Chapter II

I have much to tell thee, my friend! and of a nature never before known in these woods and by this water. Last night, at sunset, I stood on the Point waiting for my father to come in from his round about the island, when suddenly a boat shot out from Silver Stream and came on toward me, rowed to the accompaniment of a song I never heard. I stood waiting, for the voices were beautiful, one high and strong (and as I listened, it flashed upon me that my father had said the 'cello is like a woman singing), another, deep and rich. There were two men, as I saw when they neared me, and two women; and all were young. The men--what were they like? I hardly know, except that they made me feel ashamed of my roughness. And the women! One was yellow-haired and pale; she had a fairy build, I think, and her shoulders were like the birch-tree. Her head was bare, and the sun--he had stayed to do it--had turned all the threads to gold. She was so white! white as the tiarella in the spring. When I saw her, I bent forward; they looked my way, and I drew back behind the tree. I had been curious, and I was ashamed; it seemed to me they might stop and say, "Who is this fellow who lives in the woods and stares at people like an owl by night?" But the oars dipped, and the boat and song went on. The song! if I but knew it! It called my feet to dancing. It was like laughter and the play of the young squirrels. I watched for them to go back, and in an hour they did, still singing in jubilant chorus; and after that came my father. As soon as I saw him, I knew something had happened. I have never seen him so sad, so weary. He put his hand on my shoulder, after we had beached the boat and were walking up to the cabin.

"Francis," he said, "our good days are over."

"Why?" I asked.

It appeared to me, for some reason, that they had just begun; perhaps because the night was so fragrant and the stars so near. The world had never seemed so homelike and so warm. I knew how a bird feels in its own soft nest.

"Because some people have come to camp on the Bay Shore. I saw their tents, and asked Pierre. He says they are here for the summer. Fool! fool that I was, not to buy that land!"

"But perhaps we shall like them!" I said, and my voice choked in the saying, the world seemed so good, so strange. He grasped my shoulder, and his fingers felt like steel. "Boy! boy!" he whispered. For a minute, I fancied he was crying, as I cried once, years ago, when my rabbit died. "I knew it would come," he said. "Kismet! I bow the neck. Put thy foot upon it gently, if may be."

We went on to the cabin, but somehow we could not talk; and it was not long before my father sought his tent. I went also to mine, and lay down as I was: but not to sleep. Those voices sang in my ears, and my heart beat till it choked me. Outside, the moon was at full flood, and I could bear it no longer. I crept softly out of my tent, and ran--lightly, so that my father should not hear, but still swiftly--to the beach. I pushed off a boat, grudging every grating pebble, and dipped my oars carefully, not to be heard. My father would not have cared, for often I go out at midnight; but I felt strangely. Yet I knew I must see those tents. Out of his earshot, I rowed in hot haste, and every looming tree on the wooded bank seemed to whisper "Hurry! hurry!" I rounded the Point in a new agony lest I should never hear those singing voices again; and there lay the tents, white in the moonlight. I rowed into the shadow of a cliff, tied my boat, and crept along the shore. I could see my mates, and they were mad with fun. Perhaps a dozen people stood there together on the sand laughing, inciting one another to some merrier deed. I stayed in the shadow of my tree, watching them. Then five who were in bathing-dress began wading, and struck out swimming lazily. She was there, the slight, young creature, now with her hair in a glory below her waist. The jealous dark had hid its gold, but I knew what it would be by day. They swam about, calling and laughing in delicious tones, while those on the bank--older people I think--challenged and cautioned them. Then a cry went up, "The raft! the raft!" and they began swimming out, while the women on the bank urged them not to dive, but to wait until to-morrow. I thought I had seen all the sports of young creatures, but I never dreamed of anything so full of happy delight in life as that one girl who climbed on the raft without touching the hand a man offered to help her, and danced about on it, laughing like a wood-thrush gone mad with joy, while the other women shrieked in foolish snatches. Then a man dived from the raft, and another. A woman called from shore, "Don't dive, Zoe, to-night!" and suddenly I knew she was Zoe, and that she would dive and that I must be with her. I knocked off my shoes, waded out, still in the shadow, and swam toward the raft. As I neared it, there was one splash after another; then they were coming up, and I was among them. It seemed as if I had dreamed it, and knew how it would all happen; for when her head, sleek as polished metal, came up beside me, I knew it would, and that I should grasp her dress and swim back with her to land. She was surprised; but quite mechanically she swam beside me.

"Let me alone, Tom," she said at last. "I don't want to go in." I had guided her down the bank to my shadowy covert, and there we rose on our feet in shallow water. Then she turned and looked at me. I was not Tom. I was a stranger. I wondered if she would be frightened, if it was a woman's way to scream; and, still worse, if the others would come. I felt that if they did come to mar that one moment, I should kill them. But she was scarcely even surprised. I saw a quiver at the corner of her mouth.

"Will you tell me who you are?" she asked, in a very soft, cool voice.

"You must never dive again from that raft," said I, and my own voice sounded rough and hard. "Pierre knew better than to let you anchor it there. The water is too shallow. There are rocks."

"You are the hermit's son!" quite as if she had not heard me, and still looking at me with a little smile.

"You have been in the water long enough," said I. "Go to your tent at once and dress. In another minute you will be shivering."

At that she broke into laughter; it was like the moonlight ripple of the lake.

"Sir, I obey," she said with a mock humility which enchanted me. "Good-night." She walked up the bank, her wet skirt dripping as she went. I stood dazed, foolish, looking after. Then as she threaded among the trees toward the glimmer of a tent, I recovered myself and ran after her.

"Tell me," I said in haste, "tell me, are you Zoe?"

She was walking on, and I kept pace with her, knowing how rash I was to follow. She turned her head.

"Not to you," she answered, without pausing in her walk. "Good-night!" and she was gone.

I know I found my boat, and that, as I rowed away, there were cries of "Zoe!" from the swimmers who had missed her. I was dripping, but my blood ran fast. Was she cold? Was she shivering? Fools, to let so delicate a creature go into the water at night! The men were fools.