The Sunday stillness of the Island Camp was broken by lunch, and after
it Ellett thought he would go down to call on the Lyndsays, and perhaps
Fred might like to go with him. But Fred had letters to write—he was too
lazy—he wished to finish a novel. However, he wrote a note to Mr.
Lyndsay, to say that on Thursday he meant to go down the river to
Mackenzie to see a man about a cabin he desired to have built on the
Island, and would call to ask if Mr. Lyndsay still wished him to have a
check cashed at the bank, in order to pay his men. Also, he could then
arrange for the tickets and sleeping-car accommodations Mr. Lyndsay’s
family needed on their return. And thus, having secured the absence of
Ellett, he saw him depart, and for an hour or more smoked, and
diligently struggled with a book by a sadly literary woman who was
contributing her feeble ferment of doubts to enliven the summer moods of
man and maid. At last he rose, pitching the book across the tent, and
said aloud:
“There was a young woman of Boston,
A blanket of doubts she was tossed on;
Four fiends who were scorners
Had clutch of the corners.
They tossed her so high
That she stayed in the sky,
And doubts the existence of Boston.
I forget the other nine verses. Michelle, halloa! Put me across!”
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed, as he strode through the summer woods. “I hate
books which land you in the country of nowhere.” And he thought,
smiling, of the famous Eastern tale of the caliph and the philosopher:
“Who are you?” said Haroun. “I don’t know.” “Where are you going?” “I
don’t know.” “Where are you from?” “I don’t know. I write books; what
about is for him that readeth to discern. To know nothing is the Path of
Negation by which you attain knowledge of the infinite Nothing.” “Then,”
said the caliph, “in the language of El Din Attar, ‘One serious
conviction is better than armies of denial: more wholesome is it to
believe in Satan than to deny God.’ In order that thou mayest abide on
the seat of wisdom for a week and acquire one earthly certainty, thou
shalt have the bastinado!” “Where did I read that stuff?” he thought,
and went along, humming snatches of song, his own or others, for he
scribbled a little, and had some musical touch of the light grace of the
song; but “intended no monuments of books.”
The woods soon brought back to him the mood of contentment, which is one
of their many mysteries. The most delightful possibilities are those
which never occur, and of these the woods are full. The delicate sense
of something about to happen began to possess Carington. He went on his
way, smiling, and now and then stood still to touch a tree, or notice
some unusual giant, or to note some singularity of limb or bole.
An hour or more of sharp walking brought him to the cabin of the
Maybrooks. It was closed. He passed around it, and saw no sign of its
inhabitants. He knocked and got no reply. Then he said a naughty word,
and went and sat down on the edge of the well and reflected. He was more
disappointed than he felt willing to admit. By and by he acquired
wisdom, and went to the brook, where would have been the grilse if Rose
and her attendant had come and gone. Seeing no fish lying in this cool
larder, he felt better and went back to the well. There doubt awaited
him with the possibility of Dory having gone to the Cliff Camp, which
would have made needless Miss Rose’s intended visit. He had been stupid
in not anticipating this contingency. At least he would wait awhile.
And now there was a sudden gleam far away among the trees, unseen by
this young man who was gazing down into the cool depths of the well. Had
he looked that other way this flutter of color in the trampled ox-road
would soon have become to him a pink muslin gown. The wearer carried a
basket in her right hand, and in the left, swinging it gaily as she
walked, a broad straw hat. At the wood skirt she paused to change her
burden to the less tired hand,—for she had been of a mind to come alone,
and now found her five-pound fish to have gained in weight. As she
looked up, she was aware of Mr. Carington seated on the edge of the
well, his back toward her. He was singing:
Oh, merry’t is in proud La Moine,
I hear my glad heart sing;
The flag is up, the fleet is safe,
And the blessed church-bells ring.
Oh, here’s a kiss, and there’s a kiss,
For you, good northern wind,
That brought our fishers home again,
For you left no soul behind.
And here’s a kiss, and there’s a kiss,
Because my heart is glad;
And there be twenty dozen left,
And my sweet sailor lad.
He sang with little art, but with every word clear, and as a man alone
sings for company of sound.
