CHAPTER XXX

Lyndsay had just come in when he saw the glow of the fire over the hilltop. He was curious and a little anxious. Wood-fires are of all things what men dread the most, when once they have been face to face with their terrors. He called his men again, and ordered them to take him up the river. Rose, who had been with him on the pool, asked at once to go with him.

He said, “I see no objection. Get a wrap and make haste.”

Thus it chanced that in a few moments they were poling up the stream with more than usual speed.

“Halloa!” cried Lyndsay, as a dugout shot by them in the darkness. “What’s wrong up above?”

There was no reply.

“Isn’t that queer?” said Rose. “How uncivil!”

“Very.”

At the landing they went ashore, and pushed on to see what was the source of the blaze.

Presently Lyndsay halted, noticing the sparks about him. “There is no wind, Michelle.”

“No, sir; and the woods are soaking wet. I’ve a notion it’s Colkett’s.”

387“Best to see. I will wait at the boat. I don’t want to run any risk with Miss Lyndsay.” But at this moment he heard Jack’s challenge, and so all the threads of my story are spun together.

As they ran down-stream, Lyndsay was a little uneasy concerning what might be his wife’s judgment as to his course in regard to Carington; but he had felt very deeply the obligation under which the young man had placed them, and he was clear enough that there had been really nothing else to do. Nevertheless, he was shrewd as to the domestic management of the matter. At the landing he said to Rose:

“Wait a moment, you and Jack,” and then ran up the steps and into the house.

By this time Rose was in full command of herself, and able, as her father left them, to speak tranquilly enough to the wounded man.

“Yes, he was in some pain; but, to judge from his own feelings, the trouble could not be grave.”

Then she asked, quite naturally, if Mr. Ellett had been told, and learning that he had not, sent Jack to find Polycarp, that he might take a note to the Island. When Jack came back with the Indian, Rose said:

“I must see papa about the note for Mr. Ellett. Ah, here he comes.” She did not wait to complete this business, but turned to the canoe where Carington still lay, and said:

“Good night, and good-by, too, for a few days. Mama will keep you well caged. You may rest assured of that!”

388In the very dim light she saw him put out the hand nearest to her. She took it, felt the lingering grasp, already fever-hot, that would have delayed the moment’s soft prisoner, but dared not. She said again:

“Good night. Here is papa,” and moved away, at first slowly, and then quickly.

When Mr. Lyndsay entered the cabin his wife looked up.

“What is it, Archie?”

“Don’t be alarmed, Margaret. Mr. Carington has been shot—badly wounded.”

“Not by Jack!” cried the mother.

“Oh, no! No. It’s a queer story. I have not heard it fully. He bled a good deal, and—”

“Do you think him in danger, Archie?”

“It is hard to say, especially so soon.”

“Surely you did not leave him at their camp?” said Margaret.

“No. He is in my canoe on the beach.”

“Good gracious! Is he?”

Anne smiled, as she would have said, inside of her, and reflected upon the wisdom her brother had displayed, for at once Margaret, easily captured by appeals to her pity, was afoot, and, for the time, intent alone upon what was best to be done.

“I would send Tom to Mackenzie for a doctor, and he must stay. I think, Archie, you will have to give Mr. Carington your room and take to a tent.” Then she went off to set the room in order, while Lyndsay returned to the beach, still a little anxious, but also a little amused.

389Rose had gone.

By and by the guides carried the wounded man up into the neat chamber, where Lyndsay helped him to bed, and was easily able to ascertain that the ball had crossed the chest beneath the skin, passed over the left shoulder, and out again—a severe flesh-wound.

“It does not bleed,” said Lyndsay, “and I think there is no very serious hurt. Can you move your arm?”

“Yes,—with pain.”

“Then the joint is safe. I have known fellows brevetted for things no worse.”

“But my puzzle is, why what is only a flesh-wound should have made me drop as if I were dead. I cannot understand it.”

“The doctors call it ’shock,’” said his host. “At times it affects the head, and a man hit in the foot or arm goes crazy for a time, or else it stops the heart, and he faints.”

“That was it, I suppose.”

As they talked Lyndsay put on a wet compress, and, with the skill learned long since, where bullets were many and bigger, he made his patient reasonably comfortable, and left him at last under Mrs. Lyndsay’s despotic care.

In the mean time, Anne, anxious to know more, had looked for Jack. At ease concerning Carington, he was off somewhere, busy about the preservation of his precious bearskin, and Rose, too, had disappeared. Anne felt that she must wait, and, as usual, went to her room, to rest a little before their 390retarded dinner. She opened the door, and instantly went in and shut it. Rose was lying on the bed, trying hard to suppress her sobs, knowing well that she would be but too easily heard.

