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
281Had 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 282to 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. 283Carington 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 284the 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:

285“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.’”

286“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.

287“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.”

288“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 seem............