Meanwhile the overladen canoe went away up the river. “And now, boys,”
said Rose, “this is my day, and there must be no quarrels. We are pretty
well packed in one canoe, and I will have only sunshine and good temper.
And do sit still. Remember what the wise man said:
Three Irishmen of Timbuctoo,
They went to sea in a birch canoe.
They kicked up such a hullabaloo
That they never got back to Timbuctoo.
Remember that, boys.”
“Oh!” said Ned. “I know a better one—
There was a young man of Siam,
As occasionally murmured a damn!
Monotonous virtue
Is certain to hurt you;
So he swallowed a taciturn clam.”
“What nonsense!” cried Rose.
“That’s good about monotonous virtue,” said Jack. “A whole day and no
row!”
“Not one,” said Rose.
“Why, Rose, if a fellow don’t fight somebody, what’s to become of him?”
“I guess we aren’t any less brave than the Romans,” remarked Ned,
sententiously. “If you gemini had a hornets’ nest to fight every day,
you would let me alone. I hate to fight.”
“Oh! There’s a nice fat fib.”
“I do. I had to eat dinner standing up for two days after that
scrimmage.”
“Yes, little peaceful man!” said Jack. “Tell us a story, Rose. It’s an
hour to the brook.”
“Very well. Once on a time there was a princess. She was terribly rich,
and as pretty—”
“As you,” said Ned.
“No interruptions, sir! She was very beautiful, and very, very hard to
satisfy. A great many lovers came to ask her to marry them. None of them
pleased her, but so many came that to save trouble she wrote a big ‘No!’
on her visiting cards, and gave every man one as he came in, and this
saved a great deal of trouble. When there were no more lovers left in
the world but only three, she began to be afraid she would never get
married at all. So she tore up her cards, and was polite to these three.
Their names were Hurdy-Gurdy and Trombone and Mandolin. At length her
father said she must make up her mind. At first she thought she would
draw lots, but by and by she resolved to marry the most courageous of
the three.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jack, “I like that.”
“One day they were all four walking by the river, and, as if by
accident, she fell in. ‘Oh, dear!’ she cried, ‘I shall drown.’ Then
Hurdy-Gurdy sat down and began to whittle a shingle; but Trombone jumped
in, and, as she flopped about a great deal, he was like to drown
himself. Then in jumped Mandolin, and pulled them both out by the hair.
“Then all three spread themselves in the sun, to dry. And the princess
said, ‘Now, which _is_ the most courageous?’
“Trombone cried, ‘I! Because I dashed in to save you, without
hesitation.’
“‘But,’ said Mandolin, ‘you did not save her. I pulled you both out.’
“‘I was first,’ said Trombone.
“‘Certainly!’ said the princess, which her name was Henrietta, and she
was so called because she was fond of algebra, and preferred even an
improper fraction to the most virtuous of men. Said she, ‘What good was
your courage, if it only served to drown us both? You are neither of you
as brave as me.’”
“Oh!” cried Ned.
“They always speak bad grammar in fairy-land, because it is romantic,
and because then the young princesses can be sure that the princes are
thinking more of them than of the mere choice of words.”
“Guess Jack would have a fine chance!” said Ned.
“Don’t interrupt me. Where was I? Oh!
“‘You are neither of you as brave as me, because I have to marry one of
you, and that is an act of courage of which a man is incapable. Also, I
can’t swim, but I fell in so as to see which of you is the bravest. I
fell in! Trombone jumped in! Mandolin leaped in!’
“‘But I saved you!’ said Mandolin.
“‘A mere question of brute skill,’ urged Trombone. ‘It is braver to jump
in when you can’t swim than when you can.’
“‘It is very puzzling,’ cried Henrietta. ‘The personal equation—’”
“I know what that is,” cried Ned.
“Shut up, old wisdom! Go ahead, Rosy Posy.”
“‘It is a question in the rule of three. As Trombone is to Mandolin, so
is me to the answer.’
“‘That leaves me out,’ said Hurdy-Gurdy.
“‘You stayed out!’ cried Mandolin, with scorn.
“‘I don’t see my way,’ said the princess. ‘Let Mandolin be B, and
Hurdy-Gurdy C, and I am—’
“‘B, C puts them both out of the question,’ said Trombone. ‘They are
dead.’”
“Sancho Panza!” cried Ned. “What fine nonsense!”
“Do keep quiet,” said Jack.
“‘And me—I—oh, bother!’ said Henrietta. ‘It comes out even.’
