“That sounds out of place here, somehow,” said Hugh. “This new world has nothing to do with our old Jacobite struggles. It ought to be one of those pretty French Canadian airs, at least.” And he hummed “La Claire Fontaine,” which had greatly taken his fancy, with its pretty chorus,—
“Il y’a longtemps que je t’aime
Jamais je ne t’oublierai.”
which certainly seemed much more in harmony with the exquisite summer evening and the light, gliding motion of the little canoe, as it bounded forward so noiselessly under the ashen paddle, over the purple and crimson tide.
Neither seemed disposed to talk. The beauty of the evening, for one thing, was too absorbing to encourage much conversation. Moreover, May was still worrying a little over the three-cornered problem of Kate and Hugh and Mr. Winthrop, and thought that Hugh’s meditations were possibly wandering in a somewhat similar direction. They entered the “Lonely Bay” very quietly, as was their wont. The spot seemed like a church, in which loud tones or careless words were a desecration. As the canoe glided noiselessly into the deep shadow of the high crags, they both became aware that another boat had come in before them, and was lying motionless in the inmost recess of the little basin. The occupants were unconscious of any intrusion on their solitude, and, as Hugh paused, irresolute whether to proceed or not, a few low spoken words reached their ears in Mr. Winthrop’s very distinct enunciation—words that both thought were: “Then I need not altogether despair!”
May colored to the very roots of her hair, feeling by proxy the “pang” which she believed Hugh must experience, as he silently but swiftly rowed away, lest they should involuntarily hear any more of so very confidential a conversation. Whether the other pair heard the sound of the light dip of the retreating paddle they could not tell; and not a word was exchanged between them concerning the unexpected rencontre, both feeling the subject too delicate to touch.
But as they were rowing slowly homeward, by a circuitous route, the other boat overtook them, and they rowed side by side for the remainder of the way, Mr. Winthrop evidently exerting himself to talk, while Kate remained unusually silent. The moon—rather more than half full, flooded the air and river with her silvery light; and on one side of them lay a glittering expanse, studded with the dark silhouettes of islands. Mr. Winthrop quoted some of the well-known lines from the Merchant of Venice, “On such a night,” etc., Hugh helping him out when he halted for a line. And then Kate asked Hugh whether he could not recite something appropriate to the scene.
“Original, if possible; if not, then quoted. And we won’t even ask you whether it is original, or not,” she added. “You know, we can’t hear the quotation marks.”
“On that condition, I will,” said Hugh, and, after a few moments’ thought, he began:—
“Never a ripple on all the river
As it lies like a mirror beneath the moon,
Only the shadows tremble and quiver,
With the balmy breath of a night in June;
All dark and silent, each shadowy island
Like a silhouette lies on the silver ground,
While, just above us, a rocky highland
Towers grim and dusk, with its pine trees crowned.
Never a sound, save the oar’s soft splashing,
As the boat drifts idly the shore along,
And the arrowy fireflies, silently flashing,
Gleam, living diamonds, the woods among!
And the night-hawk darts o’er the bay’s broad bosom,
And the loon’s laugh breaks on the midnight calm,
And the luscious breath of the wild vine’s blossom,
Wafts from the rocks, like a tide of balm!