky crystal lying under
the crystalline heavens. It troubled him to think of shattering such
beauty, but it could not be helped.
All winds were hushed as he made his way back. The surface was smooth as
a lover’s dream, and every touch made a whirling flower, and the blade
dropped a long line of interwoven circles.
Softly he glided into port. Softly he ascended to the smooth board that
was so hard to get. He removed it from the pine, made his way over the
rock, and lay down where gray moss had gathered deep. A little breeze
sprang up and brought him the perfume of the grass which Indians weave
into their baskets. The dog lay at his feet, with one soft paw on the
totem board. But the man could not sleep. All he could think of was the
utter emptiness of her larder.
He arose, penetrated the grove, and stood looking about him in the
shadows. The wind whispered like distant surf. From the warm pine
needles arose a sleepy odor and also a delicate sweetness. Looking down,
he saw the living mist of the twin-flower. To catch the elusive
fragrance he reclined and inspected the source. He rested his head on
the ground, and let his eye travel up each stem to where it branched in
a sharp angle, suspending its roseate and balanced bells.
And so he lay, still thinking of that tragic storeroom. Presently the
dog pricked up his ears, but it was only at the sound of a partridge
talking to her young in a voice like the rippling of water in a trout
brook.
Overhead a white-throated sparrow was saying something. New Englanders
hear it say, “Peabody, Peabody.” Canadians incline to think it laments,
“Poor Canada, Canada.” Ojibways hear a warning: “Jeegabeeg, jeegabeeg,
jemaunense,” that is to say, “Keep in shore, keep in shore, little
boat.”
But these interpretations must be inaccurate, for Marvin, listening with
all his knowledge of vibration rates, distinctly heard it call, “Jee-an
Winifred, Winifred.”
Under the circumstances he had to hop up and see if she was coming. Nor
was his anxiety unrewarded. He discovered that she was rowing out toward
the range-light, while the light-keeper was approaching in his
motor-boat. Soon he saw her standing in the little bay, waiting for the
launch to drift in. He saw the light-keeper touch his cap and stand up
to listen. She talked to him and handed him something.
Marvin sat down, patted the dog, and reflected.
When she had returned home and disappeared within the house, he rose up
and rowed over to Old Duck.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Guid afternoon.”
The light-keeper began to haul up his lamp, with an unlubricated sound
that did not encourage conversation, but turned his head long enough to
reveal a small blue eye and a yellow spray of beard. Then he looked back
and aloft.
“I am camping down below, and my name is Mahan.”
“Glad to meet ye, Mr. Mahan.”
“Mr. Keeper, you have just received ten dollars, haven’t you?”
The official fastened his halyards and turned round.
“’Tis a fine afternoon, and my name is Gillies.”
“Mr. Gillies, I want you to find some way of putting that money back in
her kitchen.”
The Scotchman chuckled softly. “Are ye a scollard of the auld man?”
“Mr. Gillies, are you aware that the grain boats of Augustus Caesar were
four hundred and twenty feet long?”
The Scotchman chuckled again. “It doesna require a boat so long to go to
the Soo. Would ye be going?”
“Not till tomorrow morning, but then I shall bring them some provisions.
They’ll be taking a ride in Canada, if it doesn’t rain. What’s the
prospect for fair weather?”
“Good. But it might blow up hard if she comes home and sees an Irishman
with a bag o’ flour on his back. An Injun would be more to the purpose.”
“That’s a good idea. Any Indian in particular?”
“Na.”
“I will try to find one. How can we get the money back?”
The Scotchman advanced to his launch and stepped in.
“Were ye in France?”
“I was.”
He drew from underneath the bow a small bag. “A Frenchman gied me this.
He called it sarrasin, but it’s plain buckwheat.”
The canny Scot loosened the string, took from his pocket two five-dollar
bills, laid them within, tied the bag up, and placed it in Marvin’s
skiff.
“Augustus Caesar, ye say, was engaged in the grain business. So was
Joseph before him. But I hae me doots if Caesar’s dog or Joseph’s dog
wad fetch and carry like Jeanie’s dog.”