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. But you’re overtired tonight, Joan, like

the rest of us. A few days in this air will set you above all fears of

the kind you mention.”

Then, after a moment’s silence, I added, feeling I

should estrange her confidence altogether if I blundered any more and

treated her like a child—

“I think, perhaps, the true explanation is that you

pity him for loving you, and at the same time you feel the repulsion of

the healthy, vigorous animal for what is weak and timid. If he came up

boldly and took you by the throat and shouted that he would force you

to love him— well, then you would feel no fear at all. You would know

exactly how to deal with him. Isn’t it, perhaps, something of that

kind?”

The girl made no reply, and when I took her hand I

felt that it trembled a little and was cold.

“It’s not his love that I’m afraid of,” she said

hurriedly, for at this moment we heard the dip of a paddle in the

water, “it’s something in his very soul that terrifies me in a way I

have never been terrified before,— yet fascinates me. In town I was

hardly conscious of his presence. But the moment we got away from

civilisation, it began to come. He seems so—so real up here. I

dread being alone with him. It makes me feel that something must burst

and tear its way out—that he would do something—or I should do

something—I don’t know exactly what I mean, probably,—but that I

should let myself go and scream–-“

“Joan!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” she laughed shortly; “I shan’t

do anything silly, but I wanted to tell you my feelings in case I

needed your help. When I have intuitions as strong as this they are

never wrong, only I don’t know yet what it means exactly.”

“You must hold out for the month, at any rate,” I

said in as matter-of-fact a voice as I could manage, for her manner had

somehow changed my surprise to a subtle sense of alarm. “Sangree only

stays the month, you know. And, anyhow, you are such an odd creature

yourself that you should feel generously towards other odd creatures,”

I ended lamely, with a forced laugh.

She gave my hand a sudden pressure. “I’m glad I’ve

told you at any rate,” she said quickly under her breath, for the canoe

was now gliding up silently like a ghost to our feet, “and I’m glad

you’re here, too,” she added as we moved down towards the water to meet

it.

I made Sangree change into the bows and got into the

steering seat myself, putting the girl between us so that I could watch

them both by keeping their outlines against the sea and stars. For the

intuitions of certain folk—women and children usually, I confess—I

have always felt a great respect that has more often than not been

justified by experience; and now the curious emotion stirred in me by

the girl’s words remained somewhat vividly in my consciousness. I

explained it in some measure by the fact that the girl, tired out by

the fatigue of many days’ travel, had suffered a vigorous reaction of

some kind from the strong, desolate scenery, and further, perhaps, that

she had been treated to my own experience of seeing the members of the

party in a new light—the Canadian, being partly a stranger, more

vividly than the rest of us. But, at the same time, I felt it was quite

possible that she had sensed some subtle link between his personality

and her own, some quality that she had hitherto ignored and that the

routine of town life had kept buried out of sight. The only thing that

seemed difficult to explain was the fear she had spoken of, and this I

hoped the wholesome effects of camp-life and exercise would sweep away

naturally in the course of time.

We made the tour of the island without speaking. It

was all too beautiful for speech. The trees crowded down to the shore

to hear us pass.