That evening we sat late around the camp fire, and before we separated for the night Mr. Ewart said, turning to me:
"I want a promise from you, Miss Farrell."
"What is it?"
"Caution, caution!" said the Doctor.
"That you will make no moresolitude à deuxexcursions, as John calls them, with old André. He is old, despite his seeming strength, and his age is beginning to tell on him. I see that he has failed much since last year."
"You 're right there, Gordon; she should not risk it with him," said Jamie, emphatically. "I 've noticed the change from last year when I have been out with him on the trails. Why, he fell asleep only the other day with his line in his hand and his bait in the water!"
"Did you see that?" said Mr. Ewart. "It happened, too, the other day with me. I was amazed, but not so much as I was last week when we were in the woods making the north trail. He sat down to smoke and, actually, his pipe dropped from his hand. I trod out the fire or there would have been a blaze. Apparently he was asleep. I watched him for an hour, when he seemed to come to himself. It was not a sleep; it was a lethargy. You say it is often so, John—the beginning of the end. We must not let him know anything of this—dear old André!"
"He is already immortalized in that Odyssey of yours, Jamie. People won't forget him, for he lives again in that." The Doctor spoke with deep feeling.
"And your promise, Miss Farrell?"
"Since you insist, yes. But it is hard to give it; we have had so much pleasure together André and I; we have been great chums—dear old André!" Unconsciously I echoed Mr. Ewart's words.
I am sure that was the thought of all of us; our good nights were not the merry ones of the last two months. We were saddened at the thought that he might not be with us again.
For a moment or two Mr. Ewart and I stood alone by the embers of the camp fire; he was covering them with ashes.
"Thank you for your promise. I don't care about experiencing another hour like that when I was crossing the lake this afternoon, with a young cyclone on its way. I have lost so much of life—I cannot lose you."
His speech was abrupt; his voice low, but tense with emotion.
"There will be no need of losing me. I will keep my promise." I spoke lightly, but I knew he knew the significance of my words, as I knew that of his, for with those words I gave myself to him. I felt intuitively that he would not speak of love to me, until he had broken completely with that past to which in thought he was still, in part, a slave. I was willing to wait patiently for his entire emancipation.
"Marcia," said the Doctor one morning, after he had been enjoying, apparently, every minute of his vacation-life in the open, "will you come with me over the north trail as far as Ewart and André have made it? I want to show you something I found there the other day."
Before I could answer, Jamie spoke:
"How about yoursolitude à deuxprinciple, Doctor?"
"It is wise to forget sometimes, Boy. Will you come this morning, Marcia?"
I promptly said I would. I saw that he was slightly ruffled at Jamie's innocent jest; indeed, ever since his arrival, the Doctor had not been wholly like his genial self. Mrs. Macleod noticed it and spoke of it to me.
"We don't realize, when we see him enjoying everything with the zest of a boy, how much he has on his mind. He told me the other day he must cut his vacation short; he is called to the Pacific coast for some of his special work."
I said nothing at the time, because I could not agree with her. I noticed that, at times, there was a slight constraint in his manner towards me—me who was willing for him to know all there was to know, except the fact that I loved his friend. I was convinced that he wanted to air his special knowledge of me with me alone; that after he had freed his mind to me, there would be no constraint.
Twice I caught him looking at Mr. Ewart, as if he were diagnosing his case, and I laughed inwardly. From time to time I surprised the same expression on his face when he was silent, smoking and, at the same time, watching me weave my baskets under the tutelage of a Montagnaise, the squaw of our postman. Mr. Ewart heard me express the wish to learn this handicraft, and within a week my teacher was provided. She remained in camp five days. Perhaps this opened the Doctor's eyes. Perhaps Jamie had spoken with him about what was evident to all. The Doctor grew more and more silent, more thoughtful, less inclined to jest with me. Added to this was the thought that we must break camp sooner than Mr. Ewart had intended. The "homing sense" was making itself felt, for September was with us. We saw some land birds going over early, and the first frost was a heavy one.
