The winter days went by, and, although the bridge was built, it seemed
to need later much inspection, until, by ill fortune, there were bridges
to build in Cuba, and thither Carington went in haste. It was therefore
not until mid-June that he reached home again.
While busy with his bridge, and later, he had found himself often at
Lyndsay’s table, and had come to be a welcome guest. And yet he seemed
no nearer to the end he desired. One day, just after he had gone to the
West Indies, Anne Lyndsay had said to Rose:
“I think that is a too patient man: I hate a man to be as patient as
that. If I were he, I would go away and stay away.”
“He won’t.”
“How long will this state of things go on?”
“I do not know. I cannot be sure. I—aunty, one ought to be so very sure.
It is for life! I think he understands me.”
“If he were to leave you, my dear, you would cry your eyes out.”
“I should.”
“How many bears go to a wooing?”
“Let me alone, Aunt. I had better be let alone.”
Then Aunt Anne, who was feebler than ever, said to herself, “Love is the
only fruit which ripens in the spring.” But meanwhile Carington was away
in Cuba, as we have said, and the spring came and went without results.
He found in his rooms in Boston, on his return, a letter from Miss Anne
Lyndsay. He was depressed in spirits; the town was empty of all he knew,
and more than ever he felt the want of a home. When last he saw Miss
Rose, she was still, as always, pleasant, gay, and friendly. He had
never yet seen fully the emotional side of a nature resolute by
construction, and perfectly mistress of all the protective ways of the
world of woman. Now and then the dim past of their life on the river
seemed to him as if it had never been. More and more time, and the world
appeared to be widening the distance between them, and yet once she had
looked to be so near.
He sat a minute or two with Anne’s letter in his hand. The maiden
lady,—“Mistress Anne” he liked to call her, after the Southern fashion
his youth remembered,—Mistress Anne had, as the months went by, taken
him quietly into the wide circle of her friendships. Her letters,
however, were rare enough. She wrote many, but not often to Carington,
although from Cuba he had written frequently.
He put aside all the other notes and, lighting a pipe, sat down with
Anne’s letter, honestly glad of the kindly relation it suggested.
DEAR MR. CARINGTON: I have had a number of letters from you of late, and
this is all I have been able to give in return. I have now to limit
myself even as to this indulgence.
You won’t want to hear about the new books, and you will have, I
presume, some quite absurd desire to know about my good people. A man
would say, “Everybody quite well, thank you”; but, being a woman, I know
better the masculine wants: only women write satisfactory letters.
My good brother is well, and shamefully busy at the game of the law.
Mrs. Lyndsay is just now in bed. Dr. North comes daily; but Margaret’s
maladies, which I must say are rare, are obstinate when they arrive. She
has to read a report next week at a society for the prevention of
something to something. If she lets that day go by in bed, I shall be
alarmed. A dose of duty will cure her at any time. She requires large
doses of pity when ill, and as to that I am grimly homeopathic.
Dick is at school—and Ned. They both want what no schools give, some man
who will know how to educate the peculiar, and not insist that it be
like the unpeculiar. As for Jack, he has begun to work, and takes it
hard, and has more rows than ever. One envies England her India for
these restless young Vikings. In a week we join Lyndsay on the river.
Carington looked at the date. It was two weeks old.
My niece is very well; as handsome as ever; rather too serious, as I
think: one wants a little foolish vagueness in the young. It gives to
the human landscape atmosphere, as the painters say. If you don’t know
what I mean, I am sorry for you. I tell Col. Fox that is what the
Quakers lack—atmosphere. (_I_ call that _very_ clever: _vide_ Ellett.)
Fox says Friends _are_ rather definite,—think of the arrogance of
calling themselves Friends, and a big _F_ also. This is the great and
lovely liberty of the letter. It may wander like a gipsy. I think really
I must go back and look. I meant to tell you what North said about
tombstone biography. He called it “epitaffy.” Isn’t that lovely? Also,
it has no manner of connection with the rest of this meandering screed.
I was saying that Rose has become too grave. Do not be alarmed. It is
only a mood elongated. And now I am going to do a very silly thing. No,
I won’t! A word to the wise is said to be enough; sometimes the silence
of wisdom is better. I dreadfully hunger after a chance to give you a
dose of advice. I write a big ℞, like the doctors’, in due form, with
that stupid flourish below, which is, I believe, their invocation to
Jupiter for luck (they need it); and then—I hesitate. Be so good as to
fill in this blank with what I shall only think, not say:
I advise most positively—
...........?
...........?
I can hear your anathema.
“I should think so, indeed!” exclaimed Carington; “and what next?”
