We saw little, if anything, of Mr. Ewart for the next week. His time was wholly occupied with the land business. He took his breakfast early, at five or thereabout, and rarely came home for dinner or supper. His return at night was also uncertain. Sometimes a telephone message informed us he was starting for Montreal, or Quebec. I think I saw him but once in the week that followed that morning in the office. Then it was late in the evening, on his return from Montreal. He seemed both tired and preoccupied. We were not at table with him during those seven days. I wondered, and Jamie guessed in vain, whether anything might be worrying him. It seemed natural that something should be the trouble during such a wholesale transference of land.
Mrs. Macleod and I were busy all day in getting ready the camp outfit for the four of us. Cale was not to go, as his work was at home. It surprised me that he had so little to say about Mr. Ewart to whom he was devoted. Whenever, in the intimacy of our half-relation bond, I felt at liberty to question him about his employer, he always put me off in a manner far from satisfying and wholly irritating.
I asked him once if he knew whether Mr. Ewart was a bachelor or a widower.
He stared at me for a moment.
"He ain't said one word ter me sence I come here as ter whether he is one or t'other," he answered, sharply for him.
"That's all right, Cale; I bear you no grudge. But, in justice, you 'll have to admit that when you live month after month in the same house with a man and his friends, you can't help wanting to know all there is to know about him and them."
"Wal, if you look at it thet way, I ain't nothing ter say. How 'bout yourself?" With that he deliberately turned his back on me, and left me wondering if by any incautious word, by my manner, by any small act, I might have betrayed the source of my new joy in life.
By the first of June the Seigniory of Lamoral was a wonderfully active place. The farmers were making greater and more intelligent efforts in cultivating their lands than ever before. Mr. Ewart had established the beginning of a small school of agriculture and forestry.
He used one of the vacant outbuildings for the classes. It was open to all the farmers and their families; and twice a week there were lectures by experts, hired by Mr. Ewart, with practical demonstration on soil-testing, selection of seed, hybridizing, and irrigation methods. They were well attended. The women turned out in full force when it was known that there would be three lectures on bee-culture, and the industry threatened to become a rage with the farmers' wives; I found from personal observation that the flower gardens were increased in number and enlarged as to acreage. Mr. Ewart said afterward, when the blossoming time was come, that the land reminded him of the wonderful flower gardens around Erfurt in Germany where honey is a staple of the country. It was proposed to hold a seigniory exhibition of fruits, vegetables and cereals, the last of September.
The Canadian spring seems to lead directly in to summer's wide open door. In June, Jamie and I were often on horseback—I learning to ride a good Kentucky saddle horse that Mr. Ewart had added to the stables. We were much in the woods, picking our way along the rough beginnings of roads that Cale, with the help of a gang of Canuck workmen, was making at right angles through the heavy timber. He had been at work in this portion throughout the winter in order to bring the logs out on sledges over the encrusted snow.
One afternoon in the middle of June, Mr. Ewart, whose continual flittings ceased with the first of the month, asked me to ride with him to the seigniory boundaries on the north—something I had expressed a wish to see before we left for camp, that I might note the progress on our return in September. He said it was a personally conducted tour of inspection of Cale's roads and trails.
My old panama skirt had to serve me for riding-habit. A habitant's straw hat covered my head. Mr. Ewart rode hatless. I was anticipating this hour or two with him in the June green of the forest. I had not been alone in his presence since those hours in the office—and now there was added the intimacy of the woodsy solitude.
"I am beginning to be impatient to show you the trails through that real wilderness on the Upper Saguenay; but those, of course, we take without horses," he said, as he held his hand for my foot and lifted me easily to the saddle.
"I 've been marking off the days in the calendar for the last three weeks. It will be another new life for me in those wilds."
"I hope so."
"Have you decided which way to go?"
"I think it will be the better way to go by train to Lake St. John—to Roberval. We can cross the lake there and reach our camp about as easily as by way of Chicoutimi. We shall have a lot of camp paraphernalia for so long a camping-out, and, besides, that route will show you and Jamie something of a wonderful country. Of course, we shall come back by the Saguenay; I 'm saving the best for the last."
We forded our creek about a mile above the manor and entered the heavy timber.
"And to think it is I, Marcia Farrell, who is going to enjoy all this!" I was joyful in the anticipation of spending eight weeks, at least, in the presence of this man; eight untrammelled weeks in this special wilderness to which he asked me in order that it might seem something of a home to him!
"And why should n't it be you?"
"I don't know of any reason why it should n't, except that it might so easily have been some one else. But I must n't think of that."
