By George, I shall make a
permanent camp here and come when it is time to die!" The good man was merely giving vent to his delight at being under
canvas. He said the same thing every year, and he said it often. But it
more or less expressed the superficial feelings of us all. And when, a
little later, he turned to compliment his wife on the fried potatoes,
and discovered that she was snoring, with her back against a tree, he
grunted with content at the sight and put a ground-sheet over her feet,
as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to fall asleep
after dinner, and then moved back to his own corner, smoking his pipe
with great satisfaction. And I, smoking mine too, lay and fought against the most delicious
sleep imaginable, while my eyes wandered from the fire to the stars
peeping through the branches, and then back again to the group about me. The Rev. Timothy soon let his pipe go out, and succumbed as his wife had
done, for he had worked hard and eaten well. Sangree, also smoking,
leaned against a tree with his gaze fixed on the girl, a depth of
yearning in his face that he could not hide, and that really distressed
me for him. And Joan herself, with wide staring eyes, alert, full of the
new forces of the place, evidently keyed up by the magic of finding
herself among all the things her soul recognised as "home," sat rigid by
the fire, her thoughts roaming through the spaces, the blood stirring
about her heart. She was as unconscious of the Canadian's gaze as she
was that her parents both slept. She looked to me more like a tree, or
something that had grown out of the island, than a living girl of the
century; and when I spoke across to her in a whisper and suggested a
tour of investigation, she started and looked up at me as though she
heard a voice in her dreams. Sangree leaped up and joined us, and without waking the others we three
went over the ridge of the island and made our way down to the shore
behind. The water lay like a lake before us still coloured by the
sunset. The air was keen and scented, wafting the smell of the wooded
islands that hung about us in the darkening air. Very small waves
tumbled softly on the sand. The sea was sown with stars, and everywhere
breathed and pulsed the beauty of the northern summer night. I confess I
speedily lost consciousness of the human presences beside me, and I have
little doubt Joan did too. Only Sangree felt otherwise, I suppose, for
presently we heard him sighing; and I can well imagine that he absorbed
the whole wonder and passion of the scene into his aching heart, to
swell the pain there that was more searching even than the pain at the
sight of such matchless and incomprehensible beauty. The splash of a fish jumping broke the spell. "I wish we had the canoe now," remarked Joan; "we could paddle out to
the other islands." "Of course," I said; "wait here and I'll go across for it," and was
turning to feel my way back through the darkness when she stopped me in
a voice that meant what it said. "No; Mr. Sangree will get it. We will wait here and cooee to guide him." The Canadian was off in a moment, for she had only to hint of her wishes
and he obeyed. "Keep out from shore in case of rocks," I cried out as he went, "and
turn to the right out of the lagoon. That's the shortest way round by
the map." My voice travelled across the still waters and woke echoes in the
distant islands that came back to us like people calling out of space. It was only thirty or forty yards over the ridge and down the other side
to the lagoon where the boats lay, but it was a good mile to coast round
the shore in the dark to where we stood and waited. We heard him
stumbling away among the boulders, and then the sounds suddenly ceased
as he topped the ridge and went down past the fire on the other side. "I didn't want to be left alone with him," the girl said presently in a
low voice. "I'm always afraid he's going to say or do something--" She
hesitated a moment, looking quickly over her shoulder towards the ridge
where he had just disappeared--"something that might lead to
unpleasantness." She stopped abruptly. "_You_ frightened, Joan!" I exclaimed, with genuine surprise. "This is a
new light on your wicked character. I thought the human being who could
frighten you did not exist." Then I suddenly realised she was talking
seriously--looking to me for help of some kind--and at once I dropped
the teasing attitude. "He's very far gone, I think, Joan," I added gravely. "You must be kind
to him, whatever else you may feel. He's exceedingly fond of you." "I know, but I can't help it," she whispered, lest her voice should
carry in the stillness; "there's something about him that--that makes me
feel creepy and half afraid." "But, poor man, it's not his fault if he is delicate and sometimes looks
like death," I laughed gently, by way of defending what I felt to be a
very innocent member of my sex. "Oh, but it's not that I mean," she answered quickly; "it's something I
feel about him, something in his soul, something he hardly knows
himself, but that may come out if we are much together. It draws me, I
feel, tremendously. It stirs what is wild in me--deep down--oh, very
deep down,--yet at the same time makes me feel afraid." "I suppose his thoughts are always playing about you," I said, "but he's
nice-minded and--"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted impatiently, "I can trust myself absolutely
with him. He's gentle and singularly pure-minded. But there's something
else that--" She stopped again sharply to listen. Then she came up close
beside me in the darkness, whispering--

"You know, Mr. Hubbard, sometimes my intuitions warn me a little too
strongly to be ignored. Oh, yes, you needn't tell me again that it's
difficult to distinguish between fancy and intuition. I know all that. But I also know that there's something deep down in that man's soul that
calls to something deep down in mine. And at present it frightens me. Because I cannot make out what it is; and I know, I _know_, he'll do
something some day that--that will shake my life to the very bottom." She laughed a little at the strangeness of her own description. I turned to look at her more closely, but the darkness was too great to
show her face. There was an intensity, almost of suppressed passion, in
her voice that took me completely by surprise. "Nonsense, Joan," I said, a little severely; "you know him well. He's
been with your father for months now." "But that was in London; and up here it's different--I mean, I feel that
it may be different. Life in a place like this blows away the restraints
of the artificial life at home. I know, oh, I know what I'm saying. I
feel all untied in a place like this; the rigidity of one's nature
begins to melt and flow. Surely _you_ must understand what I mean!" "Of course I understand," I replied, yet not wishing to encourage her in
her present line of thought, "and it's a grand experience--for a short
time.