"It's my innings now, while Ewart is away," said the Doctor; "Marcia, will you go skiing to-morrow with me and Cale?"
"Did n't I promise you I would wait till you came?"
"I know you did; but possession, you know, is nine tenths of the law, and Ewart has been having it all his own way here with you since I left. He did, however, give me a parting word to look out for you. I don't see that you need much looking after; a young lady perfectly able to look out for herself, eh, Mrs. Macleod?"
"Perhaps the circumstances warranted some sort of chaperonage, Doctor," said Mrs. Macleod, entering into his fun and frolic as into no one's else. "As Marcia sets it forth, she was alone, except for you, on the platform of the junction nine miles from home, with Cale braced in the pung on the highroad, ready for the horses to bolt."
"Yes," said the Doctor, musing, "the circumstances were slightly out of the ordinary.—A full bowl, if you please, Marcia."
We were sitting around the hearth in the livingroom on the following Sunday evening. Porridge had just been brought in and I was dispensing it. Mr. Ewart's insistence upon Cale's joining us at this hour every evening, and remaining with us when no guest was present—the Doctor we counted one of us—had for result that, many an evening, we listened delighted and interested to his stories of adventure in the new Northwest. He was, in truth, a man of the woods, a man also of their moods, and like them showing track and trail, leafy underbrush, primeval forest trees, and the darling flowers of the forest as well; but, also, like them, withholding from our eyes the secret springs of his life. We often wondered if ever he would disclose any one of them.
"A Yankee brother to old André," was Jamie's definition of him. He seldom spoke of matters personal to himself, so seldom that Jamie's great joke, perpetrated in his mother's presence and mine, was to the effect that "Ewart and Cale and Marcia are all enlisted in the reserves, mother; and only you, the Doctor, and I are able to fight in the open." The full significance of which good-natured raillery I understood, and answered him accordingly:
"All in good time, Jamie. There is so little to tell, it's worth while to keep you guessing."
I was serving Cale with his portion of porridge when he spoke, answering the question put by the Doctor tome. Cale had been gradually appropriating me since my coming, and I had no cause to resent his right of proprietorship.
"Guess 'twill take two ter hold her up the fust few times; but Marcia's nimble on her feet; she 'll outstrip us soon. She 's a mighty good one on snowshoes."
"Ewart taught you, did n't he?" said the Doctor, turning to me and holding out his bowl the second time. "Just a spoonful more, if you please. I take it this oatmeal came direct from Scotland, did n't it, Mrs. Macleod?" She nodded a pleased affirmative.
"Yes, and a fine teacher he is too," I responded heartily. I was determined the Doctor should not find me backward or awkward when his friend's name was mentioned. With the thought that to-morrow that friend would be with me—us—again, I found my spirits rising. It was hard to repress them. Perhaps the Doctor's keen eye noticed something in my manner, for he spoke with emphasis:
"Well, something has made you over; there 's no exercise like it in this northern climate."
"I guess 't ain't all snow-shoeing," said Cale sententiously.
"You 're right, Cale," I said.
"Account for it then, Cale; I 'd like to hear."
"We 'll give Doctor Rugvie the recipe for all the future farm-folks, won't we?" I nodded understandingly at Cale.
"So we will—so we will," he replied thoughtfully. "Out with it, Cale. What is it has changed Marcia so?"
"Wal, if you want to know I can give it ter you—a reg'lar tonic to be taken daily in big doses. It's old-fashioned, mebbe, but genuine," he said with so comical an emphasis and inflection that we laughed. "It can't be beat, you 'll see. Take equal parts of dry clean air, so bracin' thet sometimes a man feels as if he was walkin' on it, good food and plenty of it, good comp'ny. Shake 'em well together to get out the lumps, and mix well in—a good home. I take it thet's about it, Doctor?"
"Cale, you old Hippocrates," said the Doctor, delighted at Cale's gift of speech, for he had heard him discourse only on "hosses" when he was with us the first time, "you 'd be worth three thousand dollars a year to me as consulting hygienist. Do you want the job?"
"No." He spoke decidedly. "This job 's good enough fer me. I hope 't will be for life now."
"Ewart's colors again, eh, Jamie?" He turned to Jamie with a lift of his eyebrows.
"Winning all along the course, Doctor."
"How do you know all that, Cale?" The Doctor dropped his chaffing and looked over earnestly at Cale beside the chimney-piece.
"Know what?"
"The fact that those special ingredients must be mixed in a good home to prove so effectual as in Marcia's case?" He turned to examine me.
