Chapter VII The Weaver
The storm spent its full force in the night. The wind raged in the clearings and upon the lakes. But Camp Indiana, sheltered by the woods, heard nothing of the angry elements beyond the continuous sighing of the trees, which, when the wind was most fierce, grew into a painful sobbing whisper. The pines of the North Woods sing varied harmonies, always in a minor key; sometimes, it is a sacred anthem, sometimes a tragic prophecy, sometimes a death chant and sometimes a sad lullaby, such as a bereaved wife might croon to her child.
When the guests emerged upon the balcony in the morning the clouds still shrouded the mountains and the lake. There was nothing to be seen but a white mist.
“We are literally in the clouds,” said Lord Canning pacing the balcony. “But what a soft rare air, and that strong odor of pine; it is most exhilarating.” He drew a deep breath.
“What a magnificent tree,” said Lord Stafford. “They’ve built it into the balcony. Look, Thurston! Isn’t that a unique idea?” He bent over until his body was half in the tree. “By George, there’s a chipmunk!”
“Balsam!” exclaimed Lord Canning, examining a branch. He ascended the steps looking up at the tree. “Magnificent! A natural ornament! What a novel thought to make it a part of the house. I am reminded of the roof-tree of olden times, Uncle Nelson.”
“Quite so!” said Lord Stafford.
“Look!” continued his nephew. “The clouds are rising—slowly. There is the lake! How blue, and what beautiful slopes—how rich in foliage. Such a contrast in greens; the vivid emerald of the maple trees, with the dark shade of the hemlock and other pine varieties—there is no green like theirs—and that faint, very faint touch of red, here and there—a foretaste of Autumn. Look at those wild crags, with the trees rooted in their clefts! This is a panorama of clouds. How systematically they rise, one veil after the other. The mountains are just becoming perceptible—do you see their shadowy outline behind that last thin veil? It is rising—slowly—slowly. Little fragments of mist are floating everywhere. Upon my word, it is quite unreal—like a dream scene.”
“Ha, ha, ha! I’d advise you not to broach the subject of dreams again.”
“Charming! The dark, rich blue of those mountains, with the little mists curling upon them, here and there. That low cloud on the lake here, has remained stationary. Ah, now it is rising. Uncle Nelson, do you see anything?”
Lord Canning had suddenly discerned in the mist, the phantom outline of a female figure kneeling in a canoe.
“Yes, by George! Do you think it could be a peculiar form taken by the mist?”
“Either that—or—it might be the spirit of some unhappy Indian maiden, a heroine of one of the legends of this region. Ah, the sun is coming out—now we shall see her disappear!”
On the contrary, the sun striking through the mist revealed Indiana paddling a red canoe. Bareheaded, the sleeves of her red blouse rolled above the elbow, the sun caught her in a sudden flash of scarlet and gold, so that she seemed an apotheosis in the cloud, of Lord Canning’s Indian maiden.
“It’s Miss Stillwater!” cried his uncle. “Ha, ha, ha—you with your dreams and your Indian maidens.”
Lord Canning rubbed his eyes, watching Indiana paddle toward the boathouse with swift, unerring strokes. “Let us go down and meet her!” he said.
“Good morning, gentlemen!” exclaimed Mrs. Bunker, joining them, as they descended. “How did you sleep last night?”
“Extremely well, thank you, my dear lady,” answered Lord Stafford. “I cannot speak for my nephew, he is addicted to dreams. Ha, ha, ha. That sort of sleeper is always rather restless. Don’t you think so, Mrs. Bunker?”
“This,” said Lord Canning, indicating the prospect, “is very charming, quite unique in its way. I really cannot remember seeing anything like it.”
Lord Stafford slipped. “Be careful, Lord Stafford. It’s the pine needles. They fall year after year. You see how soft and yielding they make the ground. But it’s slippery on an incline.”
They reached the boat-house in time to see Indiana jump from her canoe.
“An extremely picturesque little craft,” said Lord Canning, after they had exchanged the morning greetings.
“Birch bark,” said Indiana. “There’s another here.”
“Ah, a white one. But this red canoe is very effective on the lake. We were quite startled, when you first appeared. Were we not, Uncle?”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. My nephew thought you were the spirit of some Indian maiden, who had died a tragic death.”