“Dear child, what is it?” said Anne.

“I don’t know. Oh, do, please, let me alone!”

“But I must know. It is so unlike you. Mr. Carington is in no danger.”

“I know. I don’t care whether he is in danger or not. I do care! It isn’t he! It’s—it’s me—it’s I. I can’t tell. I am ashamed. Are all women this way? Oh, I hate to be such a fool!”

Anne sat down. “I don’t quite understand, dear; but, no matter. What is clear is that you are going to have hysterics.”

“I am not going to have hysterics.”

“Then keep quiet, and don’t talk.”

“You made me talk!”

“I did. I am an ass.”

“No—no! Kiss me, aunty. I am so miserable! Couldn’t I get to bed quietly?”

“Yes. Your mother is busy. Come.” And thus, when at last dinner was on the table, and Mrs. Lyndsay asked for her daughter, she was told that Rose had a headache, and then, when she got up to go to her, that she was asleep, which may or may not have been true.

At dinner, between what Carington had told Lyndsay and Jack’s very clear statement, the story came out plainly enough. The boy was praised to his heart’s content, and when Anne had said that this was courage in the right place, and Carington refused to 391sleep until he had thanked him, Jack felt that, including the bearskin as a part of the day’s blessings, life had no more to give. As for Dick, he settled the genus and the species of the bear, and Ned sat in a corner and meditated, seeing the whole day’s events in pictures, with curious dramatic clearness.

Next morning the doctor arrived, and further reassured them. Mr. Carington was in for a day or two in bed, and then might be out in the hammock.

Of course Ellett had been informed the night before, and had come down at once. When again, next day, he returned, there was a long consultation, and it was decided that the patient was so well that Ellett might move down and take care of him, that the doctor would come back and stay a few days, and that Mr. Lyndsay and his family might go away on Sunday night. To this plan Mrs. Lyndsay somewhat eagerly assented, for reasons of which she said nothing, an unusual course for the little lady.

Thus, on Friday and Saturday, what with fishing and packing, every one was busy.

“Preliminaries are the bane of existence,” said Anne, “but postliminaries are worse”; and thereupon she asked Ned if that word was in “Worcester,” and declared for a dictionary of her own making.

Mrs. Lyndsay had no opinion of Anne’s capacities in any practical direction, and declined for a day her help in the care of Mr. Carington. But now she was over-busy, and thus it chanced on the next morning, being Saturday, that she asked Anne to look after their wounded guest. They had purposely brought no maids with them, and, even with all of Rose’s help, 392Anne had been obliged to assist in packing, for, as concerned her books, she was as old-maidish and precise as are some other of her corps about what Anne regarded as quite unimportant properties. To escape, at last, out of the bustle of packing, and to find some one to talk to or be talked to, was entirely to her taste.

“Certainly, Margaret,” she said.

“And do not let him talk.”

“No.”

“And do not talk to him, dear.”

“Of course not.”

“There is nothing so fatiguing.”

“No. That is quite the case.”

“And be careful about drafts.”

“Yes. Is that all?”

“I think so,” returned Mrs. Lyndsay, doubtfully, and then went before Anne into Carington’s room.

“I have brought you a new nurse. My sister-in-law will look after you this morning. You must not let her talk to you.” And having thus doubly provided against the deadly malaria of conversation, she went out as Anne sat down.

Carington liked the maiden lady, with her neat dress and erect carriage, which no suffering had taught the stoop of the invalid; moreover, her unusualness pleased him. Her talk, too, was out of the common, and full of enterprise. What she used of the learning or sentiment of others seemed also to acquire a new personal flavor. Mrs. Westerly had once said, “When Miss Anne quotes Shakspere, it loses the quality of mere quotation. She can’t say anything like the rest of us.”

393As she sat down, she said demurely, “I am not to talk to you. Let us gossip: that is not talk.”

“Oh, no,” he said, joyously. “I am just about in a state for mere chat, which involves no thinking. Mrs. Lyndsay has been severe.”

“I have to fight her a little myself, dear, good, obstinate creature as she is. I suppose she did not talk to you at all,—not a word, I presume?”

“I decline, Miss Anne, to betray the weaknesses of my nurses.”

“That is well. Negations often answer questions quite sufficiently in the affirmative. I know she did talk to you, and about that miserable tombstone. She cannot help it, poor mother!”