"How do I know it?" He spoke slowly, almost with hesitation, and beneath his bushy eyebrows I thought I saw a suspicious glitter in his small keen gray eyes, but it may have been imagination. "I have n't always been a lonely man, you know—"
"That's just what I don't know, Cale." The Doctor spoke with the encouragement of good fellowship, not as one willing or wanting to ask his confidence, but as one hoping in friendship to receive it. I am sure we all felt with the Doctor at this moment, for Cale's reticence had been a matter of concern to Jamie and Mrs. Macleod. But Jamie had respected his silence.
Cale set his emptied bowl on the tray and sat down again, making himself comfortable by crossing his legs. He heaved a sigh of satisfaction. Mrs. Macleod, Jamie and I read that sign; Cale was ready to expand a little more in the cheerful atmosphere of friends and fireside. We three knew that what he had to retail would be well worth hearing. Jamie settled himself in the sofa corner as usual. The Doctor insisted on carrying the tray to the kitchen.
"Ah, this is good," he said, seating himself by me and spreading his hands to the blaze. "We shan't be interrupted, and the rest of the evening is ours. It's a bitter night, too, which, by contrast, makes this comfort delectable."
We waited, expectant, for Cale.
"You 've been wonderin' now fer 'bout six months, Mis' Macleod, you an' Jamie, whether I was a married man or not, now, hain't you?" He smiled as he spoke, the creases about his eyes deepening slowly.
Mrs. Macleod, with an embarrassment we all enjoyed seeing, moved to a seat beside him; saying gently, if deprecatingly:
"Yes, I could n't help it, Cale."
"How could you, bein' a woman?" he replied as gently. "An' you too, Marcia?"
"Of course; don't I belong to the weaker sex? But here is Jamie, although a man—"
"Oh, I say, Marcia, that's not playing fair," Jamie growled at me as if indifferent; but I knew his curiosity was at the flood, and Cale knew it too. I feared he might tease without satisfying.
"Yes, I 'm married, Mis' Macleod, an' it seems as if I 'd always been married."
Jamie's recent remark about Cale's being a widower, grass-widower, divorcé, Mormon, etc., came back to me, and I could hardly keep from laughing aloud at Mrs. Macleod's look of dismay and amazement.
"I say I'm married, fer you see that once married is always married withme," he repeated emphatically.
The Doctor nodded approvingly. "No uncertain note about that, Cale."
"No sir—ee," Cale nodded understandingly at him in turn, much to Jamie's delight. "A marriage when itisa marriage—'fore God an' men, an' 'fore the altar of two lovin' hearts, is fer good—fer this world anyway, an' fer the next if there is one. 'T ain't often you can come acrosst 'em now-a-days. I guess some men, put it to 'em on a sudden, could n't say under oath whether they was married or single, seein' this divorce business mixes things up worse 'n a progressive euchre party. I 'm only speakin' fer myself, mind you, an' I don't set up fer judgin' others."
"Good for you, Cale! Those are my sentiments," said the Doctor laughing heartily at Cale's idea of the "progressive euchre party".
"It's what keeps me young," Cale continued earnestly; "fer jest the thought of the one woman I loved, an' love now with all the love thet 's in me, warms me jest as this blaze would thaw freezin' sap; it keeps me, as you might say, kinder thawed out with folks, an' a durned cussed tough world."
He paused a moment and, leaning forward, clasped his hands around his crossed knees. I had seen him do this only when he was bracing himself to say something of deep significance. He faced me squarely, with the same keen look that I detected on the first night of my arrival.
"I 've been wonderin', Marcia, if you did n't hail from somewheres near my place, Spencerville, in northern New England, jest over the line—though come ter think of it, you said you was born in New York, did n't you?"
Brought to bay by this question, put to me suddenly without warning, I brought all my self control to bear on my voice and answered:
"Yes, I was born there, but my home for two thirds of my life was in the vicinity of Spencerville."
"I thought so," said Cale almost indifferently. "You had a way with you like the folks round there—not that I know any of your generation," he added hastily. "I left there over a quarter of a century ago. Only, now and then, your ways take me back into another generation where my wife belonged," he said, as if explaining why he had taken the liberty to approach me with the direct question. I forced myself to put on a bold front and ask:
"Who was your wife, Cale? I may know of the family."
"I have my doubts aboutthet," he said with considerable emphasis. "Girls of your age ain't apt to know of folks thet lived, an' loved, an'—I was goin' to say 'lost', but she ain't never thet to me, 'fore they was born. My wife's name, Marcia, was Morey, Jemimy Morey—one of three—"
"Triplets? Yesmarm," he said, in reply to Mrs. Macleod's look of surprise. "Job Morey, her father, was a poor man, poor, as we used ter say, as Job's turkey. He 'd had a hard time, no mistake. He 'd had five boys ter raise on a farm thet was half rocks. Then come the war an' the two oldest had ter go. The third an' fourth was drafted an' Job hired the money to pay bounty; but the cuss turned bounty jumper an' they had ter go. Thet was the year when there was a bleedin' heart an' a rag of crape in most every house in the village. Two on 'em come home ter die, an' the t' other two was never heard from; it most killed Aunt Sally. They 'd had poor luck with four boys, an', by George, after the youngest of them five was fifteen if Aunt Sally did n't have triplets—gals all on em!
