The fishing had been fortunate in the Cliff Camp waters, and now,
somewhat later than usual, dinner being over, the whole family, save
Anne, was collected in the large central room of the cabin. The
fireplace was of a size to hold logs five feet in length, and was built
of rough, unhewn, gray rock. As the evening was cold, a great pile of
birch-wood filled the wide chimney-throat with ruddy flame, and the lamp
which hung overhead and the candles on the table were scarcely needed to
light the room. Here and there were books. In the corner stood a rod or
two in their cases; on the racks a rifle and shot-gun.
Lyndsay was busy with his salmon-flies, and was carefully inspecting the
multitude of feathered lures which every one collects and no one uses.
On a cushion, upon the floor, sat Rose, in the ripest glow of the red
birch flame. She was all in virginal white, and with this innocence of
color the fire was playing pretty tricks, flushing the white sweep of
the skirt with rose, or playing hide-and-seek with flitting shadows, as
they hid among the folds, and were chased hither and thither when the
long jets of flame spurted out at the ends of the logs.
Jack being still in some disgrace, our Rose must have his head in her
lap, the lad’s sturdy figure stretched out on the floor. Beside him, Ned
sat cross-legged, like a Turk, and stared into the fire. Dick, at a
side-table, with a candle to himself, was far away in another world,
watching a wild menagerie of rotifers spinning around on the field of
his microscope.
They were quiet, all of them, in the company of their thoughts. At the
table, Mrs. Lyndsay was deep in “Belinda.” She dearly loved those
pleasant books, still worth the reading, and often gay with very
delightful chat. Now and then she read a bit aloud to her husband. She
cared little for the great books, and liked best the level lowlands of
literature. When Anne was lost in book-land, and it took two or three
questions to call her back to consciousness of her kind, Margaret found
it impossible to comprehend her absorption. Anne had once said to her,
“There are books which carry one away to the mountain-peaks, and will
not let one go without a ransom.” Then Margaret had smiled, and replied,
with the nearest approach to sarcasm of which she was capable, that it
was well there were some people left down below to order the dinners and
see to the servants.
In the cool air without, and well wrapped up, Anne Lyndsay swung gently
in her hammock beneath the porch. It was well understood among these
people, who so deeply loved her, that at times she liked to be alone,
and then was to be left to herself. She had struggled for this freedom
from kindly intrusion, and years ago had won it, but not without some
contest with Margaret, who was quite unable to see why any one could
want to be solitary. Anne would say, “I am never alone, my dear,” and
was of opinion that the hardest thing to get in a large family were
these sacred hours of privacy. Too many women know that.
She was just now absolutely free from pain, and in unrestrained
enjoyment of the cool, dry air of the Canadian river, which ran below,
and sent up at unaccountable intervals strange noises as she listened.
Now it was a low, booming, bass note, and now mingled sounds, as of
cries, and distant chuckle of suppressed mirth, where, above and below,
the voyaging waters hopped merrily over their rocky path to the sea. The
moon was high overhead, and lit up the water with life of light, when
here and there the checked current rose in snowy foam over some huge
boulder, dropped ages since on the mighty portage of the ice-swept
continent. Nor cry nor insect-note came from the somber masses of the
hills. After awhile she turned her head, and looked in through the
window at the good people who were so near to her heart. Then she
called, “Jack! Jack!”
The boy got up and went out to her.
“Sit down on that stool beside me,” she said. He obeyed in silence.
“How is the cub, Jacky Giant-Killer?”
“He is gone!”
“Indeed! I am sorry for that. I wanted to see it. Did it get away?”
“No. I suppose father gave it to Tom, or somebody. I don’t care. It was
my cub. I don’t care,” he repeated.
“Jacky, if Goliath had lied in proportion to his size, he could not have
lied larger than that. Now, isn’t that so?”
“Oh, I don’t care, and I do.” Then he broke out angrily, “The thing is,
Aunt Anne, nobody asked me a question; nobody wanted to give me a
chance; and that long-legged fellow that shot the bear, he said—I wish
he was my size!—he called me an idiot.”
“The description was brief and correct. What brains you have—and they
are good enough—you did not use. Three people called to you to drop the
cub. Why didn’t you? You see what mischief came of it; and how much
worse it might have been I do not like to think. Why did you hold on to
the cub?”
“I just couldn’t let it go, Aunt Anne. You’re awful good to a fellow.
There is no one like you.” And here she captured his hand.
“Why couldn’t you? It was only to do that.” And she let his hand drop,
and caught it again.
“It would have been cowardly.”
“Of course—I knew it; I knew what you thought; but I wanted you to say
it out.”
“Nobody else has asked me. I didn’t think that bear would go after
anybody but me and the cub, and I just held on.”
“I see. It explains what you felt; it does not excuse what you did. This
is not quite all of it.”
He was silent.