We shall be in camp before this reaches you. I had some doubt about
going myself, but I mean to have all the joys life offers, or that I can
decently lay hands on. When the thing is over, I shall just say to my
dear people, “By-by; see you again shortly,” and laugh a little, and go
to sleep. I never could see why folks make such a fuss about dying. The
way some people think of it rises to the gravity of a jest. What _would_
the goody-goody world say to that—or my dear Margaret Lyndsay?
I hear that you are to be on hand soon. Mr. Ellett has gone up the
river, and promises to be very attentive to me. I am all of a flutter.
Read with care what I have not written, and believe me,
Mysteriously your friend,
ANNE LYNDSAY.
L’envoi.
If you are fond of Scotch literature the poems of Montrose might be of
interest.
“Of all the nonsense ever I read!” said Carington; but he went to the
side of the room, where the long bookcases overflowed with volumes on
which the dust had gathered in his absence. He looked them over, and at
last found the one he sought. “Montrose—Graham—James, Marquis of, etc.,
author of certain songs once popular.”
By and by he chanced upon a volume of Scotch ballads, and sat down. Very
soon he laid the book, back up and open, on the table, and went on
smoking. After a half-hour he discovered that his pipe had long been
out. It was, in fact, cold.
He went forth at once, and assured his partners that Cuban malaria
necessitated Canadian air. In twenty-four hours he was on his way to the
river.
Three days later saw him on the waters he loved. Toward five in the
afternoon he heard voices singing. He knew them well, and in a few
minutes was ashore at a bend of the stream.
For a few moments he stood, unseen, a little below the lads, who lay
back of a rock, caroling their songs, having killed many trout, and
filled themselves with a mighty luncheon.
Carington listened a little, and then cried out, “Any bears here?” and
walked round the rocks. He was noisily made welcome. “Give me a bit of
something,” he said. “I pushed on, and have had nothing since nine
o’clock.”
“There isn’t much left,” said Jack. “Rufus ate the big pie. There was
only one little one for Ned and me.”
“They said they didn’t want it, and I wish I hadn’t,” said Dick. “Pie’s
an awful different thing when it’s outside of you and when it’s inside.”
“I have observed that,” said Carington. “That will do, Jack. A little
marmalade, please. Bad, Dick?”
“Very.”
“When we get our deserts, we don’t always escape whipping.”
“That’s so!” exclaimed Ned. “Just remember that, Red Head.”
“Shut up!”
“Behave yourselves,” said Jack. “Fact is, sir, we are all about ready
for a row.”
“Bad as ever?”
“Worse—those two, I mean. I am like a lamb.”
“Or a bear-cub,” said Ned.
“You wait a bit, old rhyme-snarler.”
“Halloa!” said Carington. “Not now, please. How is everybody? and Miss
Anne?”
“We are all first-rate. Rose she is up there above us on the point. She
wanted to be alone; she loves that. She told the big Indian to come down
here and wait till we go up. You can see her red umbrella. She’s
sketching. We are to stop for her at six. More bread?”
“Yes. Bless me, it is five o’clock! I must get away. What was that song?
I thought I knew your whole repertory.”
“Oh,” said Ned, “we found that last winter. Tune up, Jack. Dick’s got
colic in his bagpipes: he’s no good.”
“I didn’t catch it quite. No, don’t sing it; say it for me.”
“Well, here it is,” said Ned:
“It was a lorde of the North Countree
Cam’ wooing a lady of high degree.
She wad nae listen, she would nae hear;
Till a wee bird sang in that lorde’s ear:
“‘When spring-tide leaves are fair to see
Brave little wooers we birdies be.
Give me for love-luck bannocks three,
And I will pay a fairy fee.’
“‘Ye shall hae bannocks fair and free
For all the birds in the North Countree.’
Up and whistled the little bird friend,
‘Wise folks begin where ither folk end.’
“Gay laughed that lorde. Nae more said he,
But thrice he kissed that fair ladye,
He kissed till she was red to see;
And they’re awa’ to the North Countree.”
“And is that your notion of wooing, Mr. Ned?”
“Rose she says it’s a horrid song.”
“You just ask her,” said Dick. “Hang that pie!”
Carington, laughing, stepped into his canoe, and settled himself in easy
comfort against the baggage piled up behind him. “See you soon, boys.”
Then he said, “Michelle, you may drop me at the point where Miss Lyndsay
is. I shall walk up.”
“Well!” he said to himself. “The family seem unanimous. It would be
rather funny if—if it wasn’t something else.”
After this he gave himself up to his thoughts, and what fair cheer the
June evening offered. The good mother-nature was all in sympathy, and,
foreseeing in her prophetic heart the drama about to be, had set out the
stage and its scenery with pleasant prevision.