"Mother said half the women in the village was there ter help. She said she was out in the woodshed cuttin' up some kindlin'—Job never was known ter be forehanded in anythin'—an' Job come out the kitchen end without seein' her. She heard him give a groan an' say, all to himself he s'posed, as plain as could be: 'O Lord, three more mouths ter fill, an' so little ter fill 'em with!' Then, turnin' an' seeing mother, he smiled as well as he could in the circumstances, an' tried ter put a good face on it by sayin':
"'Well, Aunt Marthy, I ain't got all the material goods thet Old Testament Job had, but I 've got one of his latter day blessings, three daughters, an' I guess, if Sally don't mind, I 'll name 'em after 'em.'
"Thet 'show they come by their names: Keziah, Jemimy, and Keren-happuch, which was the most outlandish name fer about the prettiest baby, mother said, thet ever she 'd set eyes on. They shortened it to 'Happy' mighty quick.
"Aunt Sally who 'd never been strong sence the girls was born, broke right down under her trouble, when she lost her last boy, and never rallied. She died when the girls was n't more 'n ten year old, an' after thet, those six little hands worked early an' late to keep the house for their father. An' they kept it well too.
"Many 's the time after chores was done, I 'd sly over to Job's to fetch wood an' carry water for the sake of gettin' a smile from my pet, thet was Jemimy—a fair-skinned, blue-eyed little thing thet looked as if a breath of wind would blow her over. I watched her grow up like one of them pink-and-white wind-flowers thet come so early in spring, an' I used ter pull whole basketfuls for her, jest ter see her flush up so pleased like, an' get a kiss for my pains.
"I was ten years older than her—old enough ter know what would happen when Jemimy was ten years older too. She growed right inter my life, an' I growed right inter hers, so 't was nat'ral enough when she was seventeen for us ter say we belonged to one another.
"Job never could get ahead, and the farm was mortgaged clear up to the handle. I had n't much neither, for I had mother ter support and worked out by the month, an' Jemimy said 't was no time ter think of gettin' married; we 'd better wait till we could get a little ahead. She said she 'd heard of a place in the mills down Mass'chusetts way, an' although I stood out against it, she had set her heart on goin' an' earnin' a little extra, an' I let her have her way. Keziah married jest 'bout thet time a poor shote of a feller, an' went out West with him on ter some gov'ment lands. Happy was ter keep the house.
"Jemimy promised faithfully ter write, an' so she did, though 't was hard work after mill hours, she said, for she was so tired; but she loved me too well to have me fret an' worry, so she wrote pretty reg'lar every two weeks.
"She 'd been away 'bout seven months an' Job was lookin' like a man with some backbone in him, for half of Jemimy's pay kept comin' reg'lar an' Happy made everything she come nigh like sunshine, when one evenin' Job come over an' asked me how long it had been sence I heard from Jemimy. 'Goin' on four weeks,' says I. 'She told me not to expect much this month she 's so busy.'
"'We ain't heard for six weeks,' says Job, 'an' t'other night I had a dream; 't war n't much of a dream neither—only I can't get rid of it, work it off nor sleep it off, neither. S'posin' you write.'
"You may be pretty sure I did, an', not gettin' an answer, I drove down ter the nearest station an' sent a telegram, an' thet not gettin' an answer neither, I jest put myself aboard the next train for Lowell. Fust time I 'd been on the cars too, but they could n't go fast enough for me.
"I went straight ter the mill she 'd been workin' in, an' asked fer the boss. Then I put the question thet had been hangin' round me like a nightmare for twenty-four hours back.
"'Can you tell me where ter find Jemimy Morey?'
"There was a cur'ous sort er smile went curlin' round the man's lips as he opened a great ledger, an' read an entry thet made me set down on a chair handy, feelin' weak as water:
"'Entered February 2.—Left July 19.'
"Thet was all, but 't was enough.
"'Where 's she gone ter?' says I.
"'We don't keep run of the hands after they 've left unless they go ter another mill, an' she ain't,' says he, clappin' to the ledger with a bang thet said plain as could be, 'Time 's up.'
"'I guess you 'll have ter let me see the women, fer it's a life an' death matter ter me', says I, fer his drivin' ways madded me, an' I was pretty green an' did n't know as much as I might have.
"The strength seemed ter come floodin' right in ter me when I 'd said thet, and I guess there must have been a kinder 'knock-yer-down' look in my eyes, fer the feller sort o' winced—there war n't but us two in the office—an' said:
"'It's against the rules an' 't won't do no good, but if you 'll feel any better you can this time.'
