Chapter 4: The Canoe

Felix had scarcely worked half an hour before Oliver returned and threw himself on the ground at full length. He had wearied of fishing, the delicate adjustment of the tackle and the care necessary to keep the hook and line from catching in the branches had quickly proved too much for his patience. He lay on the grass, his feet towards the stream which ran and bubbled beneath, and watched Felix chipping out the block intended to fit into the secret opening or locker.

“Is it nearly finished, then?” he said presently. “What a time you have been at it!”

“Nearly three months.”

“Why did you make it so big? It is too big.”

“Is it really? Perhaps I want to put some things in it.”

“Oh, I see; cargo. But where are you going to launch it?”

“Below the stones there.”

“Well, you won’t be able to go far; there’s an old fir across the river down yonder, and a hollow willow has fallen in. Besides, the stream’s too shallow; you’ll take ground before you get half a mile.”

“Shall I?”

“Of course you will. That boat will float six inches deep by herself, and I’m sure there’s not six inches by the Thorns.”

“Very awkward.”

“Why didn’t you have a hide boat made, with a willow framework and leather cover? Then you might perhaps get down the river by hauling it past the shallows and the fallen trees. In two days’ time you would be in the hands of the gipsies.”

“And you would be Sir Constans’ heir!”

“Now, come, I say; that’s too bad. You know I didn’t mean that. Besides, I think I’m as much his heir as you now” (looking at his sinewy arm); “at least, he doesn’t listen as much to you. I mean, the river runs into the gipsies’ country as straight as it can go.”

“Just so.”

“Well, you seem very cool about it!”

“I am not going down the river.”

“Then, where are you going?”

“On the Lake.”

“Whew!” (whistling) “Pooh! Why, the Lake’s--let me see, to Heron Bay it’s quite fifteen miles. You can’t paddle across the land.”

“But I can put the canoe on a cart.”

“Aha! why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Because I did not wish anyone to know. Don’t say anything.”

“Not I. But what on earth, or rather, on water, are you driving at? Where are you going? What’s the canoe for?”

“I am going a voyage. But I will tell you all when it is ready. Meantime, I rely on you to keep silence. The rest think the boat is for the river.”

“I will not say a word. But why did you not have a hide boat?”

“They are not strong enough. They can’t stand knocking about.”

“If you want to go a voyage (where to, I can’t imagine), why not take a passage on board a ship?”

“I want to go my own way. They will only go theirs. Nor do I like the company.”

“Well, certainly the sailors are the roughest lot I know. Still, that would not have hurt you. You are rather dainty, Sir Felix!”

“My daintiness does not hurt you.”

“Can’t I speak?” (sharply)

“Please yourself.”

A silence. A cuckoo sang in the forest, and was answered from a tree within the distant palisade. Felix chopped away slowly and deliberately; he was not a good workman. Oliver watched his progress with contempt; he could have put it into shape in half the time. Felix could draw, and design; he could invent, but he was not a practical workman, to give speedy and accurate effect to his ideas.

“My opinion is,” said Oliver, “that that canoe will not float upright. It’s one-sided.”

Felix, usually so self-controlled, could not refrain from casting his chisel down angrily. But he picked it up again, and said nothing. This silence had more influence upon Oliver, whose nature was very generous, than the bitterest retort. He sat up on the sward.

“I will help launch it,” he said. “We could manage it between us, if you don’t want a lot of the fellows down here.”

“Thank you. I should like that best.”

“And I will help you with the cart when you start.”

Oliver rolled over on his back, and looked up idly at the white flecks of cloud sailing at a great height.

“Old Mouse is a wretch not to give me a command,” he said presently.

Felix looked round involuntarily, lest any one should have heard; Mouse was the nick-name for the Prince. Like all who rule with irresponsible power, the Prince had spies everywhere. He was not a cruel man, nor a benevolent, neither clever nor foolish, neither strong nor weak; simply an ordinary, a very ordinary being, who chanced to sit upon a throne because his ancestors did, and not from any personal superiority.

He was at times much influenced by those around him; at others he took his own course, right or wrong; at another he let matters drift. There was never any telling in the morning what he might do towards night, for there was no vein of will or bias running through his character. In fact, he lacked character; he was all uncertainty, except in jealousy of his supremacy. Possibly some faint perception of his own incapacity, of the feeble grasp he had upon the State, that seemed outwardly so completely his, occasionally crossed his mind.

Hence the furious scenes with his brother; hence the sudden imprisonments and equally sudden pardons; the spies and eavesdroppers, the sequestration of estates for no apparent cause. And, following these erratic severities to the suspected nobles, proclamations giving privileges to the people, and removing taxes. But in a few days these were imposed again, and men who dared to murmur were beaten by the soldiers, or cast into the dungeons. Yet Prince Louis (the family were all of the same name) was not an ill-meaning man; he often meant well, but had no stability or firmness of purpose.

This was why Felix dreaded lest some chance listener should hear Oliver abuse him. Oliver had been in the army for some time; his excellence in all arms, and especially with lance and sword, his acknowledged courage, and his noble birth, entitled him to a command, however lowly it might be. But he was still in the ranks, and not the slightest recognition had ever been taken of his feats, except, indeed, if whispers were true, by some sweet smiles from a certain lady of the palace, who admired knightly prowess.

Oliver chafed under this neglect.

“I would not say that kind of thing,” remarked Felix. “Certainly it is annoying.”

“Annoying! that is a mild expression. Of course, everyone knows the reason. If we had any money, or influence, it would be very different. But Sir Constans has neither gold nor power, and he might have had both.”

“There was a clerk from the notary’s at the house yesterday evening,” said Felix.

“About the debts, no doubt. Some day the cunning old scoundrel, when he can squeeze no more interest out of us, will find a legal quibble and take the lot.”