As to Jack, he came out of his room at one, adding an hour out of pure dislike to having any one think he cared. Anne spoke to him, as he passed her, a mere “How are you, Jack?” but he merely answered, “Good morning, Aunt Anne,” and went at once to the barrel in which he had left his cub. It was gone; but whither he never knew. Then he came in to get his rifle, a gift from Anne on his last and fifteenth birthday. That, too, was gone. Upon this he got a crust of bread, and betook himself to the woods, where the black flies were more active than his conscience. At last he climbed a high dead pine, and sat in the wind, and saw, far away on the river, his father’s canoe. He felt that he had been ill-used, and then, remembering Rose on the beach, with the blood about her, had an hour or so of a boy’s unhappiness. Toward evening he found a woodchuck’s burrow, which he resolved to dig out; and, somewhat comforted, at last wandered back to the cabin, all other emotions having given way before the overwhelming hunger to which, in his wrath, he had needlessly condemned himself.
CHAPTER XVI
The fishing had been fortunate in the Cliff Camp waters, and now, somewhat later than usual, dinner being over, the whole family, save Anne, was collected in the large central room of the cabin. The fireplace was of a size to hold logs five feet in length, and was built of rough, unhewn, gray rock. As the evening was cold, a great pile of birch-wood filled the wide chimney-throat with ruddy flame, and the lamp which hung overhead and the candles on the table were scarcely needed to light the room. Here and there were books. In the corner stood a rod or two in their cases; on the racks a rifle and shot-gun.
Lyndsay was busy with his salmon-flies, and was carefully inspecting the multitude of feathered lures which every one collects and no one uses. On a cushion, upon the floor, sat Rose, in the ripest glow of the red birch flame. She was all in virginal white, and with this innocence of color the fire was playing pretty tricks, flushing the white sweep of the skirt with rose, or playing hide-and-seek with flitting shadows, as they hid among the folds, and were chased hither and thither when the long jets of flame spurted out at the ends of the logs.
Jack being still in some disgrace, our Rose must have his head in her lap, the lad’s sturdy figure stretched out on the floor. Beside him, Ned sat cross-legged, like a Turk, and stared into the fire. Dick, at a side-table, with a candle to himself, was far away in another world, watching a wild menagerie of rotifers spinning around on the field of his microscope.
They were quiet, all of them, in the company of their thoughts. At the table, Mrs. Lyndsay was deep in “Belinda.” She dearly loved those pleasant books, still worth the reading, and often gay with very delightful chat. Now and then she read a bit aloud to her husband. She cared little for the great books, and liked best the level lowlands of literature. When Anne was lost in book-land, and it took two or three questions to call her back to consciousness of her kind, Margaret found it impossible to comprehend her absorption. Anne had once said to her, “There are books which carry one away to the mountain-peaks, and will not let one go without a ransom.” Then Margaret had smiled, and replied, with the nearest approach to sarcasm of which she was capable, that it was well there were some people left down below to order the dinners and see to the servants.
In the cool air without, and well wrapped up, Anne Lyndsay swung gently in her hammock beneath the porch. It was well understood among these people, who so deeply loved her, that at times she liked to be alone, and then was to be left to herself. She had struggled for this freedom from kindly intrusion, and years ago had won it, but not without some contest with Margaret, who was quite unable to see why any one could want to be solitary. Anne would say, “I am never alone, my dear,” and was of opinion that the hardest thing to get in a large family were these sacred hours of privacy. Too many women know that.
She was just now absolutely free from pain, and in unrestrained enjoyment of the cool, dry air of the Canadian river, which ran below, and sent up at unaccountable intervals strange noises as she listened. Now it was a low, booming, bass note, and now mingled sounds, as of cries, and distant chuckle of suppressed mirth, where, above and below, the voyaging waters hopped merrily over their rocky path to the sea. The moon was high overhead, and lit up the water with life of light, when here and there the checked current rose in snowy foam over some huge boulder, dropped ages since on the mighty portage of the ice-swept continent. Nor cry nor insect-note came from the somber masses of the hills. After awhile she turned her head, and looked in through the window at the good people who were so near to her heart. Then she called, “Jack! Jack!”
The boy got up and went out to her.