"That is sensible; although I confess I don't like to think that you might so easily have been some one else. Hark! Hear that cuckoo—"
We drew rein for a few minutes, there beneath the great trees. The western light was strong, for the sun was still two hours high. Then we rode on slowly over the wide rough clearings which Cale had run at right angles, north and south, east and west through the woods.
"These are all to be grassed down next fall; in another year, if the grass catches well, they will make fine going for horses or for carriages, as well as good fire-lanes for which I have had them cut. In the second season I can turn some of the prize Swiss cattle in here to graze for extra feeding. They know so well how to do all this in Europe, and we can learn so much from those older countries! I am sure, too, if you knew France, you would say that these river counties in French Canada are so like the north of France—like Normandy! When I drive over the country hereabout, I can fancy myself there. I find the same expanse and quiet flow of the river, the highroads bordered by tall poplars, the villages sheltered from the north by a wood break—forest wood. Even the backwater of the river, like our creek, recalls those ancestral lands of my French brothers' forefathers:—the clear dark of the still surface, the lindens, their leaves as big as a palm-leaf fan, coming down to the water's edge, and a wood-scow poling along beneath them. I love every feature of this country!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "and I want you to." He turned in his saddle to look directly at me.
"I do love it, what I know of it—and I wish I might sometime see those other countries you have spoken of, especially those flower gardens of Erfurt." I smiled at my thought.
His words conjured in my imagination enticing pictures of travel—such as I had planned when in New York, when my ten years' savings should permit me to indulge myself in a little roaming. My dream that was! I was tempted to tell him of it then and there.
"You know, Mr. Ewart, I spoke very freely to you and Jamie that morning in the office."
"Yes; I am thankful you felt you could—at last. I have been waiting for some opportune hour when I could ask you a few personal questions, if you permit."
"Well, that was one of my day dreams—at twenty-six," I said, wondering what his was, still unexpressed, at "forty-six". "The truth is, I wanted to break with every association in New York and with my past life—
"Why, Miss Farrell? You are so young to say that; at your age you should have no past."
I hesitated to answer. Thoughts followed one another with rapidity: "Shall I tell him? Lay before him what threatened to embitter my whole life? Shall I make known to him the weight of the burden that rested for so many years on my young shoulders—even before I went down into that great city to earn my livelihood? Shall I tell him that? How can he understand, not having had such experience? What, after all, is that to him, now?
"Young?" I repeated, looking away from him westwards into the illumined perspective of forest greens. "When you were young, very young in years, was there never a time when you felt old, as if youth had never passed your way?"
I heard a sudden, sharp-drawn breath. I turned to him on the instant, and in the quivering nostril, the frowning brows, the hard lines about the well-controlled lips, I read the confirmation of my intuition, expressed to Jamie so many months ago, that he had suffered. My question had probed, unintentionally, to the quick.
With a woman's sympathetic insight, I saw that this man had never recovered from his past, never broken with it as, so recently, I had broken with mine. I felt that until he should make the effort, should gain that point of view, he could never feel free to love me as I loved him. The barrier of that past was between us. What it was I hardly cared to know. I was intent only upon helping him to free himself from the serfdom of memories.
"Don't answer me—I don't want any," I said hastily, leaning over to lay my hand on the pommel of his saddle. It was the only demonstration I dared to make to express my understanding, my sympathy.
In an instant his right hand closed hard upon mine; held it, hard pressed, on the pommel.
"I think I want to answer you," he said, speaking slowly, deliberately, without the slightest trace of excitement in his passionless voice.
He was looking into the woods—not at me—as he spoke, and I knew that at that moment his soul was wandering afar from mine; it was with some one in the past. Suddenly, a hot, unreasonable wave of jealousy overwhelmed me; I yielded to the impulse to pull my hand from under his.
"It is not my hand he is clasping, and pressing with the strength of a press-block on the pommel; it's that other woman's!" I said to myself, making a second determined effort to release my hand.
He whirled about in his saddle, looking me directly in the eyes. He read my thought of him.
"Let your hand lie there, quietly, under mine," he said sternly; "it'syourhand, remember, not another's."
The tense muscles of my hand relaxed. It lay passive under the pressure of his. I waited, quiescent. I realized that the Past had been roused from its lair. I must wait until it should seek covert again of its own accord, before speaking one word.
"I want to answer you—and answer as you alone should be answered: Yes, I have felt old—centuries old—"
He caught the bridle rein under the thumb of his right hand as it lay over mine. The left he thrust into his pocket; drew out a match-safe, a wax-taper. I, meanwhile, was wondering what it all meant; dreading developments, yet longing to know.
