The letter, though it was only a partial revelation, roused in Ferdie's
wife a passion of anger so intense that they were all alarmed. She did
not speak or stir; she sat looking at them; but her very immobility,
with the deep spot of red in each cheek, and her darkened narrowed eyes,
made her terrible. This state lasted for twenty-four hours, during which
time the poor old judge, unable to sit down or to sleep, wandered about,
Hollis accompanying him silently, and waiting outside when he went every
now and then to the entrance of the tent to look in. Paul came once. But
Cicely's eyes darkened so when she saw him that Eve hurriedly motioned
him away. She followed him out.
"Do not come again until I send for you."
"If there is nothing for me to do then, I might as well go to bed."
"You are fortunate in being able to sleep!"
"I shall sleep a great deal better than I did when I thought she would
be starting south in spite of us," retorted Paul. "Imagine her arriving
there and finding out--It's much worse than she knows; that letter only
tells a little. There are others, telling more, which I have kept back."
"Did you really, then, keep back anything!"
"She'll forgive me. She'll forgive me, and like me better than ever;
you'll see."
"And is it a question of you? It is her husband, her faith in him, her
love for him," said Eve, passionately.
"Oh, as to that, she will forgive _him_ the very first moment she sees
him," answered Paul, going off.
Early in the morning of the second day, Cicely sent for him. "If you
don't still believe in him, if you don't still love him--" she began the
instant he entered, her poor little voice trying to be a threat.
"Of course I believe in him."
"And he is noble? and good?"
"If you can call him that--to-day--you are a trump," said Paul,
delightedly.
He had gained his point; and, by one of the miracles of love, she could
forgive her husband and excuse his fault; she could still worship him,
believe in him. Paul also believed in him, but in another way. And upon
this ground they met, Paul full of admiration for what he called her
pluck and common-sense (both were but love), and she adoring him for his
unswerving affection for his brother. Paul would go South soon; he
would--he would make arrangements. She pinned all her faith upon Paul
now; Paul was her demi-god because he believed in his brother.
And thus the camp-life went on again.
One morning, not long after this, Hollis and the judge were sitting at
the out-door table, engaged with their fishing-tackle. Hollis was
talking of the approaches of old age.
"Yes, two sure signs of it are a real liking for getting up early in the
morning, and a promptness in doing little things. Contrariwise, an
impatience with the younger people, who _don't_ do 'em."
"Stuff!" said the judge. "The younger people are lazy; that's the whole
of it."
"Yet they do all the important work of the world," Hollis went on; "old
people only potter round. Take Paul, now--he ain't at all keen about
getting up at daylight; in fact, he has a most uncommon genius for
sleep; but, once up, he makes things drive all along the line, I can
tell you. Not the trifles" (here Hollis's voice took a sarcastic tone);
"not what borrowed books must be sent here, nor what small packages left
there; you never saw _him_ pasting slips out of a newspaper in a
blank-book, nor being particular about his ink, with a neat little tray
for pens; the things he concerns himself about are big things: ore
contracts, machinery for the mines, negotiations with thousands of
dollars tacked to the tail of 'em."
"I dare say," said the judge, with a dry little yawn; "Mr. Tennant is,
without doubt, an excellent accountant."
The tone of this remark, however, was lost upon Hollis. "That Paul, now,
has done, since I've known him, at least twenty things that I couldn't
have done myself, any one of them, to save my life," he went on; "and
yet I'm no fool. Not that they were big undertakings, like the Suez
Canal or the capture of Vicksburg; but at least they were things _done_,
and completely done. Have you ever noticed how mighty easy it is to
believe that you _could_ do all sorts of things if you only had the
opportunity? The best way, sir, to go on believing that is never to let
yourself try! I once had a lot of that kind of fool conceit myself. But
I know better now; I know that from top to bottom and all round I'm a
failure."
The judge made no effort to contradict this statement; he changed the
position of his legs a little, by way of answer, so as not to appear too
discourteous.
"I'm a failure because I always see double," pursued Hollis,
meditatively; "I'm like a stereoscope out of kilter. When I was
practising law, the man I was pitching into always seemed to me to have
his good side; contrariwise, the man I was defending had his bad one;
and rather more bad because my especial business was to make him out a
capital good fellow."
There was a sound of voices; Paul came through the wood on his way to
the beach, with Cicely; Eve, behind them, was leading Jack.
"Are you going out again?" said the judge.
"Yes. Paul can go this morning," Cicely answered.
"But you were out so long yesterday," said the old man, following them.