“You glided out of the mist in such a wraith-like fashion,” said Lord Canning.
“There was an Indian maiden”—
“Oh, keep those ghost stories for the camp fire, Indiana! Before breakfast is no time for them.”
“Don’t forget, please, Miss Stillwater!” said Lord Canning. “Positively at the camp fire to-night.”
“At the camp fire to-night,” repeated Indiana, in a tragic voice.
“Oh, Indiana can tell you any number of legends about these parts. She picks them up from the guides,” said Mrs. Bunker.
“I am always interested in the legends of a country. There is so much to be gleaned from them.”
“Exactly, Lord Canning,” said Mrs. Bunker. “That’s what I think.”
“I shall look forward to hearing them all, Miss Stillwater,” said Lord Canning, “by the camp fire of course. Every night a story.”
“Like Scheherezade in the Arabian Nights,” said Indiana, “amusing the sultan to save her head.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. Quite so, Miss Stillwater,” laughed Lord Canning.
“But I don’t think my stories would last a hundred and one nights, Lord Canning,” replied Indiana, putting her hands behind her back, and meeting his persistent gaze mischievously.
“Too bad,” he answered, contemplatively. “I should hate to cut off that head. Don’t you know anything else appropriate for a camp fire, which might serve to amuse me, and prolong your life. Can you tell fortunes?”
“Oh, Indiana’s great at that!” said Mrs. Bunker.
“Good—by cards or consulting the palm?”
“Both!” said Indiana promptly. “Learned it from the girls at school. I can also tell your fortune in a tea cup.”
“Indeed, you must initiate me.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha—I prophesied you’d come to it—telling fortunes in a tea cup. That’s rich. Mrs. Bunker, I’ll explain to you—later!”
“What does he mean?” asked Indiana.
“I’ll tell you by the camp fire, Miss Stillwater. Can you interpret dreams?”
Lord Stafford laughed with intense enjoyment.
“I have a dream book, I’ll study it up.”
“Well, in view of your many accomplishments, your head will be quite safe.”
“How about yours?” she said, shyly, bending down to take her jacket from the canoe.
“Ha, ha, ha! Quite so, Miss Stillwater.”
“I’m not sure about mine,” he answered, smiling.
“And if you lose it?”
“The Sultan will meet his fate philosophically, repeating, ‘Kismet, and Allah is wise, saith the Prophet.’”
“Breakfast is served,” exclaimed Kitty, running breathlessly into the boat-house.
“You must be hungry,” said Mrs. Bunker. “You were up so early. Indiana rises at an unearthly hour, here. She’s on the lake at six, sometimes.”
“Do not be surprised if you should see me also at that unearthly hour, Miss Stillwater. I, too, have a passion for early rising, in a place like this! There are some beautiful boats here!”
“Yes, this is a St. Lawrence. I always take ma out in that. She likes it, because it’s steady. But it don’t run like this one—this is my pet. A real Adirondack cedar wood.”
“Indiana,” read Lord Canning. “Everything here is named after you. You’re the prevailing spirit of the place. Will you take me out on the lake after breakfast, and teach me how to manage an Adirondack boat?”
“This is a dangerous lake, Lord Canning,” said Mrs. Bunker. “You wouldn’t think so, to look at it now.”
Lord Canning turned and glanced at the beautiful vista of the lake, sparkling, blue and serene, between the mountains.
“A squall can come up, any minute—a regular tornado—and blow you and your shell of a boat to Jericho.”
“And what would you do, Miss Stillwater,” asked Lord Canning, in visible alarm, “if you were out in your little canoe, and were caught in one of these sudden squalls?”
“Head for the shore. Besides, I’m a swimmer.”
“Are you?” She looked very young to him, standing there in her little, short skirt and loose blouse, her hair blowing about in the breeze, which came freshly over the lake. Younger, even, than when he had first seen her.
“Now, Lord Stafford,” said Mrs. Bunker, after breakfast. “You, my daughter, and myself, will take a trip in ‘The Indiana.’ The horses will be waiting at the landing, and after we have explored the lake, I think we’ll have time for a short drive. Will that program suit you?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Everything that you arrange is bound to be delightful, Mrs. Bunker.”