"You see I thought if I could see the women, I 'd ask 'em, an' p'raps they 'd know 'bout her. But, Lord! when I see thet great room stretchin' away ter nothin', an' them hundreds of girls and women a-workin', tendin' them looms as if their life depended on them wooden bolts shovin' back'ards an' for'ards like lightnin', I jest set down on the first bench I come ter sicker 'n death.
"A great wave of black an' a wave of green went through the room. My pulses kept time to therick-rackof the flyin' shuttles, an' my head swum with the dizzyin' of the wheels an' the pumpin' of the shafts.
"'Good God,' I thought, 'is this the place she 's been breathin' out her sweet life in!'
"I tried ter think, but could n't, the floor jarred so with the rumble of the great machines; an' the air grew as thick with dust as a barn floor in threshin' time; an' right through it all, a scorchin' August sun burned in great quiverin' furrers; an' from outside where it slanted on the river rushin' through the mill-sluices, it sent a blindin' reflection whirlin' an' eddyin' along the glarin' white ceilin's till I felt like a drownin' man bein' sucked under...
"I got out somehow, fer I found myself on the street. I went ter every mill in the place—an' might have spared myself the trouble.
"Then I took the houses by rote, askin' at each one for Jemimy Morey. Up one street, down another, I went, the little red brick boxes lookin' as like as one honeycomb ter another; most of 'em was empty—all at the mills except the old women and babies; the fust could n't give me no kind of an answer, an' the second I stumbled over.
"It was gettin' towards six, an' I war n't no nearer findin' what I 'd come fer than when I started, when I heard a factory bell ringin' an' asked what it meant. They told me a quarter ter six an' shuttin' off steam. I started on a dead run fer the little footbridge thet led from the canal alongside, to the mill gates. There I took my stand jest as the six o'clock whistle blew and the great mill gates was hoisted, an' the women an' children come flockin' out an' over the bridge.
"I asked every squad of 'em—they could n't get by me without answerin' me fer 't was only a foot-bridge—if they knew a mill hand by name Jemimy Morey?
"For five minutes I got pretty much the same answer, then a little slip of a gal no higher'n my elbow says: 'What d' you want of her? You can't see her for she 's up at Granny's sick of the fever, an' nobody dass n't go near her.'
"There 's no use my tellin' you how I found her nor what we said—only 't war n't exactly what I 'd planned all through hayin' time when, noonin's, I 'd stretch out in the shadder of a hayrick an', buryin' my face in the coolin' grass, think how 't would seem to haveherhand strokin' my forehead an' smoothin' all care away by her lovin' ways.
"Jest as soon as she was strong enough, I took her home; an' without much ceremony, she sittin' in the arm-chair an' I standin' by her side, we was made man an' wife.... Oh, we was happy! an' thet choice of our happiness, for we both knew it war n't for long. I 've sometimes thought we took out a mortgage on our future bliss we was so happy.... Six months from the day I took her home, the church bell tolled nineteen—an' might have tolled a thousand for all I heard."
There was a long silence; no one cared to break it. As for me, I felt as if stricken dumb by what I was hearing. I knew, intuitively, what I was about to hear. Mrs. Macleod put her hand on Cale's hard brown fist as it lay on his knee. I am sure the sympathetic pressure prolonged the silence. Doctor Rugvie and Jamie were staring into the fire. I could not take my eyes from Cale's face; I was as if fascinated. He, on the contrary, never looked once my way.
His voice grew husky towards the last; it was not till he had cleared his throat several times that he could speak.
"I ain't said much 'bout Happy,—that's short for Keren-happuch, the name she always went by,—but she was the fust thing I took any interest in after thet. My wife charged me over an' over again to look out fer her, an' I 'd begun ter think 't was time.
"There ain't no telling jest what Happy was. She war n't what you 'd call real harn'some, not at fust; but she had a way with her thet was winnin', an' a laugh thet always put me in mind of our old North Crick in August when it goes gurglin' an' winnerin' over its stony bed. She had a smile, too, to match the laugh. There ain't no tellin' what she was like. She was jest Happy, an' there warn't a likely chap this side of the border and t'other, thet knew her, who had n't tried ter get some hold on her. But 't war n't no use; she jest laughed 'em off, fust one, then t' other—but still they kept tryin' till she was twenty-one.
"On her birthday she come over to me jest 'bout dusk as I was milkin' in the shed,—I can see her now, standin' by old Speckles' head an' hangin' on tight ter both her horns as if fer support—an' turnin' sudden ter me with a kind o' laugh, thet sounded a good deal more like a choked-down sob, she says:
"'Brother Si.'
"My name is Silas C., but when I left what used ter be home ter me, I war n't willin' ter have strangers call me by the name thet belonged ter those I loved, so I 've been Cale to all the rest fer a good many years now.
