Mr. Lyndsay, as we now know, came back without having seen Mr.
Carington. His purpose was, however, unchanged. Yet, as there was no
immediate need to act, and no present danger, he concluded to wait,
quite sure that the two gentlemen on whom he had called must, when they
returned his courtesy, give him an easy chance to say to Carington what
he had heard. Thus having decided what to do, and that delay involved no
possibility of mischief, he put it all aside for the time.
Meanwhile, the Island Camp was the scene of amusing debate. The next
morning, as they lay on their tent mattresses and smoked that most
blissful first love of the day, the after-breakfast pipe, Ellett took up
the talk of the night before.
“I told you that you would get in a scrape.”
“It wasn’t that. ‘My lands!’ as Mrs. Maybrook says, what a noble
adventure! If I only could do it again! No, I don’t repent. Far from it;
I would like to do it again. It was just too altogether delicious, as
the girls say.”
“But you will have to call. Mr. Lyndsay has been to see you, and go to
see him you must, if I have to carry you!”
“But I can’t and I won’t! I am a bad boy. Just now it is all a beautiful
and adventurous dream. I don’t want to see that woman again—ever. It
would spoil the romance of it. Go yourself. You can drop down in
mid-morning. No one will be in. Leave my card on the table.”
“What stuff, Fred! You can’t get out of it. Mr. Lyndsay wants to see
you. He called on you, not on me.”
“But I don’t want to see him. Imagine my having to explain and
apologize, and fetch the whole thing down to the dreary level of prose.
I am ill; I am dead; I shall go home—anything!”
He was at his high level of reckless enjoyment of a delightful
indiscretion, and a part of his delight lay in the distress it
occasioned his soberly conventional friend. He was himself, in truth, a
graver man than Ellett, but took into his work as a successful engineer
the same gaiety which ran riot in his holiday hours. It had its value
with the men who did work under his eyes, and helped him and them over
some hard places. At need he became instantly a cool, watchful, cautious
man, with the bearing and reserve of middle life. To those who saw him
only in his utter abandonment of glee, ready as a boy for any merry
enterprise, and by no means disliking it the more if it brought physical
risks, it was hardly conceivable that he should be, back of all this, a
man of strong opinions, political and religious, of definite views, and
of an almost fantastic sense of honor.
“Can’t you be decently quiet a moment, and think a little?”
“Don’t want to,” returned Carington. “Git away wid ye! You are like Eve:
you want to introduce a knowledge of good and evil into this Eden of
mine. Go, fish and let me alone. I want to dream it over: that scene in
the wood, the rain, the wild orange, light for a minute, that
copper-head saint. It was really great, Oliver! Beats the Bowery
Theater! And, oh!—I forgot to tell you. She told her pa I was such a
good bowman!—so thoughtful! and couldn’t she have me always? Always,
Oliver! The bliss of that!”
“I don’t see how you can see anything amusing in it, Fred. It isn’t as
if this was some common New York girl, with a boarding-school
civilization. Now that’s a rather neat phrase, ‘a boarding-school
civilization.’”
“Is it? What else?”
“Nothing. I only meant to say these Lyndsays are gentlefolk, and won’t
be very well pleased.”
“You old idiot! Do you suppose I don’t know that? Put your brains to
work. Here am I at the end of the first volume of a lovely romance;
situation entirely novel. I wish to stop there; the second and third
volumes are sure to fall off dismally. The problem is, how not to go on;
or, if I must, how to drop from poetry to prose.”
“I should think you must have dropped pretty distinctly when Mr. Lyndsay
paid you; I suppose he did.”
“Sir, I was paid in gold of the Bank of Spain—in coin no longer
current—by the woman herself.”
“Would you kindly interpret?”
“I will”; and he told the scene on the beach.
“Let me see that gold dollar.”
“See it! Not I. No profane eyes shall—”
“Stuff and nonsense! She will very likely want it back. Probably it was
a luck-penny.”
“Very like. I shall keep it for luck. You are an iconoclast of dreams.