“‘But,’ said Hurdy-Gurdy, ‘it is heart-rending what I suffered. I alone
had the courage not to jump in. I had the courage of my opinion, which
was that I should be drowned, and so break your heart. I really
couldn’t. There are three hundred and twenty-one kinds of courage.’
“‘Gracious! How numerically interesting!’ said Henrietta. ‘Dry
yourselves, and I will reflect.’
“So she left the three seated on the bank, in the sun, and went away.
But once a year she sent her maid to see if they were dry, and to say
she was working it out. The second year Hurdy-Gurdy went away, because
he was a person who had a good deal of decision of character.
“There!” cried Rose, laughing. “It’s a little too old for you.”
“Well, of all the stuff!” said Dick.
“I call it bully,” said Jack.
“And whom did she marry?” cried Ned. “Never any one?”
“Never! Like Rose Lyndsay. I am going to live with you all my life at
home, and never, never marry.”
Upon this the twins intimated their satisfaction by pulling Ned’s back
hair. He howled loudly.
“Seems to answer the bell,” said Jack.
“Oh, stop that—it hurts!”
“Look out there!” cried the sternman. “You’ll upset the birch. There are
too many of you, anyways.”
Again Rose called them to order, and they were silent a while. In the
mean time she sat gazing up the changing waterway. This home-coming,
this abrupt transition, this privilege of abandonment to every light,
innocent folly, even to enjoying the mad fun of three clever boys, made
for her an immense change, and one which she felt to be both wholesome
and pleasant. In Europe she had come fully to understand the sacrifice
Anne had made in order to be with her, and at last to see but too
clearly that Anne Lyndsay was failing. To none was this so clear as to
the sufferer; to none less clear than to her brother. As to Margaret,
she was by nature conservative. The word hardly describes what I mean.
She had an inherent belief in the unchangeableness of things and people.
The death of Harry had been the first calamity in a prosperous life. She
had so long seen Anne Lyndsay to her mind full of levity that she found
it impossible to accept the idea that for this woman, who lowered her
crest to no adverse hour, the time could not be very far away when she
would cease to smile at pain.
Miss Anne, of her own will, cut short by three months their intended
length of stay abroad. She had seen how heavy was the burden of
responsibility which this fatal descent placed upon Rose. In fact, to be
alone with a woman like Anne was good only if the younger person had
intervals of other companionship. Anne made a too strong call upon the
apprehending intellect to be as a constancy good for a growing girl, and
her matchless cynicism in talk, which found no representation in her
acts, was tempting as an example and easily capable of misapprehension.
This long stay with Anne had been for Rose a severe test of character
and even of physical power. Without altogether realizing the true cause
of her rebound into unusual joyousness, she distinctly felt the relief
of her new surroundings.
“There is the brook, Rose,” said Ned. “We’ll fish, and build a big fire,
and cook our own fish.”
They were now above the clearings, and on the far side of the river.
“What canoe is that up the stream, near the far shore?” she asked.
“It’s Mr. Carington’s. He’s took a bit of water ’bove Mr. Lyndsay’s
upper pool. It ain’t much good.”
“You are sure it is Mr. Carington?”
“I don’t rightly know. It’s too far.”
After this they went ashore on a broad beach, through which a quick run
of brown water from the swamps inland found its way out to the main
river.
Rose took a book and sat down, while the boys cast for trout at the
mouth of the brook. After a while the twins tired of this and set to
work to build a fire on the higher rise of the shore, while Tom cleaned
the fish they had captured. By and by came Ned and sat down with his
sister. Now and then he called her attention to a salmon, or, at
intervals, asked Rose questions not always easy of answer. At last he
said, “There is a spring back in the woods,—comes out of the hollow of a
big, old balm of Gilead. I found it.”
“Oh, we must go and see it after lunch. I know few things I like better
than a spring,—and out of a tree.”
“Yes; mustn’t it be comfortable for the old tree?”
“Rather,” she said, and fell silent.
It was now quiet and warm—no leaf astir—a noonday dreaminess on wood and
water. “That canoe’s dropping down,” Ned said. “Is it Mr. Ellett or Mr.
Carington, Rose? He doesn’t get any fish.”
“I don’t know. I was half asleep. How nice to be where all the noises
are sounds one likes!”
“Do you hear the rapids, Rose? I thought yesterday they were exactly
like children laughing—I mean their noise.”
“I said that very thing to Pardy, the night we came up.”
