There is a chain of little lakes--a necklace of lost jewels--lying in
the forest that clothes the blue Laurentian Mountains in the Province
of Quebec.
Each of these hidden lakes has its own character and therefore its own
charm. One is bright and friendly, with wooded hills around it, and
silver beaches, and red berries of the rowan-tree fringing the shores.
Another is sombre and lonely, set in a circle of dark firs and
larches, with sighing, trembling reeds along the bank. Another is only
a round bowl of crystal water, the colour of an aquamarine,
transparent and joyful as the sudden smile on the face of a child.
Another is surrounded by fire-scarred mountains, and steep cliffs
frown above it, and the shores are rough with fallen fragments of
rock; it seems as if the setting of this jewel had been marred and
broken in battle, but the gem itself shines tranquilly amid the ruin,
and the lichens paint the rocks, and the new woods spring bright
green upon the mountains. There are many more lakes, and all are
different. The thread that binds them together is the little river
flowing from one to another, now with a short, leaping passage, now
with a longer, winding course.
You may follow it in your canoe, paddling through the still-waters,
dropping down the rapids with your setting-pole, wading and dragging
your boat in the shallows, and coming to each lake as a surprise,
something distinct and separate and personal. It seems strange that
they should be sisters; they are so unlike. But the same stream,
rising in unknown springs, and seeking an unknown sea, runs through
them all, and lives in them all, and makes them all belong together.
The thread which unites the stories in this book is like that. It is
the sign of the unknown quantity, the sense of mystery and
strangeness, that runs through human life.
We think we know a great deal more about the processes and laws and
conditions of life than men used to know. And probably that is true;
though it is not quite certain, for it is hard to say precisely how
much those inscrutable old Egyptians and Hebrews and Chaldaeans and
Hindus knew and did not tell.
But granting that we have gone beyond them, we have not gone very far,
we have not come to perfect knowledge. There is still something around
us and within that baffles and surprises us. Events happen which are
as mysterious after our glib explanations as they were before. Changes
for good or ill take place in the heart of man for which his intellect
gives no reason. There is the daily miracle of the human will, the
power of free choice, for which no one can account, and which
sometimes flashes out the strangest things. There is the secret,
incalculable influence of one life on another. There is the web of
circumstance woven to an unseen pattern. There is the vast, unexplored
land of dreams in which we spend one-third of our lives without even
remembering most of what befalls us there.
I am not thinking now of the so-called "realm of the occult," nor of
those extraordinary occurrences which startle and perplex the world
from time to time, nor of those complicated and subtle problems of
crime which are set to puzzle us. I am thinking of much more human and
familiar things, quite natural and inevitable as it seems, which make
us feel that life is threaded through and through by the unknown
quantity.
This is the thread that I have followed from one to another of these
stories. They are as different as my lakes in the North Country; some
larger and some smaller; some brighter and some darker; for that is
the way life goes. But most of them end happily, even after sorrow;
for that is what I think life means.
Four of the stories have grown out of slight hints, for which I return
thanks. For the two Breton legends which appear in "The Wedding-Ring"
and "Messengers at the Window," I am indebted to my friend, M. Anatole
Le Braz; for an incident which suggested "The Night Call," to my
friend, Mrs. Edward Robinson; and for the germ of "The Mansion," to my
friend, Mr. W. D. Sammis. If the stories that have come from their
hints are different from what my friends thought they would be, that
is only another illustration of the theme.
Between the longer stories there are three groups of tales that are
told in a briefer and different manner. They are like etchings in
which more is suggested than is in the picture. For this reason they
are called Half-Told Tales, in the hope that they may mean to the
reader more than they say.
Without the unknown quantity life would be easier, perhaps, but
certainly less interesting. It is not likely that we shall ever
eliminate it. But we can live with it and work with it bravely,
hopefully, happily, if we believe that after all it means
good--infinite good, passing comprehension--to all who live in love.