Let’s go and kill fish. I have been trying to divide my enchanted mood
with you. It has been a dismal failure. The fact is, I know as well as
you—and a blank sight better—that this is a lady, that these are nice
people, and that I am in a scrape. But to-day they may all go to the
deuce and the bow-wows. ‘Let the great world spin forever, down the
ringing grooves of change.’ He must have meant a railway. I never
thought of that before. Don’t bother. I’ll go and call some day. Come,
let’s kill salmon.” And they went to their canoes.
While this dreadful thing was agitating Mr. Ellett’s mind, it was also
receiving due consideration at the breakfast-table of the Cliff Camp.
Rose Lyndsay, despite remonstrance, had been sent at once to bed on her
return, and supplied with hot tea and more substantial diet, and ordered
to go to sleep. Next to being wicked through and through, to be wet
through and through was, to Mrs. Lyndsay’s mind, one of the most serious
of human catastrophes. She was gently positive, and so Rose lay very
wide-awake, and considered at ease the events of a most agreeable day,
until, thinking with a little regret of her luck-penny, she fell asleep,
only to wake up with the sunlight streaming in as her mother opened the
curtains, and to hear the pervasive voices of the boys singing under her
window:
Up in the mornin’ ’s nae for me!
“Overslept yourself, Rose!”
“Are you dry yet?”
“That salmon is only thirty pounds. You awful fraud!”
“All right, dear, to-day?” were the salutations of the noisy table, as
she distributed her morning kisses, and at last sat down.
“One at a time,” she replied. “Fair play, boys. First, I am nearly dry.
Second, salmon always loses weight.”
“I have noticed that,” laughed her father. “Tell us all about it, my
dear.” And upon this she related the adventures of the previous day.
“I must have my luck-penny,” she added. “I was a goose to give it away,
but I was so cold and wet, and I was in such a hurry. I hated to send
the man away without a cent.”
“It is odd that he took it,” said Anne.
“Yes,” returned her brother. “These fellows are sharp enough about their
pay and about money; and he couldn’t have known what he was taking.
These coins circulate no longer, even in the States. He never said a
word, but merely put it in his pocket. What sort of a fellow is he,
Rose?”
“It is so hard to describe people.”
“It is impossible,” said Anne, “even on a passport.”
“Not quite. Tall, and curly hair—very curly hair.”
“That’s satisfactory, Rose,” remarked Jack.
“I had not done. Oh, what I thought strange was the man’s manner. Now
and then he spoke as if he was talking to an equal, and really he has a
voice quite full of pleasant tones. The next minute he talked like
Thunder Tom, or worse.”
“I must ask Carington about him. By the way, I was right as to Ellett.
He is a son of my old companion. I fancy they will be here to-day or
to-morrow. If this present Oliver is like his father, he will be solid,
stolid,—a rock of good sense.”
“I don’t want him, Marcus Aurelius, nor the other. For a first-class B.
O. I prefer my young man of the gold dollar. But I must have it again. I
am not at all sure now that honesty is the best policy. When you see Mr.
Carington, Pardy, do ask about the man. He seemed quite above his class.
Ned, I cannot wait for you to finish your interminable meal.”
“I think he just chews for exercise,” said Dick. “Might arrange, if the
meat was tough enough, to keep his appetite up all the time. Wouldn’t
that be fine, Ned?”
“I don’t think any of my boys require artificial aid,” said Mrs.
Lyndsay. “Dugald Dalgetty was a trifler to you.”
“I haven’t got to the fish yet, and it’s my own salmon,” said the boy,
helping himself.
“We want to have Rose to-day,” said Dick, between mouthfuls. “I want her
to go up to the brook. There’s a marsh there, and Drosera—oh, lots! It’s
far north for it, too.”
“What is Drosera, Dicky?”
“Fly-trap; and there are some purple orchids.”
“For this once I will compromise,” said Anne. “I want to see Archie kill
a salmon. If you will assure me of Rose to-morrow afternoon, you may
have her to-day.”
“And I am to take care of myself,” said her brother. “I never hear of
compromises without thinking of Dr. North’s illustration. I must have
told you, Margaret.”