He reached for an overhanging branch of birch and broke off a small twig of tender young green. To do so, he removed his hand from mine which I kept on the pommel. I saw that the Past was still prowling, and it behooved me not to irritate, not to enrage by any show of distrust; nor did I feel any.
He struck the taper. "This is against forest rules," he said, "but for this once I shall break them."
He held the fresh green of the tiny birch twig in the flame. The young life dried within leaf and leaf-bud. The living green hung limp, blackened.
"Such was my life when I was young," he said, calmly enough; but, suddenly, a dull red flush showed beneath the clear brown of his cheeks. It mounted to temples, forehead, even to the roots of his hair where a fine sweat broke out.
And, seeing that, I dared—I could bear the sight no longer:—I took my hand from the pommel and laid it over the poor blackened twig, crushing it in my palm; hiding it from his sight, from mine.
I believe he understood the entire significance of my action; for he turned his hand instantly, palm upwards, and caught mine in it. The limp bit of foliage lay between the two palms. He looked at me steadily; not a flickering of the eye, not a twitch of the eyelid.
"I lost the woman I loved—how I lost her I need not say. That's all. But I have answered you."
"Yes—but—"
"What? Speak out—you must," he said hastily, with the first outward sign of nervous irritation.
"Is—is she dead?"
I felt my whole future was at stake when I put that question.
"Yes!"—a pause,—"are you answered fully now?"
"Fully.—Let me have the twig."
He released my hand. I looked at the bit of birch closely, scrutinizingly. I found what I was hoping to find: a tiny sign of life, a wee nub of green; something ready, unseared, for another year.
"I think I 'll take it home," I said, as if interested only in botany; "I find there is life left in it—a tiny bud that may be a shoot in time. I 'll see what I can do with it; the experiment is worth trying."
He smiled for answer. He understood. The beast of the Past was again in its lair. I regained my usual good spirits and proposed that we see Mrs. Boucher's flower gardens before we turned homewards.
"I like to hear you use that word—it is a new one for me."
"For me, too; and if you don't object I would like you to know why it means so much to me. You see I am anticipating the personal questions."
"I want to know—all that I may."
"It is your right, now that I am in your home. Shall I find you in the office this evening?"
"Yes; but rather late. Shall we say ten? I shall not be at home for porridge."
"Any time will do."
We rode out into the open, where the horses cantered quickly along the highroad to Farmeress Boucher's. There I dismounted to visit her gardens and bee-hives and share her enthusiasm over the new industry.
We gave our horses the rein on the homeward way and rode in silence, except for one remark from Mr. Ewart.
"We have not been over the roads, and Cale will be disappointed. We will go another time."
"That will do just as well; I only want to be able to mark the progress in September when we return from camp."
It was supper time when we reached the manor, but Mr. Ewart did not stay for any. He was off again—"on business" he said.
"What shall I tell him? How shall I tell him? Shall what I tell him be all, or garbled? Is there any need to mention my mother? Shall I confess to non-knowledge of my father's name? What is it, after all, to him, who and what they were? It is I, Marcia Farrell, in whom his interest centres."
I thought hard and thought long when I found myself alone after nine in my room. I came at last to the conclusion that there was no need to bring in my mother's name into anything I might have to say to him—not yet. I regretted that he was not present that evening when Cale told the terrible story of her short life. It would have been all sufficient for me to say to him after that, "I am her daughter." Only once, on the occasion of making myself known, had I mentioned her to Cale; not once referred to her, or her desperate course since that narration. And Cale, moreover, had sealed our lips—the four of us. I had no wish to speak of what was so long past. But, sometime, I intended to ask Cale if George Jackson ever obtained a divorce from my mother, and when. In a way, what people are apt to consider a birthright depended on his answer.
Again and again during that hour of concentrated thought, there surged up into consciousness, like a repeating wave of undertone, the realization that all that belonged to a quarter of a century ago, all, all past; done with; their accounts settled. They were forgotten, mostly, by everyone; forgiven, perhaps, by the few, including Cale. Why should what my mother did, or did not do, figure as a factor in my present and future life? I determined to take my stand with Mr. Ewart on this, and this alone.
I was sitting by the open window in the soft June dark and, while thinking, deliberating, weighing facts, choosing them, defining my position to myself, I was aware that I was listening to catch the first distant thud of a horse's hoofs approaching the manor from—somewhere. The night was clear but dark. There was no wind. I rose from my chair and leaned out, stemming both hands on the window ledge. Far away, somewhere on the highroad above the bridge, I heard the long drawn note of an automobile horn, and for the first time since my coming to Lamoral! I listened intently; the machine was coming nearer. At last, I could hear voices in the still night. There was another note of warning, sweet, mellow, far-reaching. I leaned still farther out in order to see if I could catch a glimpse of the light, for I knew it was coming towards the manor. It was a curious thing—but just that sound of an automobile, that action of mine in the dark warmth of a summer night, reacted in consciousness. The motor power invoked the perceptive—and I saw myself as I was nine months before, leaning out from my "old Chelsea" attic window into the sickening sultry heat of mid-September, and shaking my puny fist at the great city around me!