Rose stood still and heard it out, liking it, but hesitated a little,
half hid behind a huge pine,—a pleasant picture of a maiden struck shy
of a sudden. What had happened? There is a little timepiece which Cupid
winds up. It ticks quietly, and by and by strikes a fateful hour, or we
take it out to see how goes the enemy, and behold! it is to-morrow. Love
is the fool of time.
Rose stood a moment, as I have said, not forty feet away, a little
inclined to retreat,—aware that, if detected, this would mean something,
she knew not what. At last, seeing the need of action, she made a
strategic movement to left, and said, “Are you looking for Truth?”
“Good heavens! Miss Lyndsay,” and he rose from his seat on the edge of
the well. The prettiness of the picture struck him as Rose came forward:
the pink gown, fresh from the looms of fairy-land, set fair against the
greenwood spaces, the faint excess of color in her cheeks, and the look
of unconsciousness which goes surely with natural distinction of
carriage.
“Did you come up out of Mother Earth? Are you sure it is you?”
“I am. I came over to give my grilse to Mrs. Maybrook.”
“Our grilse, you remember.”
“I do not; but it is no matter. I came to give Dorothy the grilse.”
“She is not at home. Let me take the basket. I will put it in the brook.
Did you carry it?”
“I did. It weighs—I assure you—twenty pounds! I must see it bestowed.”
And she followed him into the wood along a narrow path to a basin of
brown water. The stream crawled forth here from under a fallen tamarack,
and seemed to hesitate a little in the pool below. Then it gathered
decision for flight, and leaped out, tripping across the tangled roots
as it went. Carington laid the fish in the water, and two stones upon
it.
“It is cooler here than outside,” he said. “Dorothy will be back in a
little while.”
After this outrage on truth, he added:
“I came over to pay my milk-bill.”
Then Rose, of a sudden remembering what she had said the day before as
to this errand of hers, became at once conscious of being in the country
of a pleasant enemy. Therefore she made a neutral remark as she looked
about her:
“How pretty it is here!”
“It is prettier a little way up, where the spring comes out under a
rock.”
“I should like to see it, but I must go. I have no time to spare. I must
go home. I have so much of nothing to do here, and there is nothing
takes so much time as doing nothing!”
“That is more mysterious than my little spring. Do come. It is only a
step.”
“If it is really only a step.” And she went with him, as he answered:
“Yes, almost literally.”
He put aside the bushes, and ten feet away came where, from under a
broad, mossy stone, a gush of water broke forth with a brisk air of
liking it. She stood still, pleased with that she saw.
“The dear, sweet, little thing!” she cried.
“It seems glad to get out,” he said. “Perhaps it has some strange
craving for sunshine; and think what a journey underground in the
darkness, like a soul in prison.”
“Go on,” she said, still looking down, and considering the fine
wholesomeness of its untainted life.
“How it got a little help here, and strength there, and climbed up from
under the bases of the hills, and of a sudden found light and voice and
purpose, and goes on its way, not minding obstacles. Pretty, isn’t it?
It seems so eager.”
“Yes. I wonder will the sea answer its riddle.” It was a quite alarming
little parable to this quick-witted young woman. “How it hurries! And it
reminds me I too must be going. It says, ‘Come.’”
“Does it, indeed? But it does not say, ‘Go.’”
“I am so sorry I have missed Dorothy.”
“You might give her a few moments. She will not be long. I shall have to
‘bide,’ as she says. I came to pay my milk-bill. Pray consider my
melancholy prospect if I have to stay here by myself!”
“Certainly a sad trial,” she said, smiling; “but I really must go.” She
began to move back again toward the pool.
“Does she know you meant to leave the grilse? It will spoil if it is not
cleaned. Grilse spoil so easily.”
It was difficult for mendacity to go beyond this latter statement.
“I am sorry, but I can leave a note in the doorway. Yes, I have a card,
by good luck. Have you a pencil?”
This time he achieved the lie direct, and said, “No! but it is near
milking-time, and Hiram will be ‘p’inted’ this way of a certainty.”
“I really cannot wait. What time is it?”
“How late it is!” he replied, glancing at his watch. “I had not the
least idea it was so late. They ought to be here now. It is half-past
five.”
There was good judgment in this fib. If he made it early she would not
think it worth while to wait, and if very late, she would be sure to go
at once.
