The Camp Of The Dog Read Online

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

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.