For a moment I relived that hour and the six following. Then, in a flash of comprehension, I saw my way to tell the master of Lamoral something of any very self—of myself alone: I would put into his hand the journal in which I wrote for the last time on that memorable night, when the course of my life was altered, its channel deepened and widened by my acceptance of the place "at service" in Lamoral—the Seigniory of Lamoral.
The automobile was coming up the driveway. Underbrush and undergrowth having been removed by Cale, I caught through the opening the bright gleam of its acetylene lamps. It stopped at the door; I could not distinguish the voices, for the throb of its engine continued. A moment—it was off again. I heard the front door open and close. He was at home and alone.
I lighted my lamp; opened my trunk and took from the bottom the journal, the two blank books. I waited a few minutes till I heard the clock in the kitchen strike ten; then, softly opening my door, I went down the corridor, down stairs into the living-room, now wholly dark, and moved cautiously, in order not to stumble against the furniture, to the office door which was dosed. I rapped softly. It was flung wide open. The Master of Lamoral was standing on the threshold of the brilliantly lighted room, with both hands extended to welcome me.
"I was waiting for you."
But I did not give him mine. Instead, I laid the two blank books in his outstretched palms.
"What's this?" he said, surprised and, it seemed, not wholly pleased.
"Something of me I want you to give your whole attention to when it is convenient; it is my way of answering those personal unput questions. Good night."
He looked at me strangely for a moment, then at the books in his two hands, as if doubtful about accepting them without further explanation on my part.
"Good night," I said again, smiling at his perplexity.
"I suppose it must be good night to one part of you, the corporal, at least; but not to this other," he said, with an answering smile. "Who knows but that I may say good morning to this?"—indicating the journal—"I shall not sleep until I have read it. So good night to this part of you standing before me—and thanks for giving this other part of yourself into my hands."
For the fraction of a minute I hesitated to go. It was so pleasant standing there on the threshold of the room I had furnished for him—the room that found favor with every one who entered it; so pleasant to know that he and I were alone there together with the intimate recollection of the afternoon in the forest between us. I had to exercise all my fortitude of common sense to rescue me from overdoing things, from lingering or entering.
I beat a hurried retreat through the living-room. I knew that he was still standing on the threshold, for the flood of light from the office was undimmed. The door must have been open when I reached the upper landing on the stairs; then, in the perfect quiet of the darkened house, I heard him shut it—so shutting himself in with that other part of me.
I wondered what he would think of that intangible presence? Long after I was in bed I could not sleep. Was he reading it through by course, or dipping into it here and there as I did on that night nine months ago? Would he, could he, placed as he was, understand something of my struggle?
I lost myself in conjecture. I opened my door a little way, for a "cross draft", I said to myself, so lying gently; in reality it was to enable me to hear when Mr. Ewart should come up to his room. I listened for some sound. I heard nothing but the indefinite murmur of summer-night woodsy whisperings. The kitchen clock struck the time for four successive hours—and then there was a faint heralding of dawn. At three the woods showed dark against the sky. My straining ears caught the sound of a door closing somewhere about the house. I heard the soft pattering of the dogs running to and fro without it—then silence, broken only by a cock crowing lustily out beyond the barns.
He had gone out, and he had not come upstairs.
Of the latter I made sure when I rose, sleepy and heavy-eyed, at seven that June morning, and looked into the wide open door of his room in passing. He had not used it.
For weeks, yes, for months, he never mentioned that night or the journal. He never spoke of keeping or returning it. So far as I actually knew he might not have read it; but I was aware of a change in his manner to me. His kindness and thoughtfulness for his household were universal; they included me. From that day, however, when he made his appearance at breakfast, immaculate and seemingly as fresh as if from a good sleep, I became the object of his special thought, his special solicitude.
I was sure Cale noticed this at once. It dawned upon Jamie slowly but surely, and a more bewildered youth I have never seen. I knew he was trying to rhyme ever present facts with my sentiment about leaving Lamoral as expressed to him so recently. Mrs. Macleod, if she perceived the change in Mr. Ewart's manner towards me, gave no sign that she did—and I was grateful to her. She and I were much together, for we were busy getting ready for the camp outing. We were to start within ten days. The Doctor wrote me that he envied me the extra four weeks; he promised his friend to be with him the first of August.