"'Brother Si,'says she, 'you loved my sister; won't you tell me what ter do?'
"'What's up?' says I, fer I could n't collect myself she come on me so sudden, an' I knew by her looks she meant business. Then she blurted it all out:
"'George Jackson has asked me to marry him—an' father wants me to. I don't know whether I ought ter.' She wound up with a sigh.
"'Why not?' says I, fer I war n't master enough of my feelin's to say any more.
"'Well, I don't know exactly—only, I 'm afraid I don't love him as I 'd ought ter.'"
Cale moved uneasily. He leaned his elbows on his knees, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. He continued in a lower voice:
"May the Lord forgive me, but I thought I was doin' fer the best to argue her inter thinkin' she loved him, an' if she did n't, then she would after marriage. An' I'd ought 'er known better! I ain't never fergiven myself fer meddlin'.
"George Jackson was nigh ter me, although he was born in Canady an' I in New England. His farm was a border one, just over the line. There was about three hundred acres of extra good farmin' land and some heavy timber. My five acres was on the border, too, an' many a time we 've clasped hands over the old stone wall on our boundary, an' I 've said, laughin': 'Blood 's thicker 'n water, boy!'
"I used ter work fer him a lot. He was his own master for he was an orphan; an' I had mother, an' thet kinder drew us closer, fer mother mothered him. There war n't a likelier young feller anywheres round. He was ten years younger 'n me, an' I 'd half brought him up in the farmin' line—proud of him, too, if I do say it.
"There war n't a gal in our village or out of it fer a good many miles round thet had n't tried fer him but Happy—an' she was the only one he 'd ever had eyes fer. Thet's the way it mostly goes in life. He was two years younger 'n she was—an' smart! He 'd been through the Academy, an' would have made something of himself besides a farmer if he had n't got bewitched, like most men sometimes in their lives, by a gal.
"I 'd seen which way the wind was blowin' fer quite a while, but kept still, fer George never wanted ter be interfered with, an' Happy was as shy as a wood thrush. The long an' short of it is, they was engaged, an' Job seemed ter think his luck had come at last. But it war n't so with Happy. She never seemed the same after thet. She kept sayin' she wanted ter see a little more of the world before she settled down. An', sure enough, in September she got a chance; fer Keziah, who 'd lost her husband an' been awful sick with chills an' fever, come back ter the old place, an', as there war n't enough fer one more, Happy teased Job ter let her go down with a neighbor's gal to Boston an' work in a store there. 'Only fer a little while,' she said.
"George set his face against her goin' like flint, tellin' her he had enough fer all. But I, knowin' what she said ter me thet night in the milkin' shed, advised him ter let her go an' have her way, tellin' him she 'd be all the happier afterwards, an' be contented ter settle down.
"Wal, she went, an' all Job's peace of mind went with her. You see he was gettin' on in years, nigh on ter seventy-one, an' down with the rheumatiz all thet winter an' spring. The next July he come down with a kind of typhus, an' they sent fer Happy ter come home.
"The minute I see her, I knew she war n't the same Happy as went away. She wore ear-jewels an' a locket, an' had plenty of city airs and ways; but the old laugh an' smile war n't all there. She was harn'some, though, at last! Harn'some as a picture, an' nobody blamed George fer puttin' up with what he did fer the sake of gettin' her. She led him a chase thet summer. She give him every chance ter break with her; but he would n't, an' she dass n't, fer Job had set his heart on the match, an' was thet weak an' childish thet he kept harpin' on their marriage from mornin' till night, an' thet kept up George's courage more 'n anything else. So things went on fer most two months.
"One afternoon, late in September—I shall never ferget the day fer 't was Sunday, an' it seems as if the Sabbath was the devil's own day after all—George an' me took the team ter go up ter the north pasture to ketch his colts. Word had come down thet they 'd broke loose an' needed ter be tended to thet very night; so, without sayin' nothin' ter nobody, fer 't was only our own business if wedidgo on Sunday, we set out.
"On the way up George told me he an' Happy was ter be married the next week, an' I, fer one, was mighty glad on 't, fer I longed ter see her settled down an' like herself again.
"The north pasture lays up over the hill good two mile from the farm, an' when we 'd gone 'bout half way, George reined up, an' says:
"'Let's hitch the team here an' go over ter the pasture crosslots. It ain't more 'n half as fur, an' I 'm afraid it 'll get too dark ter hitch 'em if we drive round the road.'
"'All right,' says I; an' we set off, George takin' the five-rail fences at one bound an' walkin' as if on air.