“We’ll leave the young people to their own devices. Lord Canning is so bent on learning to row an Adirondack boat.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Yes, Mrs. Bunker.”
“It’s a dangerous lake, Lord Stafford—I warned him.”
“You did, Mrs. Bunker—your conscience can rest easily.”
“I feel I’m taking an advantage, Miss Stillwater,” said Lord Canning, lounging comfortably in the bow of Indiana’s pet boat, “to sit here and let you do all the work. Let me take the oars. I have been watching you closely—I think you can trust me.”
“Sit down!” commanded Indiana.
“Dear me, what have I done?”
“You can’t change places in an Adirondack boat, in the middle of the lake. It would tip over, and we’d both flop in.” She laughed merrily.
“Her laugh has the vital ring of youth,” thought Lord Canning. “I might learn to laugh like that again, if she would teach me—”
“Glen and I have often tried it, just for devilment, but then Glen is more used to these boats than you, Lord Canning—”
“Glen!”
“Oh, I forgot. I think everyone knows Glen—everyone does in America, who happens to know us. He’s one of the family.”
“A relative?”
“No!”
“Not a relative, and one of the family,” thought Lord Canning. “Young, old or middle aged?”
“Glen’s only twenty-four and handsome as a picture.”
“Only twenty-four, and handsome as a picture,” thought Lord Canning.
“Wouldn’t you like to smoke, Lord Canning?”
“There’s something of the witch about you, Miss Stillwater. That’s just what I’m longing to do. You are sure you don’t mind?”
Indiana shook her head. Her cheeks were glowing, her eyes sparkling from the exercise.
“That’s very good of you, Miss Stillwater.” He lit his cigar leisurely, then leaned back with a long sigh of content. “You’re a splendid oarswoman, Miss Stillwater; such long, graceful strokes. That splash of color here and there in the woods—it’s most effective—especially, when it’s reflected in the lake—like this branch—look—we are just nearing it—how gracefully it droops over the water. It’s most delightful here—near the shore—let us linger a little while—do you mind? There’s no occasion for this terrific speed, is there? That’s better—now we are merely gliding. Lean back, Miss Stillwater! Won’t you have this pillow? Are you quite comfortable? Are you sure you are quite comfortable? These Adirondack oars are very convenient—just let them swing—I see—and take them up when you are ready. A stroke or two, now and then, will be quite sufficient to send us along—not yet—don’t disturb yourself. No, we will not run into anything—I’ll see to that—you look very nice lying there. The water is like a perfect mirror here, under the trees—every leaf and twig is reflected—beautiful—so restful—I could drift like this—”
“I thought so,” cried Indiana jumping up.
“Dear me, what is the matter?”
“We’re caught in a tree!”
“Why so we are—be careful—that branch will strike your face—I think I can reach it—a most obstinate branch—it persists in bending your way. Well, I can’t blame it—there—how ever did this occur?”
“Why—you insisted on my leaving everything to you—I yielded from pure amiability—but I foresaw what would happen, because you hadn’t the slightest idea where you were drifting.”
“But I know quite well, where I’m drifting—”
“Then how were we caught in this tree?”
“Ah, that’s another story—”
“You were certainly not looking ahead.”
“Then where was I looking? You ought to know.”
“You were lying back with your hands clasped behind your head, saying, ‘I could go on like this forever,’ or something to that effect, and we went plump into the tree.”
“Poor Miss Stillwater—I’m a great trial—you’ll never take me out again, will you?”
“Well, I won’t say that—”
“I’m so glad you didn’t. I think it’s rather a novel sensation to be caught in a tree.”
“Everything is a sensation to you, Lord Canning.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha. When you are my age, Miss Stillwater, you will also appreciate a new sensation. May I ask the object of those violent efforts?”
“Lord Canning—do you realize you’re on the tree as well as in it. There’s an immense branch extending under the water, and with our combined weight we won’t get off in a hurry.”
“Where is the hurry—there are no trains to be caught, I believe.”
“Yes, but I wanted to show you the lake this morning—that would be something. There is so much for you to do and see.”