When all was in readiness, Mr. Ewart, with the load of camp belongings, left three days in advance of us. We were to meet him at Roberval.
In the wilds of the Upper Saguenay! By the lake that, in this narration at least, shall have no name. It is long, narrow, winding at its southern extremity; at its northern, it is expanded pool-like among forest-covered heights the reflection of which darkens and apparently deepens it where its waters touch the marginal wilderness! In camp by the margin of the lake, beneath some ancient pines, rare in that region, and surrounded by the spicy fragrance of balsam, spruce and cedar, that came to us warm from the depths of the seemingly illimitable forest behind us!
What a day, that one of our arrival! We journeyed by steamer across Lake St. John. We came by canoe on the river, by portage; and again by canoe on river or lake, as it happened. We camped for one night in the open. On the second day there were several portages; many of our camp belongings were borne on the backs of sturdy Montagnais, friends of old André, and led by André the Second, a strapping youth of sixty. There followed a journey of nine miles up the lake, our lake; and, then, at last, in the glow of sunset, we had sight of old André coming to welcome us in his canoe that floated, a "brown leaf", on the golden waters! I heard the soft grating of the seven keels on the clear shining yellow sands of a tiny cove—and Mr. Ewart was first ashore, helping each of us out, welcoming each to this special bit of his beloved Canadian earth.
"Our home for ten weeks, Miss Farrell," he exclaimed, giving me both hands. "Steady with your foot—you must learn to know the caprices of your own canoe—"
"My own?"
"Yes, this is yours for the season; we don't poach much on one another's canoe preserves here in Canada. This is our fleet."
"The whole seven?"
"Yes; André the First and André the Second have three between them, big ones; you, Jamie and I have one each, and there is one for Mrs. Macleod if she will do me the honor of allowing me to teach her to paddle."
"This is great, mother!" said Jamie who had not ceased to wring old André's hand since the two found firm footing. "But first I must teach her to swim, Ewart."
Poor Mrs. Macleod! I doubt if her idea of camping out was wholly rose-colored at that moment, for she was tired with the excitement, and constant travel in canoe and on foot of the last two days.
"The camp will be the safest place for me at present," she said, trying to appear cheerful, but glancing ruefully at the three rough board huts, gray and weather beaten.
"You 've done nobly, Mrs. Macleod, I appreciate your effort; and if you 'll take immediate possession of the right hand camp—it's yours and Miss Farrell's—I hope you will find a little comfort even in this wilderness. I 'll just settle with these Montagnais comrades, for after supper they will be on their way back to Roberval." Jamie interrupted him to say:
"Mother, here 's André, André, mon vieux camarade. This is my mother, André; I told you about her last year."
Old André's hand, apparently as steady as her own, was extended to meet Mrs. Macleod's. I saw how expressive was that handclasp. The only words she spoke were in her rather halting French:
"My son's comrade—he is mine, I hope, André."
What a smile illumined that parchment face! It was good to see in the wilderness; it was humanly comprehensive of the entire situation.
"This is Miss Farrell," said Jamie; "she lives with us, André, in Lamoral."
Never shall I forget the look, the voice, the words with which he made me welcome.
"I have waited many years for you to come. I am content,moi."
He heaved a long sigh of satisfaction. I think only Mrs. Macleod heard the words, for Jamie had run up to the camp. André took our special suit cases and carried them to the hut.
We took possession and found everything needed for our comfort. Tired as we were, we could not rest until we had unpacked and settled ourselves with something like regularity for the night. And, oh, that first supper in the open! The sun was setting behind the forest; the lake waters, touched with faint color on the farther shore, were without a ripple; the ancient pines above us quiet. And, oh, that first deep sleep on my bed of balsam spruce! Oh, that first awakening in the early morning, the glory of sunrise, the sparkle and dance of the lake waters in my eyes!
Oh, that joy of living! I experienced it then in its fulness for the first time; and my sleep was more refreshing, my awakening more joyful, because of the near presence of the man I loved with all my heart.
It was a new heaven for me—because it was a new earth!
While dressing that first morning, André's welcoming words came back to me: "I have waited many years for you to come." And the look on his face. What did he mean? I recalled that Jamie quoted him, almost in those very words, when he told us of that episode of "forest love" which bore fruit in the wilderness of the Upper Saguenay.
Why should he welcome me with just those words? How many years had he "waited"? Had there been no woman in camp since then? It was hardly possible. I determined to ask Mr. Ewart, as soon as I should have the opportunity, if there had been women here before us, and to question André, also, as to what he meant by his words, but not until I should know him better. He would tell me.