"He was jest lettin' down the bars an' callin' the colts by name, when we heard a team comin' from the north. Both of us stopped ter listen an' see what 't was, fer there war n't but one road over the hill on the north side, an' thet was so steep it war n't travelled many times a year. We could look right down the slope of the pasture onter the road 'bout a hundred foot below, an', in a minute, a team hove in sight—the horse followin' pretty much his own lead an' feelin' his way down as best he could.
"There was a man an' a woman in the buggy pretty well occupied with one 'nother, fer his arm was round her, an' her head was leanin' on his shoulder. Somehow I did n't like the look of it, an' I was jest turnin' ter George ter say so, when I heard sech an oath from his lips as gives me the creeps every time I think on 't.
"There war n't no time ter say a word, fer I see what he see jest as plain as the sun in the sky:—the woman liftin' her face a little an' the man kissin' her over 'n over again.... 'T was Happy.
"'Do you see thet?' says George, turnin' ter me with a glare like a madman.
"'Yes,' says I, fer I could n't get out another word.
"'You lie!' says he, 'an' if you say thet again it 'll be the last word as leaves your body alive!'
"An' with thet he sprung at me like a tiger, an' the Lord only knows 't was my great pity fer him thet held my hand. But he did n't touch me—oh, no! His hand dropped as if it had been shot, an', leanin' all white an' quiverin' up against the fence, he dropped his head onter his folded arms an' burst inter great sobs thet shook the rails. It was like one of them spring freshets thet tears up the face of nature, an' I knew he 'd be the better fer it, fer he was only a boy in his years, if he was a man in his love.
"'You ain't goin' ter let 'em go?' was the first words I could muster courage to say, as I see him turnin' back ter the pasture bars again.
"'Yes, I 'm goin' ter let them go—ter the devil,' he muttered, between his teeth; then, turnin' ter me, as cool an' calm as if there war n't a woman nor a sarpent in the world, he says:
"'You know, Si, there 's the colts ter be ketched, an' it's gettin' late.'
"An', by the Lord Harry, they was ketched! I never see sech racin' an' tearin' an' rarin'! He was all over the pasture ter once, so it seemed, headin' 'em off, hangin' on ter their manes, throwin' himself astride of fust one then 'nother. I thought the old pasture would be ploughed ready fer spring sowin', the way their heels tore up the sod. I dass n't help him fer I knew the madness thet had been on him, an' the heat he was in, was workin' off thet way. So I kept out of his way, an' within three quarters of an hour he 'd got those four colts well in hand an' started fer home.
"Mother told me the rest.
"'Job had two sinkin' spells thet Sunday afternoon,' she said, 'an' there war n't a drop of sperits in the house. I 'd used up the last of the elderberry wine,' she said, 'an' long 'bout three o'clock, I told Happy she 'd better run down to Seth White's an' get some brandy. She come back in a hurry an' said he had n't a drop of anything in the house, an' she 'd run down to the Crick House,—'t war n't more 'n a mile—an' get some.
"'Thet's the last I see of her till half past eight,' said mother, 'an' when she did come she was all of a shake. She said she 'd hurried so, an' had ter wait at the tavern till they 'd sent down ter the next village. I thought 't was kinder queer,' mother used ter say, 'fer 't was the fust time I 'd ever known the Crick House to run dry of a Sunday.
"'I did n't say nothin', but took the bottle an' started upstairs, leavin' her settin' there on the settle. Job was ramblin' some, an' Keziah had all she could do to keep him pacified.'
"George and me,"—Cale interrupted his story to explain to us,—"had moved Job over inter the north chamber over the kitchen, fer 't was handier ter tend him there; an' all the cookin' was done in the woodshed. But you could hear every sound in the kitchen plain as could be.
"'Job was jest fallin' asleep,' mother said, 'when I heard George come in through the woodshed an' shut the door with a bang thet pretty nigh raised the roof, an' started Job off again; an' I jest riz up out of my chair ter give them young folks a piece of my mind when, all of a suddin', I heard Happy cry out sharp, as if somebody was hurtin' her:
"'"Oh, don't—don't!"
"'Then I knew there was trouble brewin'. I held up my finger ter Keziah ter keep still, an' slippin' down the back stairs, thet led inter the kitchen, laid my eye to the crack in the door thet was part open.
"'I could see Happy crouchin' on the settle with both hands over her face, an' George, standin' over her, had laid a pretty heavy hand on her shoulder.
"'"Who was thet devil?" says he, in a hoarse voice like a crow's-caw. There was only a groan fer answer.
"'"Tell me the truth," says he with a great shudderin' breath thet seemed ter go down clean ter his finger-tips, fer she shook like a leaf under the power of his hands. "Are you fit ter be my wife?"