“Yes. I thought it pitiable. She seemed unable to escape from it.”

“It is like her; but it is not wise. Margaret is persistent always. Her likes and dislikes are changeless. She is obstinate in her kindness, her loves, and her charities. As good as gold, we say; but goodness, like gold, is not an insurance of fertile results in all its relations. I mean that goodness can be sometimes exasperating. But, as usual, my tongue is indiscreet. I would like you to understand her. She is worth the trouble.”

“Thank you. I never can forget her tenderness and her kind carefulness. Never!”

“Our real battles are over my books. She says my little library is a wilderness of books, and every autumn, on my return, I find the servants have had orders to dust my books.”

“How dreadful!”

394“Is it not? And the strange things that happen! I like to arrange my books so that they shall be happy, and when I come home and find Swinburne in among the volumes of Jeremy Taylor, and Darwin sandwiched between Addison and the ‘Religio Medici,’ I get frantic and say things. It is useless.”

“How sad!”

“I shall assure her we—you and I—were only gossiping. She has an abiding impression that I talk only high science, and I detest science. Talk I must.”

“I think it will do me no harm. I am now quite easy. I have no fever.”

“None,” said Anne, taking his hand and looking at her watch. “Pulse good, too. I don’t think a talk will hurt you. Tell me when you are tired.”

“I promise, but you shall do the talking. I will listen.”

“You had better be careful how you give such large liberty. Did you ever, by chance, know Miss Pearson?”

“Yes, yes,” and he laughed, “years ago—that statistical lady in Germantown. I had some engineering work near there. Oh, years ago: I was a mere lad. I knew all those good people, Mrs. Fox and the Mortons. But what about Miss Pearson? Good woman, I take it?”

“Yes, entirely; but she kept her religion on ice; a sort of east-wind of a woman. She had that bloodless propriety which passes muster for dignity. When you gave me full discretion as to talk, I meant to tell you her description of my conversation; I don’t think I shall.”

395“Well, you are revenged, I think,” and he laughed. “I find I must not laugh; it hurts. You will have to be grave, if you talk at all.”

“I think I must tell you. She declared that if I wanted to be amusing, I never hesitated to be either inaccurate or untruthful, and that, while accidental inaccuracy was deplorable, intended intellectual inaccuracy was criminal!”

“That is surprisingly like her—or was. She is dead, I think.”

“Yes. How it must bother her! One can’t imagine accuracy in space, and where time is not. I don’t suppose the angels plume themselves on punctuality.”

“Really, Miss Anne!”

“Well, I will try to be good. Now, don’t laugh! Let us be serious. Do you suppose folks take the seriousness of death into that other world? Not that I personally regard it as so very grim a business. There are many worse trials in life than dying, because vital calamities may repeat themselves; but it seems improbable that we shall have more than one experience of this exit.”

“Who can say?” said Carington. “I have been near it of late; but I can contribute to no wisdom.”

“I like to think I shall grin at the world from the safe side of the fence,” she returned. “Miss Pearson would have said that a due sense of the relative proportion of things would be inconsistent in another sphere with the minute dimensions of our earthly jests.”

“And you call that serious?”

“I do. Don’t you?”

396“No. I shall have to ‘p’int’ the talk, as Mrs. Maybrook says.”

“And what shall we talk about? If I cannot put a smile into my talk, I shall prefer silence.”

He made no answer for a time, and then spoke gravely enough.

“I have had a very narrow escape, Miss Anne, and, but for that fine fellow, Jack, I should have been lost to this life, or, if you like, this life to me.”

“Yes, that is so. I am proud of the boy. He has made a friend, I trust.”

“Yes, and I can help him. I saw that in the talks we had. One can tell, sometimes, when, of a sudden, one comes into sympathetic touch with another nature. It is like taking a key out of your pocket at need, and finding it fit a strange lock and turn easily, and so open a life to you. The sentence isn’t good, but you know what I mean.”

“I do.” And again he was quiet a little while.

“Miss Anne, may I tell you something?”

“Why not?”

“You may not like it.”

“Perhaps not. That is of no moment. I want to hear. I always want to hear. My appetite for the unknown is like that of a ghost for realities.”

“This is real enough.”

“Well?”

“I care—oh, a great deal—for Miss Lyndsay.”

“Do you call that a secret? It was arithmetically revealed to me by five roses, which should have been six.”

“You are a terrible woman, Miss Anne! The witches were a trifle to you!”

397“They had the insight of wickedness. I have the sagacity of love. Rose is very, very dear to me.”