For here was a stretch of rippled river, where the hidden stones set the
waters a-dancing, and there they rolled high, and anon were possessed of
a coy quietness in nooks below the trees, where red and white tangles of
rootlets swayed in the current and had their fill as a reward of
adventurous growth. The sun was just over a far hill, and low, so that
all the long broad reach was aglow with many colors, to which the sky
above and the stones below lent variety of help, that none might hope to
explain or paint it, and that only the pure joy of it should be left in
the heart of man.
And for it all this young fellow in the canoe was open enough, glad to
get from the sensual tropic zone to the cool wholesomeness of that he
saw. Now and then he caught sight of the red shelter on the point, and
tingled, for this love had been fed with mere memories these many
months, and now he had won the sweet courage which is a thing native to
the wild woods, and wilts in the hordes of men.
Across the waters a mighty wreckage of vast rocks lay, where untold
years since they fell in some elemental strife from the granite fortress
which still towered high in air. Along its battlements a few grim warder
pines kept their centuried watches.
On the beach opposite To-Day sat, and mocked with colors the massive
ruin, untroubled by its mystery. To-Day was a maid in a pink gown, for
prettiness—standing, sketch in hand, to see, with head on one side, if
her sketch had got the vigor of these fallen rocks.
Nature, liking love-affairs, had decoyed the maid into a moment of
statuesque repose, and, knowing well her business, had set back of her a
bold gray rock, deep sunk in ferns. Against its sternness the strength
of virginal curves stood out, very fair to see. Meanwhile the canoe drew
nearer, running close to shore.
At last Carington leaped on the beach, and came straight to where she
stood, flushed of a sudden, and with downward hands holding the picture.
“Good evening.”
“Oh, Mr. Carington!”
“That will do, Michelle. Don’t wait. I shall walk.”
The canoe was off and away as she said:
“It must be four miles. Isn’t it a rather rough walk?”
“It is nearer five. How are you? How is every one? I can’t tell you how
glad I am to see you.”
“How dreadfully brown you are!”
“Cuban sun, Miss Lyndsay. I am told it is becoming.”
“Indeed! Who told you?”
“A young woman on the steamer.”
“Indeed.”
Here she glanced down the river, and resumed her place on the rock.
“You may sit down there. Please give me that color-box. Those pines are
so hard to get in.”
“Thank you. I shall sit when I am made welcome. You have not said so
much as that you are glad to see me.”
“That was stupid of me. Of course I am glad to see you. How did you like
Cuba?”
“It was very hot.”
“Was that the extent of your observation? It seems rather limited. Do
you think that lower stone is purple enough? Purple is such a
difficulty!”
“I wish you would not paint now.”
“Why not? But I must. I shall never get just this light again. It is the
most important thing in life—that rock.”
“Let me see.” He took the sketch and put it aside, out of her reach.
“Please,” she said.
“No.”
“But I shall—I shall be angry.”
“You have had your way too long. You get whatever you want. It is very
demoralizing.”
“But I never got my gold dollar.” This was unwise.
“No; you never will.”
She was silent now, foreseeing trouble.
Meanwhile he sat on the ferns at her feet. As she spoke, her color-box
fell. Carington set it aside. She made no further remonstrance.
“What o’clock is it, Mr. Carington?”
“You are here till six. You can’t get away. What is the use of asking
the time?”
“I don’t know.”
“I do. It is my hour, Rose Lyndsay.” And he looked up. “For a year we
have been seeing one another in the midst of a fog of conventionalities,
and the game has been all in your hands. One cannot love and respect a
woman and wish to force her to abrupt decisions, and she can always
escape. I have waited.”
“Please—it is dreadful! I beg of you.”
“No. I have been very patient, but I am so no longer. We are here alone:
a man and a woman. The world of defense and excuses is far away.”
“Oh, if you only knew! It is so hard! If you think I have been happy
this winter, you little know.”
“How long is this indecision to last?”
“I do not know.”
“It is a simple question: Do you care for me? Care! No! I want you to
say that you love me! Oh, plainly, Rose Lyndsay, as I have said it until
you are weary of it, I dare say.”
“How cruel you are! I cannot. I ought to be so sure about such a thing;
and I am not—I am not!”
“Then I think I will go.” He spoke slowly, with measured distinctness.
“I am sorry,” said Rose. “I am more sorry than you can think.”