"'"Fit ter be your wife!" she shrieked, and with a bound thet shook his hand free of her an' left her standin' face ter face with him. Then, liftin' both her round white arms, she opened her little palms upwards jest as if', mother said, 'she was tryin' ter reach the horns of the altar, an' it sounded as if she was prayin': "As there 's my mother's God in heaven above me, I am clean an' fit ter be your wife, George Jackson, an' the wife of any honest man livin', an' if you 'll take me, knowin' what you do—an' you 've seen all there was of harm—I 'll marry you ter-morrow."
"'Her arms dropped by her side as if she had n't a mite of strength left in her body, an' she looked at him with a look thet will ha'nt me ter my dyin' day.'
"Mother said: 'If I 'd had a daughter, I 'd ruther laid her in her grave than seen her marry any man with thet look on her face.'
"'"So help me God, Happy, I 'll save you from yourself an' marry you ter-morrow," says George, slow an' solemn. An' at those words, Job riz right up in bed an' hollered "Amen, amen!" till the rafters rung.'
"Mother 's told me the story over 'n over again, an' always in them same words," said Cale thoughtfully. "She used ter say she guessed Happy made a clean breast of it to George after hearin' that 'Amen'.
"Sure enough they was married the next day—late in the afternoon—when Job had a lucid spell an' cried fer joy. 'I can leave you now, Happy,' was all he said as he give 'em his blessin'. When night come on he wandered again. He 'd had watchers more 'n three weeks, an' Keziah was all tuckered out, an' mother too. I said I 'd watch thet night, but Happy stuck to it she was goin' ter.
"'But, Happy—' says mother, with a meanin' look an' smile.
"'I know, Aunt Marthy.' She answered, sorter hesitatin'; then, settin' the bowl of porridge she had in her hand down on the table, she beckoned mother out inter the shed an', shuttin' the door tight, flung her arms round mother's neck an' begged her ter speak ter George, an' ask him ter let her watch jest this one night with her father.
"'He can't deny me thet, Aunt Marthy, an' if you had a daughter placed as I am, would n't you do as much fer her?'
"Mother said she 'd never ferget the scairt look on the girl's face, nor the feel of her two hands, like chunks of ice, round her neck.
"'My heart ached fer her,' mother said, 'an' I told her I 'd speak ter George, an' I knew 't would be all right.'
"An' so 't was. He was only too glad to do anything fer her ter make her feel easier in her mind; he said he 'd stretch out on the sofy in the parlor, so as to be on hand if they wanted him.
"Mother set up till twelve, an' then Happy brought her up a steamin' bowl of catnip tea.
"'Take it, Aunt Marthy,' she said, coaxin', 'it 'll do you good.'
"'Bless your thoughtful little soul,' says mother, an' gulped it down as innercent as a lamb."
At this point Cale rose, with one stride reached the fireplace and gave the backlog a mighty kick that sent the sparks in showers up the chimney; then, seating himself again, he went on in a hard unyielding voice:
"I ain't made up my mind whether I 've fergiven her or not. I s'pose I have, seein' what the gal must have suffered after thet; but it was my innercent lovin' mother—an' how she could have done it beats all creation! But she was desp'rit.
"George got up twice in the night, but all was quiet. He even walked round the house an' stood under the winder, hopin', as he told me afterwards, to see her shadder on the curtain. The second time he went out, he saw her pull aside the square of cotton an' look out. It was nigh mornin' then and the lamp still burnin'. 'Bout half after five he crept out in his stockin' feet, milked, an' turned the cows out; then he come back, laid down, an' just after daybreak shet his eyes fer the first time.
"When he woke it was 'bout eight o'clock, an' still nary a sound in the house, fer Keziah had n't nothin' on her mind, 'cause mother took it all off. Again he slipped out of doors an' see a dull red spot on the curtain; it looked as if the light was burnin'. He thought she 'd fallen asleep. On thet, he creeps up the back stairs an' looks inter the chamber. There was mother stretched out on the cot unconscious, her face as white an' drawn as the square of cotton beside it. Job was breathin' heavy in the bed; the lamp was smellin' with the vilest smell and—Happy was gone."
"Gone!" Jamie echoed.
"Yes, gone fer good—an' ter this day I can't quite make up my mind whether I 've fergiven her or not.
"Mother come to in something less than half an hour and before the doctor got there. We braced her up with a pint of strong coffee, an', natcherly, she could n't remember nothing after she 'd took the catnip tea—andthe laudanum.
"George rode right an' left, to get track of her, or rather them, fer we all knew there was a man in the case after what we see. He telegraphed ter them big cities, an' hired detectives fer the dirty work; but they could n't get no clew. The folks at the Crick House said there 'd been a man there sketching but they had n't seen him sence Sunday night, when he left on foot. The gal, they said, had n't been near the house, an' Seth White told mother, it was he give her the brandy himself; so you can make what you can of it.
"'I 'm her husband, an' she belongs ter me,' was all George would say, when we tried to make him give her up an' git a bill of divorce.