And André told me, but it was after long weeks of intimate acquaintance with the forest and with each other; after the fact that I was becoming all in all to the master of Lamoral, was patent to each of my friends in camp. I saw no attempt on Mr. Ewart's part to hide this fact. I believe I should have despised him if he had. Yet never once during those first five weeks did he mention my journal. Rarely was I alone with him; twice only on the trails through the forest; once in the canoe to the lower end of the lake and on the return; that was all. Never a word of love crossed his lips—but his thought of me, his manner, his care of me, his provision for my enjoyment of each day, his delight in my delight in his "camp", his pleasure in the fact that I was not only regaining what I had lost by the fearful illness of the year before—Doctor Rugvie told him of that—but storing up within my not over powerful body, balm, sunshine, ozone, and health abundant for the future.
And what did I not learn from him! And from André with whom I spent hours out of every day! What forest lore; what ways of cunning from the shy forest dwellers; what tricks of line and bait for the capricious trout, the pugnaciousouananiche, the lazy pickerel! What haunts of beaver I was shown! How I watched them by the hour, lying prone in my Khaki suit of drilling,—short skirt, high laced-boots,—my feminine "bottes sauvages" as André called them,—and bloomers,—from some cedar covert.
Those five weeks were one long dream-reality of forest life, and this was despite flies and mosquitoes which we treated in a scientific manner.
One of the Montagnais brought us the mail once a week from Roberval. The first of August he brought up a telegram that announced the Doctor would be with us the next day. Mr. Ewart decided to meet him at the last portage. André the Second went with him. They would be back just after dark that same day, he said. André the First was left to reign supreme in camp during his absence.
"I am only as old as my heart, mademoiselle; you know that is young, and you make it younger while you are here," he said that afternoon, when he and I were trimming the camp with forest greens for the Doctor's coming, and Jamie was laying a beacon pile near the shore, just north of the camp where there was no underbrush or trees. André told us its light could be seen far down the lake.
After supper I lay down in my hammock-couch, swung beneath the pines at the back of the camp. As I rocked there in the twilight, counting off the minutes of waiting by my heartbeats, I heard Jamie and André talking as they smoked together, and rested after the exertions of the day.
"How came you to think of it, André?"
"How came le bon Dieu to give me eyes—and sight like a hawk?"
"But why are you so sure?"
"Why? Because what I see, I see. What I hear, I hear. It is the same voice I hear in the forest; the same laugh like the little forest brook; the same face that used to look at itself in the pool and smile at what it saw there; the same eyes—non, they are different. I found those others in the wood violets; these match the young chestnuts just breaking from the burrs after the first frost."
"But, André, it was so many years ago."
"To me it is as yesterday, when I see her paddling the canoe and swaying like a reed in the gentle wind."
"And you never knew her name?"
"No. She was his 'little bird', his 'wood-dove' to him; and to her he was 'mon maître', always that—'my master' you say in English which I have forgotten, so long I am in the woods. They were so happy—it was always so with them."
There was a few minutes of silence, then Jamie spoke.
"Has Mr. Ewart ever spoken to you about what you told us that night in camp, André—about that 'forest love'?"
"No, the seignior has never spoken, but,"—he puffed vigorously at his pipe,—"he has no need to speak of it; he thinks it now."
"Why, now?" There was eager curiosity in Jamie's voice, and I knew well in what direction his thoughts were headed. I smiled to myself, and listened as eagerly as he for André's answer.
"I have eyes that see; it is again the 'forest love' with him—"
"Again?" Jamie interrupted him; his voice was suddenly a sharp staccato. "What do you mean by that?"
"I mean what I say. The forest knows its own. She has come again; and my old eyes, that still see like the hawk, are glad at the sight of her—and of him. Have I not prayed all these years that Our Lady of the Snows might bless her—andher child?" There was no mistaking the emphasis on the last words.
"André,"—Jamie's voice dropped to an excited whisper, but I caught it,—"you mean that?"
"I meanthat," he said.
I heard him rise; I heard his steps soft on the cedar-strewn path. Jamie must have followed him, for in a moment I heard him calling from the shore:
"Mother, Marcia, come on! André says it's time to light the beacon."
I joined Mrs. Macleod, and in the dusk we made our way over to the pile of wood.
"You are to light it, mademoiselle," said André, handing me the flaming pine knot. I obeyed mechanically, for André's words were filling all the night with confusing sounds that seemed to echo conflictingly from shore to shore.
"Just here, by the birch bark, mademoiselle."