"Open air fatigue is a good fatigue," said Paul, as he lifted Cicely
into one of the canoes.
The judge had stopped at the edge of the beach; he now went slowly back
into the wood and joined Hollis.
"Your turn, Miss Bruce," said Paul. And Eve and Jack were placed in a
second canoe. One of the Indians was to paddle it, but he was not quite
ready. Paul and Cicely did not wait; they started.
"I's a-goin' wis old Eve!--_old_ Eve!--_old_ Eve!"
chanted Jack, at the top of his voice, to the tune of "Charley is my
darling," which Hollis had taught him.
"Seems mean that she should have to go with a Chip, when there are white
men round," said Hollis.
The judge made no reply.
But Eve at that moment called, "Mr. Hollis, are you busy? If not,
couldn't you come with me instead of this man?"
Hollis advanced to the edge of the woods and made a bow. "I am
exceedingly pleased to accept. My best respects." He then took off his
coat, and, clucking to the Indian as a sign of dismissal, he got into
the canoe with the activity of a boy, and pushed off.
It was a beautiful day. The thick woods on the shore were outlined
sharply in the Northern air against the blue sky. Hollis paddled slowly.
"Why do you keep so far behind the other boat?" said Eve, after a while.
"That's so; I'm just loafing," answered Hollis.
"Christopher H., paddle right along," he went on to himself. "You
needn't be so afraid that Paul will grin; he'll understand."
And Paul did understand. At the end of half an hour, when Eagle Point
was reached, and all had disembarked, he came to Hollis, and stood
beside him for a moment.
"This canoe is not one of the best," Hollis remarked.
"No," said Paul.
"I think we can make it do for a while longer, though," Hollis went on,
examining it more closely.
"I dare say we can," Paul answered.
They stood there together for a moment, rapping it and testing it in
various ways; then they separated, perfectly understanding each other.
"I really didn't try to come with her:" this was the secret meaning of
Hollis's remark about the canoe.
And "I know you didn't," was the signification of Paul's answer.
Cicely and Eve were sitting on the beach. It was a wild shore, clean,
untouched by man; the pure waters of the lake rolled up and laved its
glistening brown pebbles. Jack ramped up and down against Eve's knees.
"Sing to Jacky--poor, _poor_ Jacky!" he demanded loudly.
"That child is too depressing with his 'Poor Jacky'!" said Cicely.
"Never say that again, Jack; do you hear?"
"Poor, _poor_ Jacky!" said the boy immediately, as though he were
irresistibly forced to try the phrase again.
"He heard some one say it to that parrot in Port aux Pins," explained
Eve.
"Oh, I shall never be able to govern him!" Cicely answered.
"Sing to Jacky, Aunty Eve--poor, poor Jacky!"
And in a low tone Eve began to sing:
_"'Row the boat, row the boat up to the strand;_
_Before our door there is dry land._
_Who comes hither all booted and spurred?_
_Little Jacky Bruce with his hand on his sword.'"_
Paul came up. "Now for a walk," he said to Cicely.
"I am sorry, Paul. But if I sit here it will be lovely; if I walk, I am
afraid I shall be too tired."
"I'll stay here, then; I am not at all keen about a tramp."
"No, please go. And take Eve."
"Uncly Paul, not _old_ Eve. I want old Eve," announced Jack, reasonably.
"You don't seem to mind his calling you that," said Paul, laughing.
"Why should I?" Eve answered. "I don't care for a walk, thanks."
"Make her go," continued Cicely; "march her off."
"Will you march?" asked Paul.
"Not without a drum and fife."
Jack was now cooing without cessation, and in his most insinuating
tones, "Sing to Jacky--poor, _poor_ Jacky. Sing to Jacky--poor, _poor_
Jacky!"
She took him in her arms and walked down the beach with him, going on
with her song in a low tone:
_"'He knocks at the door and he pulls up the pin,_
_And he says, "Mrs. Wingfield, is Polly within?"_
_"Oh, Polly's up-stairs a-sewing her silk."_
_Down comes Miss Polly as white as milk.'"_
"Eve never does what you ask, Paul," remarked Cicely.
"Do I ask so often?"
"I wish you would ask her oftener."
"To be refused oftener?"
"To gain your point--to conquer her. She is too self-willed--for a
woman." She looked at Paul with a smile.
The tie between them had become very close, and it was really her
dislike to see him rebuffed, even in the smallest thing, that made her
say, alluding to Eve, "Conquer her; she is too self-willed--for a
woman."