He made no reply for a moment; but, still seated below her on the ferns,
put his hands to his head and, looking down at the pebbles, said:
“I came here resolute to force you to say ‘Yes’ or ‘No.’ It seemed easy,
away from you. Now that you are beside me, I am helpless. If I loved you
less, I could do it. I find it easier to carry my weariness of waiting
still longer. You are all my life to me. You have a home and constant
loves: I have no one—I am alone! What others have in life—sisters,
brothers—I lack, as you know. And yet—and yet, I cannot force you to a
decision. If you are just to my great love, Rose, I must ask you to say—
It might be wiser, both for you and for me, if I were to be positive.”
“Oh, no! no!”
“You shall have your way. I will not trouble you again: but, I know you
well—you are a woman of sense and courage. If I go, have I not the
honest right to expect that some day you will be brave enough just to
write to me, yes—or no? I leave it with you. That ought to set you at
ease.”
“But it does not,—it will not. Life is so hard—and I do—I do want to do
what is right!”
“Have I been too hard? Well, good-by.” And, so saying, he rose and stood
beside her. She glanced up at him, uneasy, pitiful, timid. He put out
his hand, “Good-by.” She took it, rising as she did so. As she held it,
he added:
“I shall go back to-morrow; a telegram will explain it. I must not spoil
your holiday. Good-by.”
The hand she gave stayed passive in his grasp.
“Let me see you once, Rose, before I go. I mean, look up.”
She lifted her gaze, and, as his eyes met hers, he saw.
“Rose!”
“What is it?”
“You love me!”
“No—no. Oh, I don’t know!”
Then he caught her in his arms and kissed her, and all her soul went out
to him in one great sob of joy and love; and in the sweet pain of it she
fell to crying, the fair head on his shoulder.
“Oh, Fred! Fred!” It was all that she could say.
“Are you sorry?”
“No! No!”
“And you are sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then don’t cry any more.”
“I can’t—can’t help it. I am so—so glad.”
She stood and took his two hands, and said, “I was afraid, I was not
sure. Now I know; it is for always!”
“Yes, Rose. Sit down, dear.” And again he fell on the ferns beside her,
and they talked in the tongue of the new land they had found, looking
before and after, and asking no more of life than the golden-freighted
minutes brought.
Meanwhile the sun fell behind the hill, and the glow of blue and orange
light on the waters faded to dusky brown. Tree and rock grew slowly less
distinct as the shadows crossed the stream; but on their world another
sun arose, and with touch of hands they stayed, talking of the life of
love and duty and common helpfulness which lay broad and beautiful
before their eyes.
At last they heard the paddles, and their hands fell apart.
“How late you are, boys!”
“Yes; the trout were rising. I’m awful sorry,” said Ned.
“So are we,” returned Carington. “We have been horribly bored—Miss Rose
and I. I will go up in your boat, Miss Lyndsay, if I may. It is late to
walk.”
“Certainly.”
She had now a little gold dollar in her shut hand, and was silent
enough, till he left her at the Cliff Camp.
She went up the steps slowly. What had an hour done with and for her?
She was very happy.
“Pleasant, isn’t it?” said Anne. “Get a good sketch, dear? Mama and your
father are still out. Come here, nearer; what is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Wasn’t that Mr. Carington I heard on the beach?”
“Yes. He stopped when he saw me sketching.”
“Yes. Come and kiss me, Rose.”
The girl bent over her.
“I am so glad!”
“Glad? Why?”
“Go and wash your face, and change that ribbon, Miss Ostrich; but, for
heaven’s sake, don’t let Margaret know I guessed it.”
“No! no! Dear Aunt Anne! I am so very happy!”
“And I, my darling.”
“Will Pardy like it?”
“Very much.”
“And Mardy?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, here they come,—I must run. I want—I want to be alone, just a
little.”
“Kiss me again, Rose.”
Then the girl fled in haste; but Anne said, “And now I should like to
live a little longer.”
Transcriber’s Note
Errors deemed most likely to be the printer’s have been corrected, and
are noted here. The references are to the page and line in the original.
18.3 [‘]The Mystery of Pain[’], my poor Anne! Added.
43.20 and by and by you will have it.[’]” Added.
98.3 [‘/“]I think my own curiosity collapses in hot Replaced.
weather,”
142.20 [“/‘]The bowman, fully prepared, replied at Replaced
once:
146.18 We don’t know those people, and I wish to be Added.
careful.[”]
185.28 “[‘]Gracious! How numerically interesting!’ Added.
200.32 more joy than the beggar, saith El Din Added.
Attar.’[”]
211.5 “Yes,” said Lyndsay, “these Gasp[e/é] men Replaced.
378.28 “I’ll fetch the money.[”] And, seizing the ax, Added.
she thrust him aside
404.25 “Archie, what was it last night?[”] Why did Removed.
they
End of Project Gutenberg's When All the Woods are Green, by S. Weir Mitchell