“You were afraid some one would think you were afraid. Wasn’t that a
sort of cowardice, Jack?”
He was clear of head now, and this arrow went to the mark.
“Yes,” he said; “I’d hate to think I was afraid.”
“What is courage?”
“Oh, not to be afraid; never to be afraid.”
“Is that all? Isn’t there a nobler courage that goes hand in hand with
reason and love and unselfishness? A man ought to fear when there is
reason to fear—to fear evil, or hurt of others, or dishonor, or sin. You
have unreasoning courage. How are you better than a bulldog? I remember
once, at your father’s table, that I asked a great and wise general as
to another, who was famous for mere heedless bravery, what he thought of
him. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘he was a great thunderbolt of war, to be thrown by
a hand not his own.’ The man who spoke was brave as are God’s bravest,
Jack; but he had always his wits about him, and knew when to go on and
when to fall back. Isn’t that the finer courage?”
“I guess so,” said the boy. And then, abruptly, “Are you ever afraid,
Aunt Anne?”
“No.” And it was true.
“But if you were in a battle, or were going to die?”
“I am!”
“Oh, but soon?”
“I am! Look here, Jacky, my dear Jacky. I never talk of myself; but I
will this once, for you. I am a very ill woman; in a year or two I shall
die. It is certain. I am to leave this world and those I love. I suffer
pain all the time. No one knows how much.”
“Oh, Aunt Anne!”
“Yes. Now I am not afraid to die. I am not even afraid of this pain,
which goes on from bad to worse. If some angel came and said, ‘You are
free to die to-morrow,’ I would say ‘No.’ Life is my little bear-cub,
and it isn’t like your cub. I should be afraid to be such a coward as,
for fear of pain, to want to let go my cub; and that is because God has
put me here to bear what ills come to me, and to use them so as to get
something out of life—to learn endurance and true courage. Perhaps some
one else may get something out of it. I do not want to talk over your
head, Jack. Do you understand me?”
“I think so,” and tears began to fall on her hand. “I am—I am so sorry
for you.”
“That is well,—although I am foolish as to pity, and like best to keep
my troubles to myself. But if to know all this helps you to do right, to
know what the courage which comes from God means, I shall not have
suffered in vain.”
“Thank you!” He began to comprehend her courageous reticence, and was
appalled at this insight into the anguish and struggle of this calm,
self-contained life, which went laughing on its way to death.
“Kiss me,” she said, “and mind this is between us two. I try usually not
to pain others with my pain. Except to help you, I would not have made
you suffer for my suffering. No one knows why there is so much torment
in the wide world of man and beast, but some of it is clear enough. I
have made your young heart ache to-night; but this suffering has a
meaning, and ought to have a use.”
“Thank you, dear Aunt Anne!”
“Don’t cry any more,” she said. “I shall love you better than ever
because we have trusted each other. Now I think you know what to do.
Don’t wait,” and she laughed pleasantly; “procrastination is the
thief—of what, Jacky?”
“Oh, of time.” And he laughed.
“No, no, stupid!—of all the virtues. Your father is in the room. Kiss
me.”
The boy rose up and went straight into the cabin. With his head in air,
and a little flushed, he walked up to his father, and stood as the
latter looked up from his book.
“I am sorry, sir, for what I did yesterday. I was wrong.”
Lyndsay put out his hand, and the mother also looked up from her book.
“That will do,” he said. “I thought you would come right. Go and kiss
Rose.”
He did so, whispering in her ear, “I am awful sorry, Rose.” Then, in the
brief silence that followed, he walked out again, and went back to Anne.
“It wasn’t hard?” she said.
“Yes, it was! I hated it, but I did it.”
“Now, that was honest courage, Jack. You will feel better for it
to-morrow. Good night; I must go to bed myself.”
Jack went in with her, and by the way in which he was bidden good night,
saw that the bear business was over. Before he fell asleep, he heard
Rose ask:
“May I come in?”
“Yes,” he shouted. She came to the bedside and kissed him.
“I wanted to say, Jack, that I thought you were very brave to-night. I
would have done it, but I would have waited until dear old Marc.
Aurelius was alone. Oh, I am proud of you. You are to have your rifle
to-morrow.”
“You asked for it?”
“I did.”
“By Thor, but you’re—”
This was a family oath.
“Hush, no swearing.”
“Oh, by Jove!”
“These are not the Olympic games.”
“Plague it, Aunt Anne says that isn’t swearing. She says—”
“You and Aunt Anne had better be careful how you explain away the
commandments. Good night.”
A poet has said that Time is a mighty peacemaker, and it is quite
certain that he patches up even our quarrels with ourselves. This Rose
found to be the case. The lapse of a day left her less self-annoyance.
That certain precedent facts about her bowman cast a humorous aspect
about the new acquaintance began to be felt rather as a relieving aid to
future social intercourse than as an added embarrassment.