The beacon caught; there was no wind. The bark snapped, curled and shrivelled; the branches crackled; the little flames leaped, the fire crept higher and higher till it lighted our faces and the waters in the foreground. We waited and watched till we heard a faint "hurrah", and soon, in the distance, a calcium light burned red and long. We went down again to the cove. Jamie was with his mother; I walked behind with André.
"André," I whispered to him, "when you first saw me you said, 'I have waited many years for you to come'. Why did you say that?"
"Why? Because I desired to speak the truth."
"Am I like some one you have seen before? Tell me."
"Yes."
"Who was she?"
"I do not know."
"Will you tell me sometime what you do know of her?"
"Yes, I will tell you."
"Soon?"
"When you will?"
"To-morrow?"
"As you please. I will take you to the tree, my tree—and to hers; you shall see for yourself."
"Thank you, André."
"I must watch the fire," he said, and retraced his steps. Dear old André! It was such a pleasure to be able to talk with him in his own tongue.
We heard the dip of the paddles, a call—our camp call. In a few minutes the Doctor was with us.
I made excuse the next afternoon to go fishing with André. I kept saying to myself:
"This thing is impossible; there can be no connection between me and any woman who may have been here in camp, and Mr. Ewart says several have been here to his knowledge. What if I do look like some other woman who, years ago, lived and loved here in this wilderness? What have I to do with her? I 'll settle this matter once for all and to my satisfaction; André will tell me. He is romantic; and that girl made a deep impression on him, especially in those circumstances. Now the thought of her has become a fixed idea."
The Doctor sulked a little because he was not of my party.
"I don't approve of yoursolitude à deuxparties; they 're against camp rules."
"Just for this once. André is going to show me something I have wanted to see ever since I came."
He was still growling after I was in the canoe.
"Only this once!" I cried, waving my hand to him before we dipped the paddles.
"She used to wave her hand like that," said André, paddling slowly until I got well regulated to his—what I called—rhythm.
I stared at him. Was this an obsession with him? It began to look like it.
We landed on the north shore of the lake. I followed him along a trail, that led through a depression between two heights, upwards to a heavily wooded small plateau overlooking the lake. I followed his lead for another quarter of a mile through these woods. I could see no trail. Then we came into a path, a good one. I remarked on it.
"Yes: I have made it these many years. I come here every year."
We heard the rush of a near-by torrent. The air swept cool over through the woods and struck full on our faces. In a few minutes we were facing it—a singing mass of water pouring down the smooth face of a rock like the apron of a dam; the face was inclined at an angle of fifty degrees. The torrent plunged into a basin set deep among rocks. Above this pool, above the surrounding trees, towered one great pine. André led me to it.
"I have been coming here so many years—count," he said, pointing to the notches from the butt upwards to a height beyond my reach.
This was the tree about which Jamie had sung, notched year after year by André, since he was ten, that he might know his age. And what an age! I counted: "Eighty notches."
"Oh, André, all those years?"
"But yes—and so many more." He held up his ten fingers.
"And Mère Guillardeau will be a hundred her next birthday?"
He nodded. "Yes; my sister is no longer in her first youth."
He began to count backwards and downwards. I counted after him: "Twenty-seven." By the last notch there was a deep gash.
"What is this?"
"Twenty-seven years ago she was here, she whom you are like. I have waited twenty-seven years."
"Tell me about it; I am ready to hear."
"Come here." He beckoned to me from a group of trees, tamaracks, on the other side of the path. He went behind one. I followed him.
"Read," he said. And I read with difficulty, although the lettering was cut deep, one word "Heureuse", and a date "1883. 9. 10."
"'Heureuse'," I repeated. "Happy—happy; oh, I know how happy!"
He looked at me significantly for a moment, and I knew that his "fixed idea" had possession of him. He regarded me, Marcia Farrell, as the child of that "forest love" of nearly twenty-seven years ago.
"You say true; they were happy." Without preliminaries he told me the story he had related to Mr. Ewart and Jamie last year.
"Has Mr. Ewart or Jamie ever seen this tree, André?"
"No. I have told them both of my tree and the notches—but never of this other. You are the first to see it since her blue eyes watched him cut those letters. I have shown it to neither my young comrade nor to the seignior."
"And you say I am so like her?"
"As like as if you were her own child?"
He put up his hand suddenly to "feel the wind". There was a sudden strange movement among the tree tops.
"Come, come quickly, mademoiselle; we must get back. The wind is shifting to the southwest. It is blowing hot. I know the sign. The seignior will not want you to be out even with old André with this wind on the lake."
I looked at the pool; it was black. The singing waters of the torrent showed unearthly white against the intensified green. The sky became suddenly overcast with swiftly moving clouds. In a moment the wind was all about us; the sound of its going through the forest filled the air with a confused roar. The great trees were already swaying, as we ran down the trail to the lake—and found Mr. Ewart just drawing his canoe and ours high up and away from the already uneasy water. He was breathing quickly.