“Restless little American spirit,” said Lord Canning. “Now if you will hand me that oar—although I appreciate your anxiety to show me everything without delay—I, with my slow English methods—prefer to take things by degrees—if you have no objection, Miss Stillwater; I am enjoying this immensely.”
“Really,” said Indiana doubtfully.
“I give you my word. Now let me have things my own way. There’s no necessity to show me the whole lake at once. I would rather prolong the pleasure—”
“We’re off!”
“Slowly, Miss Stillwater! we’re drifting once more. Ah, look at this giant rock looming above us; how dark and grim—”
“That’s called the ‘Devil’s Pulpit.’ The water right here is five hundred feet deep.”
“And a moment ago it was quite shallow. How black and impenetrable—‘The Devil’s Pulpit.’ I think I can sniff an odor of sulphur. Five hundred feet deep. How quickly the shallows change to the depths—how quickly—don’t hurry—what a gruesome spot. Just the place for a ghost story—that Indian maiden we were talking of this morning—will she do?”
“Well, there was a certain tribe—”
“Pardon me, Miss Stillwater. I forgot that story had already been reserved for the camp fire. Everything in its place.”
“How systematic—”
“I don’t believe in taking all the good things at once, like a greedy child—besides, poor Scheherezade’s head is at stake! I would not deprive her of one night’s respite—”
“Suppose you tell me a story, Lord Canning—one of your adventures. You have travelled so much, you must have had a very interesting life.”
“Interesting in one way—barren in another. Don’t lean over like that, please.”
“Your uncle says you have a passion for exploring.”
“Yes. I suppose it has never occurred to you, Miss Stillwater, that this passion for exploring, in a man of my settled years—Miss Stillwater, I beg of you to be careful, remember it is five hundred feet. This passion for exploring might exist only for want of another interest—a dear and sacred interest—most men of my age possess. Life has withheld from me, so far—it’s most precious gift. I shall hold it the sweeter when bestowed. Do you find it interesting to peer into the depths, Miss Stillwater?”
“Very! They say—”
“Yes, what do they say?”
“That if you look into them long enough, here at the Devil’s Pulpit, you are seized with an impulse to throw yourself in.”
“Dear me; well, I have no fear for you at present. But I shall take care you do not come here unaccompanied. What you have told me, however, is a fact which has been often proved. Whether it is a rocky precipice, five hundred feet of water, or a human soul—the depths have a dangerous fascination. Are you afraid, Miss Stillwater? Don’t you wish to leave this dangerous spot?”
“I want my story, first.”
“You will persist in peering into the depths—beware of them!”
“I’m not afraid.”
“No, I don’t think you are.”
“Well, the story.”
“Ah, yes—the story—you’re in the mood to listen?”
“Yes, yes. Is it to be one of your adventures?”
“Not exactly. I’m not in the mood to relate an adventure. That will keep for another time. This is a charmed spot, you see—as its name would denote—a spell has been laid on me, in the shadow of this rock, and I am obliged to speak the words that come into my head.”
“Then I won’t consider you responsible.”
“No—not here.” Lord Canning folded his arms and gazed down into the impenetrable depths. “There was once a weaver. He wove a dull, gray woof—always the same gray woof. Sometimes, he would look up at the rich blue of the morning sky, then go on weaving his gray web. Sometimes, he would glance at the sunset, and marvel at the gorgeous hues of the clouds—but there was never a gleam of color in the web, that he wove—it was always the same, dull gray. Sometimes, the laughing face of a child would peep into his—and he would gaze longingly back—yearning to snatch the blue of the eyes, the gold of the hair—for that colorless web which Fate had set him to weave. Once he dreamed that a sudden burst of sunlight streamed upon him, as he sat at his loom. He put up his hand and drew down the rays one after the other, weaving them into his work. And as he wove, he heard singing—a choir of beautiful, jubilant voices. The web, transformed into a gleaming fabric of light, gladdened the soul of the weaver. Then he awoke, and saw the dull, gray woof in the loom. He went on, patiently weaving the web which Fate had given him. But his soul cherishes the hope—that some day, perhaps, his dream will come true.”