“Indeed! Only half-past five! I will rest a few minutes.”
“Better sit down,” he said. She took her place on a rock, while he cast
himself down at her feet, dividing the ferns as he lay. She felt that
she had been infirm of purpose. He gave her no time to analyze her
weakness.
“You are very good not to leave me in the naughty company of myself.”
“It is not goodness at all: it is self-indulgence. I am a little tired;
that fish was very heavy. But you have not told me what you were looking
for in the well.”
“What do you folks look for in a well?” he asked, in turn.
“Truth, I suppose. Was that what you were looking for?”
“Yes.”
“And did not find it.”
“I shall.”
“There is more water here,” she said, laughing, and then could have
bitten her wicked tongue.
“Ah! we don’t look for it in shallow waters. There must be quiet for
reflection.”
“Indeed! What were you singing about?” she added, abruptly. “What is ‘La
Moine’? I caught the name.”
“I am glad you asked. On the coast near to Bar Harbor there is a little
fishing-town, La Moine. The cod-fishers go out in a fleet from its small
port in June, to the banks. The voyage, and, in fact, the whole life at
sea of these brave fellows, is full of peril. When the home-bound fleet
is sighted, the people go to the beach, and a lookout stays in the
church-steeple. If he sees no flag flying from the nearest smack, it
means that one or more men have been lost, and then the bells are
silent. But if he sees the signal flag, all is well: there has been no
life lost, and the bells ring out merrily.”
“What a pretty story! Tell me more, as the children say. It sounds like
a bit of Brittany. It is the girl who sings?”
“Yes. A girl—the girl.”
“Who made the verses? Where did you find them?”
“A local poet,” and he smiled.
“Yourself?”
“Yes; when I get away from my work my brain is apt to run on such
stuff.”
“Oh, I like them. Won’t you copy them for me?”
“You ask too much. But what am I to have in return?”
“The pleasure of obliging me.”
“Good! You shall have them.”
“Thank you. Aunt Anne will like the story, and Dorothy—it is strange how
easily that woman is interested. Don’t you like her?”
“Yes, very much. But, then, we are rather old friends. I was not here
last year, and this year I find Hiram a good deal changed. It seems as
though Fate had dealt hardly with Dorothy. She has so much tact, such
natural good manners, and you would smile if I said distinction.”
“No, I should not. It is a word which has acquired a fine flavor, and is
well applied here. I am always tempted to feel sorry, when with her,
that she must always have this narrow life.”
“I do not think the idea ever occurred to her.”
“Possibly not. She is by nature contented, and a source of contentment,
which is more rare.”
“That is true. I never see her without feeling that I have gained
something. She is in a real sense influential.”
“It seems odd, or perhaps it is not, but she has the same effect upon
me. I hardly fancy that in her class you could find this creature
repeated.”
“She has a similar effect on Ellett, and human nature does not repeat
itself. I mean that even the type is rare. It is purely natural,—owes
little to the education of events.”
“Yes, rare in all classes, I should say. My Aunt Anne is in some ways
queerly like Dorothy.”
“Indeed?”
“As I am like Jack. You may smile,—I am. Yes, and that makes me think of
Jack. Poor fellow! he fancies you utterly despise him.”
“No? Does he? I will ask him to go after a bear with me. I was quite too
rough with him, but really—-- However, I do not want to talk about that
horrid morning. I thought he was splendidly courageous and equally
outrageous.”
“There is courage and courage.”
“Yes, of course. It admits of analysis. I am often a coward myself; I am
desperately afraid of some things.”
“Of what?” she said, smiling.
“I will tell you some day. It is not well to tell a woman everything;
one loses interest as one satisfies curiosity.” He was on thin ice
now,—but ice it was, as he found out,—what Jack would have called tickly
benders.
“I have no curiosity,—none at all. I think I must go,” she said. “I
really must go,” and she rose, adding, “There is Dorothy, at last.”
He was as much relieved as she. He had seen but little of this young
woman, and his reason told him clearly enough that he had been near the
crumbling brink of folly, and that he had better be careful. He also
rose, and they went over to the cabin, where Dorothy greeted them. It
was not possible for a person as shrewd as Dorothy, knowing what had
passed on the beach with the bear, not to have some notion of what it
might lead to in the future. She had in her a fine feminine spice of
romance. Now she said, in her quiet way, “Good afternoon! Did you happen
to meet my Hiram?”