"There 's a storm coming, André—we saw it from the other side of the lake; coming hard, too, from the southwest. The lake will not be safe till it is over. We will stay here in the open even if we get wet. It is not safe in the woods; the trees are already breaking. I hear the crash of the branches."
"And the seignior did not trust mademoiselle with me?" Evidently he was disgruntled. "True, I am no longer in my first youth" (I saw Mr. Ewart suppress a smile), "but years give caution, seignior—and I have many more than you."
Mr. Ewart laughed pleasantly. The sound of it dissipated André's anger—the quick resentment of old age.
"True, mon vieux camarade, you have the years; but I stand between you and mademoiselle when it comes to a matter of years. I must care for you both."
"I am content that it should be so,moi." He squatted by the canoes which he lashed to a small boulder.
No rain fell, but the wind was terrific in its force. We were obliged to lie flat on the sand. The air was filled with confused torrents of sound, so deafening that we could not make ourselves heard one to the other. It was over in ten minutes. The sky cleared, the sun shone; the lake waters subsided; the sounds died away, and very suddenly. In the minute's calm that followed it seemed as if, in all that land, there were no stirring of a leaf, a twig, or fin of fish, or wing of fowl. There was again a sudden change of wind, and we knew the very moment when the upper air currents, cool and crisp with a touch of Arctic frost, swept down upon the earth and brought refreshment. In another quarter of an hour there was no trace of the storm on the lake; but behind us, on each side of the trail, we saw great trees uprooted.
"I can leave you and André now, and with a clear conscience, to your fishing," he said, as he ran down his canoe.
I felt positively grateful to him for not insisting on taking me back with him; it would have hurt old André's pride as well as feelings.
"We 'll bring home fish enough for supper," I said with fine amateur assurance.
"I warn you 'We are seven' plus the two Montagnais; they stay to-night."
"If I don't make good, André will." And André smiled in what I thought a particularly significant way.
We watched the swift course of his canoe over the lake. Just as he was about to round a small promontory, that would hide him from our sight, he stood up, and swung the dripping paddle high above his head. I waved my hand in answering greeting.
André turned to me with a smile. "The seignior has a look of that other—but he is not the same."
What an obsession it was with this man of ninety! I watched him preparing lines and bait. The canoe had passed from sight.
"André," I said, speaking on the impulse of the moment, "I want to go back to camp."
"As you please, mademoiselle. I can fish on that side as well as this." Upon that he put up his pipe,—I verily believe it was still alive and his pockets must have been lined with asbestos,—and we embarked on our little voyage.
I used my paddle mechanically, for I was thinking: "Is it for one moment probable I have any connection with that girl? Is that past, I am trying so hard to eliminate from my life, to present itself here as a quantity with which I must reckon—here in my life in this wilderness? Is there no avoiding it? André is so sure. Jamie knows he is sure; Mr. Ewart knows this too. They can say nothing to me about it—it is a matter of such delicacy; and they do not know who I am; even my journal does not tell that, and I knew this when I gave it into his hands.
"But the Doctor—he knows. He knows from Cale and Delia Beaseley. He knows who I am; in all probability knows this very day, from those papers in his possession, my father's name; but he knows nothing of this new complication that André has brought about by his insistence that I am like some woman who camped here many years ago—
"Twenty-seven years! That must have been just before I was born—and the date—and that word 'heureuse' with a queer capital H—oh—"
Perhaps it was a groan that escaped my lips, for, like a searchlight, the logic of events illumined each factor in that tragedy in which my mother—
My paddle fouled—the canoe careened—
"Sit still, for the love of God, sit still!" André fairly shrieked at me.
"It's all right, André," I said quietly, to calm him.
"They say the lake has no bottom just here, mademoiselle—and if I had lost you for him—" he muttered, and continued to mutter, easing himself of his fright by swearing softly. He soon regained his composure; but was still frowning when I glanced behind me.
What had this searchlight shown me?
Just this:—that "heureuse" is French for happy—and the capital made it a proper name, "Happy". This word told me its own story. According to what Cale had said—and I had all detailed information from him—no trace of my mother was found although detectives had been put to work. She had simply dropped out of sight, not to come to the surface until that night in December when she tried to end her young life from the North River pier. Was she not for a part of that year and three months here in these wilds?
Oh, what a far, far cry it must have been from this Canadian wilderness not made by man, to that other hundreds of miles away—that great metropolis, man made!
We paddled for the rest of the way in silence.