“I guess when the Indians called a fall ‘The Laughing Water’ they might
have meant that.”
“Perhaps,—or only that, in a way, it did sound cheerful.”
“I don’t think the sea always makes pleasant noises, Rosy.”
“No,” said Rose, abstractedly. She was watching the canoe, as in
successive drops it came toward them around the curve.
“What set that great boulder on this beach, I wonder!” said Ned. “Rufus
he says, it’s what he calls conglomerate, and that there is none near
by.”
“The ice, I suppose,” said Rose. “Ask papa.”
The rock was some eight feet high, rounded and smooth, except toward the
waterside, where it was broken and splintered.
“Where are the men? That fire is too large.”
“They are in the wood after birch bark. I’ll see to the fire.”
“By Jove!” he cried, and bounded to his feet. “Look sharp, Rose!” And,
giving her a hand, he helped her to rise. She looked about in dismay,
for this thing had happened: Jack had suddenly spied a small bear cub,
an awkward, black little bruin, sprawling over the round stones at one
end of the beach, between him and the water. It was not much bigger than
a well-grown kitten. He had it by one hind leg in an instant, and was
roaring with the fun of his capture, the capture grunting dolorously. As
Ned spoke, Jack saw the troubled mother-bear come out of the wood, and,
a moment in doubt, hesitate among the bushes. Ned dragged his sister
toward the water, as the bear, fiercely growling, began to move toward
them. As for Jack, he was away around the boulder, and in an instant
upon top, the young bear giving him a smart nip, as he stood on the
summit, flushed, resolute, and laughing.
“Fling it down!” cried Ned, with good sense. But Jack was otherwise
minded, hardly taking in the peril for Rose and Ned. Dick had dashed
into the wood, calling wildly to the men.
“Let it go!” cried Rose. Then there was a loud cry from the river:
“Drop it, you fool!”
“Not I!” cried Jack. “Run, Rose; he’ll go for me. Run! run!”
As he spoke, the savage bruin reared herself up in a vain effort to
climb the smooth stone. Jack, on the boulder, laughed, as he balanced
himself with difficulty, owing to the struggles of the cub. Seeing that
to climb was impossible, the bear proceeded to make a flank movement,
which would have enabled her to follow Jack up the back of the rock. The
boy was in no way alarmed. But now he saw that Rose was in the path of
the bear, and that Ned, white as death, was standing between Rose and
the enraged mother, a canoe-pole in one hand, and the other motioning
back at Rose, as he called to her to “Run! run!”
Just as Jack, appalled at these unlooked-for consequences, was about to
part with his precious captive, a voice rang out again from the river:
“Run! run! Quick!”
Ned cast a glance behind him, and, catching Rose’s hand, pulled at her
so violently, as he threw the pole aside, that she lost her balance and
fell, striking heavily on a corner of rock. Ned cast himself down beside
her. Instantly a rifle rang out from the river behind them. As they lay,
he heard the shrill “ping” of a rifle-ball above him, and the bear
rolled dead on her side, clean shot through the head.
Jack leaped from the boulder, still holding on to the cub, and made
toward Rose, as the men and Dick came out in haste from the wood onto
the beach. Carington sprang into the water before his canoe touched the
land, crying to Jack:
“Back there, you infernal young idiot!” With his rifle ready, he pushed
the boy aside and advanced cautiously but swiftly, until he saw that the
beast was dead. Next he turned to Rose, who lay motionless on the beach.
As the group of faces, still wild with scare or excitement, gathered
around him, he knelt, lifted the girl, and, seeing a thin thread of
blood leaping in little jets from her temple, he set her head against
his knee and put a finger on the wound, saying:
“Get me water. It is not so bad. Good Lord! It might have been worse!”
“Is she dead?” said Ned.
“Dead? No, my boy—not she.”
He wet his handkerchief and washed the blood off her face, still keeping
a finger above the cut on the artery, as he gave directions to Tom to
make a pad from Ned’s handkerchief. With this and his own tied tightly
around her head, he was able easily to check the bleeding. Meanwhile the
rest stood still, recognizing the competence of the improvised surgeon.
“That will do,” he said, looking at her as he knelt, and letting her
head rest on a cushion from the canoe. “I think she has only fainted.”
“Oh!” cried Jack, “I was afraid— Be still, you beast!” to the writhing
cub. Carington gave him a look, and again considered the fair, young
face beneath his gaze, the blood on neck and dress, and the red splashes
on his own attire.