“No,” said Carington.
“I brought you a grilse, Mrs. Maybrook. It is in the pool.”
“I am that obliged to you. Guess I’ll smoke it, if it isn’t too big.
Come in. I just pulled some roses for Miss Anne. I’ve got them inside.
You might take them along. I’ll have to look up Hiram. Come in.” They
followed her.
“Here is your money for the milk,” said Carington, “and very good milk
it is.”
“My old cow ought to have her share, but she won’t. I guess we none of
us know when we get our fairings. She won’t know any more than the rest
of us. Did you walk down, Mr. Carington?”
“Yes.”
“Come by Joe Colkett’s?”
“No; I took the lower road.”
“He was here yesterday. You wouldn’t guess in a week of Sundays what
for. He wants to put a wooden slab over those poor children,—just to
please that hag. And he asked me to print it for him,—I mean, what will
do for the inscription. I tell you I was puzzled. I want you to see if
it is all right. He can’t read a word. You see, he means to copy it, and
then to please the woman with it.”
“How sad that is!” said Rose. “And he really cares for her?”
“I should think he did! That’s the worst of it.”
“The worst of it? Why?”
“Oh, she isn’t a woman to keep a man straight. She’d have to begin with
herself, way back, too.” Then she added, “Who was the woman
Macbeth,—_Lady Macbeth_?”
“One of Shakspere’s characters,” said Carington.
“I should like well to read about her.”
“She ‘p’inted’ her man wrong, I can tell you,” laughed Rose. “I can lend
you the book.”
“Now, can you? Don’t forget. There’s the writing. I am rather proud of
it.” They both considered it gravely.
“You might put in the dates.”
“Joe says ‘no.’ I guess he thinks it will make too much work.”
“How strange!” said Rose. “And the text is, ‘Of such are the kingdom of
heaven.’”
“Yes. How will that do?” said Dorothy. “They were a queer lot, those
children,—perfect little fiends, I called them; but I suppose there’s
going to be a pretty well mixed up party in that other world. Think I’d
like to choose my mansion. It wouldn’t be the nursery. Sakes alive! what
was I saying?” Her face became grave, with a look of yearning tenderness
in her eyes. “Miss Rose, I oughtn’t to have said that. There would be
the very place I should go for first; and only to think I might not get
in! Where would I be then? I tell you, Miss Rose, you’ve got to begin
pretty early with your tongue, if you want to make it keep all the
commandments.”
Carington smiled. “I fancy dumb folks are as bad sinners as we. After
all, one slanders the tongue. One does not know half how naughty a
thought is until we have put it into speech.”
“Lord! Mr. Carington! There’s a heap of wiseness in that you said. Guess
I’ll be set up about talking after that!”
Here she took up her half-dozen roses, nourished with care on the south
end of the cabin, which Dorothy had whitewashed to get more heat upon
the scanty children of her garden. She considered them with affectionate
care, touching a leaf here and there, her head on one side.
“I guess they’re nice enough, even for Miss Anne. Mind, there’s six of
’em. Don’t you lose any, Miss Rose!”
“Shall I carry them?” said Carington. “And the basket? Where is it?”
“Oh, I’ll smudge that a bit to get the fish smell out, and I’ll fetch it
to-morrow. I’m coming after Mrs. Macbeth, or whatever her name is. No,
Miss Rose is to take the bouquet. They’re sort of relations, you see.
Men can’t be trusted with flowers, and roses are scarce up here.”
“You might 'p’int’ me, Mrs. Maybrook,” said Carington, laughing, as he
followed Rose at a little distance.
“Reckon I’m too old.” And she stayed in the doorway of her poor little
home, kindly, by no means unhappy, and giving the benediction of a smile
to these two people in their youth of health and prosperity and love. “I
guess he’s p’inted already,” she said, as she stood.
Rose turned at the wood-skirts, and nodded good-by. The parable of the
roses had been by no means meant as such, but neither the maid nor the
man at her side failed to capture the possibilities of its meaning. They
walked on in silence for a while, she with a faint hope that her
companion had not been as apprehensive as she, and he, a little amused,
and with a not unpleasing impression as to the slight embarrassment
which, despite her training, Rose had betrayed when their eyes met a
moment while Dorothy was speaking.