"Wal," said Cale sententiously, looking hard at the Doctor, "there 's two ways of lookin' at thet, but it took him some time ter see it; an' it war n't till he 'd travelled fer four months, east, north, south, an' west as fur as the Rockies, thet he come home an' settled down to farmin' again; but it would n't work. He war n't the same man; lost his interest, an' was lettin' things go ter the dogs. He never took ter drink, thet I know of. But there war n't no use talking ter him. He was his own master an' would n't be interfered with.
"It might have been nine months after he 'd come home, mebbe 't was a year, I don't remember, when he come to me one day with a telegram in his hand—it had come up on the stage—an' handed it to me with the face of a man ready ter face death or of a dead man jest come ter life, I could n't say which.
"'Read it,' says he, shakin' like a man in drink; 'I can't.' An' I read:
"'I am dyin' and alone among strangers; will you come to me fer the sake of my child.' There was an address thet made George groan, fer he 'd been all over thet great Babel of New York, an' knew jest the kind of place she was in.
"Wal, he went; an' three days afterwards he come home with the dead body of the woman, as was his wife an' yet was n't—jest accordin' as you look at it—an' a live child thet was hers an' not his 'n, whichever way you look at it.
"Sech things ain't nothin' new to you, I s'pose?" Cale turned to the Doctor.
"What became of the man?" said the Doctor, without answering his question. During this recital his eyes never left Cale's face.
"Dunno."
"You don't know! What do you mean by that, Cale?" said Jamie.
"I mean," he answered slowly, "thet George Jackson never did nothin' by halves. He come ter me one day—the day after the funeral—an' said he was goin' away. An' he did; sold out an' went away."
"Did the child live?" Doctor Rugvie's voice broke the silence somewhat sharply. I caught the flight of his thought; I am sure Jamie did also.
"Yes, lived ter be a blessing ter all she come nigh. She war n't more 'n three days old when he brought her home to Keziah. Happy was dead when he found her; more 'n thet he never told us. He left something for them with Lawyer Green—he told me he should do it. They lived on thet in part; it helped ter support 'em, fer they was in a tight place. Thet was how Job's luck came at last, poor soul—little enough it was. He kept on fer years, I heard, but was always weak-minded after he was told what had happened. They said he always used ter call the baby 'Happy', an' could n't bear her out of his sight. Then, when she was 'bout fourteen, he turned against her, an' kept thinkin' it was Happy herself; kept harpin' on her marriage to George, an' flingin' of what she 'd done inter her face, till the child could n't stand it no more. She never knew the whole truth, they said, till she was fifteen; then somebody was willin' ter tell her"—Cale smiled grimly—"astheysee it, an' it 'bout finished what Job begun. I heard she never tasted a morsel of food for two days. The last I heard about her was, she was keepin' the district school. It's been most ten years now sence I heard anything; you don't often meet a man from our way up in Manitoba or the river basin of British Columbia, an' I never was no hand at writin'. Sometime I mean ter look her up. I ain't been able ter do fer her as I 'd ought ter, fer I had bad luck fer too many years—them pesky western wildcat banks cleaned me out twice."
"By what name was the child christened?" asked the Doctor.
"Never was christened thet I know of."
"Oh, Cale, if only they had been happier!" It was Jamie who spoke with almost a groan.
"Wal, thet's the mystery of it," was his quiet answer. Gathering his loose-jointed frame together, he rose. "Guess I 'll go an' look after the hosses; it's goin' ter be a skinner of a night." At the door he turned.
"I know I ain't told you nothin' livenin', but it's life, an' I could n't tell it no other way. It ain't jest the thing ter air fam'ly troubles, but it's all past; an' what I 've told, I 've told ter my friends, an' I 'll thankyouter let what I 've said be 'twixt us four."
We sat in silence for a while after he had left the room. I was wondering how I could make excuse to get away from them all, get away by myself and have it out with myself, when Jamie broke the silence:
"Doctor Rugvie, I 've been putting two and two together. You know what you told us the last time you were here about that New York episode? Do you suppose Cale's story is the key to that?"
"Possibly it might be, if those episodes were not of common occurrence—there are so many all the time."
"I know; but this fitted in almost every detail. I would n't ask him how long ago all this happened."
"Nor I," was the Doctor's reply, and his answer gave a glimpse of his thought. "I will when it comes right."
"Dear old Cale," I murmured. I felt it incumbent on me to say something, lest my unresponsiveness be noticed.
The Doctor rose and took a cigar from the box on the mantel, saying almost to himself:
"'There may be heaven, there must be hell,Meantime there is our earth here—well!'
"Good night, Mrs. Macleod, good night, Boy—Marcia, good night."
He spoke in his usual voice, but with noticeable abruptness.