“That is better,” he exclaimed, for Rose opened her eyes, looked about,
confused for a moment; then rallied her faculties, and said, feebly:
“What is it? Where am I? What has happened?”
“It is all right. You fell down.”
“Oh, Fairfield! Is that you? Where is Ned?”
“I’m here.”
“And Jack?”
“Oh, I’m all right! And the bear’s dead.”
“The bear? Yes, I know now. Dead?”
“Mr. Carington shot him,” said Ned.
“Mr. Carington? Where is he?” cried Rose, sitting up, and still a little
dazed.
“Keep quiet, boys,” said the young man. “Back a little. Take that cub
away, sir. Can you stand, Miss Lyndsay? Here, take a little brandy from
my flask. The explanations can wait. Why, you are quite strong. Now,
then. Don’t look at the bear; come.” And he supported her to the canoe,
talking as he went, to keep her from questioning.
“Now, then,”—turning to Jack,—“you must wait here, sir. You can go in
Tom’s boat with Miss Lyndsay”—this to Ned. “I will go ahead and explain
at the camp. Don’t let Miss Lyndsay talk.”
“But, Fairfield,” said Rose, “I must—”
“You are better, I think. There, that will do,” as she was laid in the
canoe. “If you talk, you will start the bleeding. Not a word now.”
This was a somewhat masterful person, and Rose, as she lay back against
the cushions, was satisfied to shut her eyes and obey, weak, and still
tingling with past excitement.
“You shall know everything by and by, Miss Lyndsay.”
“Thanks!” she murmured, and her canoe put off.
“I will overtake you,” he said, and then walked back and took a look at
the bear, which Jack, now reassured, was attentively regarding.
“A first-rate shot that was!” said the boy.
Carington made no reply. Then, glancing at the bear: “Poor old mother!”
he said. “A sucking bear! I am sorry I had to kill you.”
“You’ll send for me soon?” said Jack.
Carington again failed to reply.
“Isn’t there room in your boat?”
“Not for you.” He was very angry. Jack sat down with his troublesome
captive, feeling that he had been sharply snubbed; and the canoe fled
away in the track of Rose’s boat. As he passed her, Carington cried out:
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, thank you!”
“Well, don’t talk.” And his birch went by at speed, he himself taking a
third paddle to gain time.
“By George! My little comedy came near to a tragic ending. How Ellett
will rate me! What a mess!” And he considered a moment his bloody
knickerbockers and stained stockings.
“Your face is all over blood,” said Michelle. “Best wash, sir. Might
scare ’em worse than a bear.”
“That is so.” Ceasing to paddle, he took the boat sponge, and made a
hasty toilet.
“Am I clean, Michelle?”
“Well—pretty fair, sir. You are right well painted. It was awful lucky
you took a mind to try for a shot at that other seal.”
“Yes. Shove her along!” He took the paddle again, and fell to thinking,
until they came to the beach. There was no one in sight. He ran up the
steps, noticing that there was one canoe on the shore. Then he paused,
and, returning, called Tom.
“Go up and tell Mr. Lyndsay I want to see him.”
Presently Mr. Lyndsay came down the steps.
“Mr. Carington!” And he stayed a moment, surprised at the appearance of
the blood-stained man. “What is it?” he said. “Anything wrong?”
“Miss Lyndsay has had a slight accident. She is all right now. I came on
ahead to tell you. It is really—really not serious. They were scared by
a bear on the beach. I was lucky enough to kill it, but, in trying to
escape, your daughter fell and struck her head, and—oh, it bled a bit.
Oh, here is the canoe.”
Rose, freshened by the air and motion, got up, laughing, and ran to her
father.
“Rose, my dear! Rose!” he cried.
“Where is mother? Does she know? It isn’t anything, Pardy.” Then she
looked at his companion, who presented a sufficiently soiled and untidy
appearance to still perplex her.
“Fairfield,” she exclaimed, “where is—”
“I am Mr. Carington,” he returned, smiling, and a little embarrassed.
Lyndsay looked on bewildered.
“But—”
“Never mind, Miss Lyndsay. I owe you an apology for playing bowman for a
half-day.”
“Indeed!” cried Rose, flushing, and, turning away, went up the steps.
She hesitated half-way, remembering the bear, and then went on and
entered the house.
“One moment, Mr. Carington!” exclaimed her father. “Wait for me.” And he
hurried after her. In a few minutes the scared mother was made to
understand the matter, and, reassured, busied herself in seeing Rose
safely to bed.