“If you ever did, I have forgotten.”
Stories were pretty often retold in this household, and it was the way
to consider them as guests to be made welcome, no matter how often they
came.
Lyndsay smiled. “Two Germans, who were North’s patients, built houses
together and adjoining. Then each of them bought paint enough to paint
both houses; one chose green and one a fine brick-red. This ended in a
quarrel. Dr. North advised them to consult their priest, and this they
did. He said, ‘Shust you make a gompromise, and migs de baints.’ So this
was done, and neither got what he wanted. This is of the essence of all
compromise.”
“But I shall get what I want,” said Anne.
“And we, too!” cried the boys. “We will take Rose and lunch and Big Tom,
and Pierre and you can have the Indian, father.”
“And his lame bowman, if he be well enough,” added Lyndsay. “Thanks.”
“And I shall take my rifle,” said Dick.
“No, unless you go alone,” said Lyndsay.
“All right; we’ll fish for trout, Rose,” cried Jack. “Red Head can hunt
beasts in the swamp, and Ned shall sit on a stump and make poetry.”
“Be sure not to be late again, Rose. I was a good deal troubled last
night.”
“Yes, Pardy; but my watch has stopped. It got wet through, last night,
poor thing! I fear it is utterly ruined. It was not worth much.”
“Never mind, dear,” said Anne. “I will give you one when we get home.”
To give was Anne’s great joy.
“For a drowned watch intemperance is the cure,” said Lyndsay: “total
immersion in alcohol or whisky is the sole remedy. I never carry one
here; it reminds me too much of the minor oppressions of civilization.”
“And, after all,” said Anne, “punctuality is a quite modern virtue.”
“Yes. I think a Quaker in the reign of Anne has the terrible
responsibility of the invention of the minute hand. In another century
we shall say, ‘You are late six seconds; is this the way you keep
engagements?’”
“It makes one shiver to think of it; and, by the way, Jack, I promised
you a watch at Christmas. Be sure to remind me.”
“I’d rather have something else, Aunt Anne.”
“Why, Jack?”
“Oh, I know lots of fellows carry watches. They have an awful time.”
“The watches?”
“No; those boys. If you have a watch, you have to wind it up, and the
fellows ask what time it is; and if you play, it gets smashed; and if
you have a fight, you have to get another fellow to hold it, and he
forgets—”
“Gracious! The simplicity of the mind of youth! You would prefer—a new
bat?”
“Yes, indeed, and a good foot-ball.”
“I am a female Kriss Kringle,—presents to order.”
“Thank you, Aunt Anne. And I say, Rosy Posy, get lunch ready. Oh, quit
eating and come along, Dick!”
Upon this Dick secured a biscuit and followed him, while Anne and the
rest went out onto the porch.
“I trust, Margaret, those young men will not regale you and me with
their society at lunch. What a wholesome thing it would be to have a
man-smudge! I get no time to read. But you said Dorothy would be over to
lunch. That is better. What fun it would be if the stolid, solid Boston
man should turn up. I could enjoy the combination, I think.” Then she
walked to the cliff-edge, smiling, for there was a battle imminent
between the boys.
“I mean to paddle,” said Jack.
“No, I’ll pole.”
“Not with me in the canoe,” said Rose.
“I’m to paddle,” cried Dick.
“May I sit by you?” said Ned.
“You sha’n’t, if I can’t pole,” cried Dick. “You always want Rose.”
“You’re hard to please, boys.”
“I’m not; I’m soft to please,” said Ned.
“Get in!” And so, with some coaxing from Rose, the peacemaker, they got
away.
“And I should like a boy-smudge, Anne,” said Lyndsay, who had quietly
watched the proceedings on the shore.
“They are delightful.”
“You have no responsibility for them, my dear sister. You know what
Marcus Aurelius says: ‘Irresponsibility arises from an unphilosophical
indifference to—to—’”
“Consequences,” cried Anne, laughing. “You worry too much over the boys,
Archie. I mean it. You take them too seriously. Permit me to say you are
too consequentitious.”
