The world called it failure: he called it success, and the thought evolved itself into happiness for a time.
George Archer was a man of unusual talent and power. He had translated the most recent book by a celebrated Danish naturalist, besides which he had acquired some fame as a naturalist on his own account; and the small world of men, who trouble about such things, mentioned his name with a certain amount of respect as that of one to whom mysteries are revealed.
He was rich. He had travelled all over the world. At last, wishing to go to Canada, the idea of writing a book on the different varieties of Canadian fish came to him with the charm of inspiration, of freedom, and of novelty.
He was singularly unpractical, and given to great enthusiasms.
The glamour of Canada fell upon him; he was fascinated by the long cold winter, with its tempests and swinging winds, its drifting snow, and the endless battle with the princes and powers of the air: by the spring, too, with its force when all the brooks ran and overflowed with the melting of the snow in the hot sun, and the glorious long, light, glowing days, when everything broke into life with suddenness. After this came a gorgeous summer, with hot vibrating days, which brought magnificent flowers into blossom; and then autumn with its Indian summer and stillness – a sort of grey stillness, as if the dear dead came back for a space. The wind died then, and there was only a movement of the air laden with sweetness as it passed over blueberry barrens and lonely stretches of black, still lakes, which possessed the charm of the unknown, the fascination of the forest crowded with moose and bears. George Archer loved the country with its colouring of triumph – trees, sky, and water, all shared in the same glory.
When he came out, he brought letters to various people in Canada, and he collected many important facts for his piscatorial work during his first summer – in the autumn he met Naomi Fontaine, one quarter French, more than a quarter English (her enemies added one half Indian). Archer loved her and married her.
They settled down in an old house, which he rebuilt and made more than comfortable. It stood near an arm of the sea, about two miles from a town called Musquodobit, and in the middle of woods, of salmon rivers, and lakes.
They were happy – perfectly, gloriously happy. They made no plans for the future. To-day was theirs; they loved it, and for three years their happiness lasted. Then Naomi died of pneumonia, and left him alone with their daughter Launa.
Mr. Archer stayed at Musquodobit, for he had no desire to return to England, his relations having received the news of his marriage with certain questions – was Naomi a native? Their idea of natives was hazy, and ran to wild orgies, cannabalism, and no clothing. Had she any relations? George said she was a Roman Catholic and a Canadian, then the letters grew fewer and fewer. Archer did not remember his people. He loved his life; the freedom of it enthralled him. He fished and hunted at the same time he pursued the research about bones, which brought him many letters, much contradiction, and labour.
He could not bear to leave the land which Naomi had loved, whilst dwelling there without her was misery and torment, and yet he loved it too. That land exercises an indescribable fascination over impressionable folk; its intenseness, its wild beauty and passion, the rapid, boiling rivers full of fish, and the quiet, still lakes; the grandeur of the granite rocks, the hills, and vast forests of pine, fir, and maple; and, above all, the turbulent rapture and stormy joy of the sea, crashing against the iron-bound coast. Archer’s home was situated about one hundred yards from the shore. The bay was well sheltered, and two miles below lay the open sea. It was near enough to be within reach when Archer wearied of the calm of the bay; and near enough for them to hear it surge, moan, and roar at times, and to be always in sun and storm – altogether loveable.
Launa Archer was an ugly baby. When her mother died she was a year old, and soon became intelligent enough to interest her father. He was often away, and left her in charge of her nurse Eliza, who loved her; and the child grew from babyhood into a sprite of mischief, always cheerful, always laughing, often naughty, and fond of forgiving Eliza, with much kindness and bounteousness, when she reproved her.
Mr. Archer’s house, “Solitude,” was a large building, with an appearance of care and comfort. There were neighbours three and four miles away. But he cared little for them while Naomi lived, and less after her death. So Launa grew from infancy into childhood alone. She played with the dogs, and in summer let them run among the long grass, which was for hay, and which their wild bounding did not improve. How she loved to see them tearing through it and chasing each other. And then she spent days by the brook, sailing boats and paddling and splashing. Many mighty fleets she launched, which sailed away and never came back, drifting down the current to the sea. She played with the big white daisies in the pasture, and gathered them with huge yellow buttercups. She dabbled in the salt water, and ran up and down the beach, while the dogs hunted the kingfishers and yapped in vain at the crows. It was a heavenly life for a child – lonely never, solitary, perhaps, for she had but frequent glimpses of her father, who journeyed north, south, east, and west, seeking many things, principally forgetfulness, or rather a memory that should revive no pain.