“Do you think it possible—”

“That Rose should care for you? Yes. It is possible. But, frankly, yours is a three weeks’ acquaintance, ripened by unusual events. Neither she nor we know you as we should know a man to whom—”

“Let me interrupt you. I am thinking of the future. One does not win a woman like Miss Lyndsay in a day.”

“You are right. I think, were I you, I would assist the future to take care of itself.”

“Thank you. I should like, much as I care for her, to have her get quite away from any sense of obligation to me. I almost wish she could entirely forget it. Any man could have done the little I did, and, after all, you are quite out of my debt.”

“No one can pay another’s debts. The heart has no clearing-house. Rose must know that. You feel, as I do, that no manly nature should want to be taken for granted, as altogether what is best for life, just on the chances of a minute of decisive action. You want her to know you in many relations, and to know herself also. Isn’t that so?”

“It could not be better stated.”

“If you had saved her life a dozen times, she would still reflect before she said ‘yes,’ and be the more apt to hesitate because of the obligation. It is a strong nature.”

“But I don’t want her to let—”

“No. I understand, and don’t misunderstand me. We are quite at one.”

398“And you will be my friend?”

“Yes. I like you. If you are good enough for my Rose—I doubt— Come and see us; and be prudent now. I never could hold my own tongue. Therefore, much conversational adversity makes me a good adviser. If you see Rose at all before we leave, be on your guard.”

“Thank you again,” and he took her hand.

“Now I must go. What a pity we were ordered not to talk!”

“Dreadful, was it not? And how good we have been! I assure you, Miss Anne, I am worlds the better for your visit. Good-by. I am to be up on the lounge on Sunday afternoon. Indeed, I am to be carried out to the porch. I could walk well enough. Don’t you think I shall have a chance to say good-by?”

“To me? Oh, yes.”

“Please, Miss Anne, you know I mean Miss Rose!”

“Why not? And now I must go.”

She did not calculate on Mrs. Margaret, who was now once more uneasy about this business, and had a maternal mind to put in its way enough obstacles to make the stream of love run anything but smooth. As I have said, she was conservative. The unusual distressed her. Rose’s other love-affairs had been conducted after the conventional manner, and had caused her no great discomfort. There was too much abrupt romance in this courtship, and she feared for the effect on Rose of its singularity, believing it might unsettle her good sense and bring about a too hasty result. She did not understand her daughter; few mothers do.

399It was late in the afternoon of Sunday, almost twilight, when the canoes were loaded and ready. Rose came down last and stood with the rest on the beach. Mrs. Lyndsay, her husband, Anne, and the boys had said good-by to Ellett and Carington, but the mother, on this or that excuse, kept the men busy, until at last, Ellett, seeing Carington’s impatience, called one of his own people, and with his help lifted his friend out on the porch.

The cliff hid from view the little group on the shore below.

“Confound it,” said the sick man, “they are gone! No, I hear them. I think I shall walk to the steps, Ellett.”

“You will do nothing of the kind!”

“Hang it all!”

“No. Keep still.”

At this moment, as Lyndsay was busy putting his people in the boats, and Tom was thundering advice and orders to the men, Anne said:

“Really, Archie, Rose ought to say good-by to Mr. Carington.”

“What is that?” exclaimed Margaret from her canoe, which had just been shoved off from the strand.

“Nothing, dear,” said Anne. “It is really ungracious, Archie.” This in an aside.

“But Margaret thinks—”

“Margaret will make mischief by wanting not to.”

“Well, perhaps you are right. Run up, Rose,” he said aloud, “and say good-by to Mr. Carington. He is on the porch now.”

“I will go up with you,” said Anne; “I forgot to 400say good-by myself,” and, with this mild prevarication to assist her, Rose followed her aunt.

“I came up to say good-by, Mr. Carington.”

“And I,” said Anne.

“Good-by,” he said, putting out his hand. Whether his eyes were as prudent as his tongue, may be doubted.

“You will write to me, Miss Anne?”

“I will, and Mr. Ellett will let us hear.”

“No, I shall do that myself.”

“Come, Rose,” called Lyndsay.

She turned and went away with her aunt. In a few moments Carington saw the little fleet of canoes scattering, as the paddles rose and fell. Then they entered the swift current, and were lost to view around the bend in the river,—the boys calling out a loud “good-by,” and then breaking out into their favorite song:
“Seven braw sons had gude Lord James,
Their worth no Scot will gainsay;
But who shall match the bonny eyes
Of gentle Rose a Lyndsay?”

“Who, indeed!” said Carington, as he shut his field-glass with a snap.