“What a word! Did you make it? I can’t help worrying. I am always
thinking of what their future will be. One should give some thought to
the morrow, and other people’s morrows are the real difficulty.”
“See Marcus Aurelius, chapter third,” said Anne, maliciously.
“‘To-morrow is only a stranger; when he is to-day consider how thou
shalt entertain him.’”
“That is not my way, Anne.” And he left her, saying, “Jack is the one I
fear for most.”
“I least,” said Anne to herself. “I shall not be here to see, whatever,
as Tom says.” Then she sat down to her book about the Council of Trent,
and by and by varied it with a little tough work on Cædmon’s Anglo-Saxon
riddles, smiling as she read,—a good, half-dozen kind of smiles, of
which she alone had the secret.
By and by came Margaret Lyndsay and sat down, her knitting-needles
clicking, until Anne’s unlucky nervousness, kept in hand with
difficulty, was viciously alive. At last Mrs. Lyndsay laid aside her
work with a certain deliberation, for those who knew her best a signal
of serious moment. She said, “You won’t mind, dear, if I say something I
have had on my mind?”
“I? Oh, no! What is it?”
“I sometimes think, dear, that the endless trivialities into which you
and Archibald lead those boys are not, dear, a good thing. I have spoken
to Archibald about it, and he quite agrees with me. I sometimes think
Archibald agrees with me too easily. I would rather he argued the
matter; but he is so apt to say, ‘Certainly, Margaret!’ and then to go
and smoke. I do wish you would consider it seriously. And you are so
capable of wiser and more instructive talk. You won’t mind what I say,
dear?”
“My dear Margaret,” replied Anne, with some irritation, “shall we
converse about the Council of Trent? Also the enigmas of Cædmon are
instructive; the manners and customs of the Angles are stated there in a
manner to combine interest with amusement, instruction with perplexity.”
“Why do you answer me in that way? You always do. Anne, you are too bad!
You know well enough what I mean.”
“Yes, I know,” she said, a little wearily. “I think you are hardly just.
You see only one side of things. At all events, the whole logic of the
situation is this: When you have a headache, you go to bed and dose
yourself, and put stuff on your temples; when I am in pain from head to
foot,—I was at breakfast,—I go merry mad and say things. You will have
to stand it, unless I go away.”
“Oh, Anne! How can you hurt me so? Go away?”
“I spoke hastily: I don’t mean that. But sometimes, Margaret, you so
completely fail to comprehend me that I feel I had better be away. You
can never change me.”
“But you—you could change yourself.”
“Could I, indeed? And trust me, Margaret, I shall go on as gay, as
inconsequent, as merry; but if I can teach, if anything in my life
teaches these boys to laugh when they might cry, I shall not have lived
in vain. I am sure we are all grave enough at times. When I go wild, and
say absurd things, pity me. A jest is my smelling-salts; a joke is my
medicine. Believe me—oh, it is true: the custom of laughter is good.”
“But this constant amusement at everything—yes, everything!”
“There is quite enough that is serious, even now, in these young lives.
The laugh of a fool is as the crackling of thorns, and heats no water in
the pot; but the grin of the wise boils the kettle of wisdom. There!”
The illustration was unhappy.
“I think, dear, you might put Scripture to wiser use than to twist it
into a defense of this perpetual levity. It seems strange to me that you
cannot see these things as I see them.”
“Better to give me up as a hopeless case. I shall laugh till I die, and
if afterward the supply gives out I shall feel glad that I neglected no
reasonable chance on earth.”
“There is a time for all things, Anne, and sometimes—”
“Yes, I know. Only we differ as to the times. I think, now, I must go in
and rest a little.”
This was the usual end of their discussions. Anne was mentally victor,
but physically defeated. “Yes, I am sure that will be best.” Upon this
Anne went away with a smile that was not quite pleasant. In her room she
stood a moment and then said, “D. A. M! I think that is good French. The
Lord deliver us from the gentle!” and so fell in a heap on the bed, with
set teeth and very white.