“How silent we are, Miss Lyndsay!” he said at last. He might have taken
it as a sign of their growing intimacy.
“And do you object to that? I like it sometimes. I like that about the
well-bred English. They talk or not, as they want to. We seem to think
it socially criminal to keep quiet. I like to feel free to talk or not
to talk.”
“And are you not?”
“Yes,” she said, and then felt that the little monosyllable was more or
less an admission, and so there was a yet longer silence. But one may be
silent too long, and Rose spoke:
“What you said to Dorothy made me think of a quotation with which Aunt
Anne puzzled us last night. Her quotations and my dear papa’s Marc.
Aurelius we are always doubtful about.”
“What was it?”
“‘He who speaketh out the evil of his soul is at the gate of wisdom.’
She declined to explain it, and vowed it was out of a Hindostanee poem;
but as to this you need never quite trust Aunt Anne. I was on the point
of quoting it just now, but did not, because I fancied Dorothy might not
understand it.”
“Do you?”
“No,” she laughed; “not I.”
“She would have been sure to say something droll. I wish you had quoted
it. I am glad you do not understand it. I do not. It might have several
meanings. But I don’t like vagueness in prose or verse. If the thought
is worth stating, I think it must be worth the trouble of stating it
clearly.”
“Pardy—I mean papa—insists that vagueness of language always means
mistiness of thinking.”
“I hardly go that far. There are many explanations of the vague in
statement. A man may think with decisive sharpness of result, and be
quite unable to word his conclusions. But we are in deep waters.”
“Quite too deep. As to quotations, I like to think with Aunt Anne that
they are all in the dictionary, and so cease to bother myself with the
source.”
“Assuredly that saves trouble. Ah, here is the river,” he said. “Am I
not to have a rose?”
“Is that a quotation, Mr. Carington?” and she laughed. “That is silly
enough for ball-room talk.”
“It has been said pretty often, and at all events is not vague.”
“I am not sure men ought ever to have roses,” she cried, gaily; “but, as
I am not sure, here is one. I will not act on my vagueness.”
“Thank you.” He held it a moment, and then quietly dropped it into the
pocket of his jacket, not unperceived by Rose.
“Ah, here is my boat,” she said; “good-by.” As they stood on the bank,
she looked hastily over at the cabin and saw no one in sight. Then she
stepped into the canoe, where Polycarp sat in tranquil patience, and the
young man, lifting his cap, walked away into the woods.
Gay comrade thoughts and fancies went with him on the way, and, light of
heart, he guided himself by the yellow lanes of sunshine which lit the
open forest before him. Soon he found the lower road, and, still
smiling, moved on more slowly, and took to building castles on those
great estates in Spain to which he had just fallen heir.
“Seen my cow, Mr. Carington?” said a voice, a few feet behind him, and
the sweet prosperity of fancy was gone. It was Susan Colkett who spoke.
He started. He had heard no step, as she came out of the wood, although
she must have been very near.
“No; I saw no cow. Is yours astray?”
“Yes. What time might it be?”
“Six o’clock,” he replied, looking at his watch.
“Do you think to come up here in September, sir? Joe says caribou’s
plenty up the river.”
Then Carington recalled Mr. Lyndsay’s warning, and said, “It is hard to
say as yet. Most likely I shall not.”
“I did hear there’s bears back to the pond. If you was minded to go
after ’em, Joe he’d like to guide. There ain’t no better hunter.”
“I’ll see about it. If I want him, I shall let him know. Good night.”
And he left her.
After walking some thirty yards he looked back. The woman was standing
in the road, tall, angular, and large, a long crooked stick in her hand.
She was watching him, but instantly moved as she caught his glance.
“Confound it,” he muttered, “if I believed in the evil eye, and were a
good Catholic, I should cross myself.”
Then he tried to think again of Rose Lyndsay, but, failing to command
the return of his broken day-dream, he went on more swiftly, and once or
twice turned again, with inexplicable unease, to look back to where he
had seen the figure of the woman set against the darkening greenwood.
“Pshaw!” he exclaimed.