The Doctor and I followed the north trail for half a mile; then the Doctor bade me rest, for it was rough going.
"Marcia," he said abruptly, sitting down in front of me, his back against a tree, his hands clasping his knees, "let's have it out."
I saw he felt ill at ease and could but wonder, for, after all, it was only I with whom he had to deal.
"I am ready. I 've only been waiting for you all these weeks."
"Do you know that I have been to Delia Beaseley for certain information?"
"Yes; she wrote me. I wrote her to tell you all she knew of me."
He seemed to breathe more freely after my speaking so frankly, as if I really would welcome anything he might have to say.
"Ah—this clears the atmosphere; we can talk. Of course, you know with Cale's story dovetailing so perfectly into what I told you on my first making acquaintance with you, I simply had to put two and two together; besides, your smile was a constant reminder of some one whom I had known or met—but whom I could not recall try as hard as I might. The result of it all was that I went to Delia Beaseley and put a few questions. Now,"—he hesitated a moment; he seemed to brace himself mentally in order to continue,—"do you know positively whether your father is living or dead? Have you ever known?"
"No; but dead to me even if living—that is why I said I was an orphan."
"I understand; but you don't know either the one or the other for a fact?"
"No; I have no idea."
"You never knew his name?"
"No; and none of the family knew it—you know what Cale said. He gave me the details for the first time."
"You do not know, then, that I have in my possession some papers that might give the name?"
"Yes; I know that. But I told Delia Beaseley not to mention that fact to you, or the papers in any way."
"Why?"
"Why?"
I think all the bitterness of my past must have been concentrated in the tone in which I uttered that syllable. He did not press for the reason, and I did not offer to give it.
"Did it ever occur to you that your father might be living?"
"I have no father, living or dead," I replied passionately. "I own to no such possession. Does a man, simply because he chooses to pursue his pleasure, unmindful of results, acquire the right to fatherhood when he assumes no responsibility for his act?"
"Marcia, poor child, has life been so hard for you? Has nothing compensated for just living?"
He knew he was searching my very soul. I knew it; and the thought of my joy in life, in just living, because of my love that was filling every minute of the day and part of the night with a happiness so intense that, sometimes, I feared it could not endure from its sheer intensity, brought the tears to my eyes, softened my heart, turned for the moment the bitter to sweet.
I answered, but with lips that trembled in spite of my efforts at control: "Yes, there is compensation, full, free, abundant. For all that life has taken out of me, it has replaced ten thousand fold. Perhaps I never had what we call 'life' till now."
"Oh, child, I have seen this happiness in your face—would to God I might add to it!" His face worked strangely with emotion. "Marcia, dear, I am the friend, but also the surgeon. I have to use the knife—"
"But not on me—not on me!" I cried out in protest. "Don't tell me you know who my father is or was—don't, if you are my friend; don't speak his name to me."
"Why not, Marcia?"
"I must not hear it; I will not hear it—will not, do you understand? I am trying to forget that past, live in my present joy—don't, please don't tell me." I covered my eyes with my hands.
He drew down my hands from before my face.
"Listen, my dear girl. There are rights—your rights I have every reason to believe, and legal, as it seems to me. This whole matter involves a point of honor with me. Let me explain—don't shrink so from hearing me; I won't mention any names. Let me ask you a question:—Did Delia Beaseley tell you there was a marriage certificate among those papers?"
"Yes, but, thank God, she could not remember the name! It has been so many years—and all before I was born."
"But I know it. It stands in black and white, and through that unlying witness you have rights—that money, you know—"
"The 'conscience money'?"
"Yes."
"It is tainted, tainted, and my mother's blood is on it—I will not touch it. I will not have it. I have taken wages in Lamoral because Jamie assured me the money was your own—not one penny of it from that fund."
"Yes, it is my own, and I never made a better investment with so few dollars. But, Marcia—"
He hesitated; his face looked tense; his voice sounded as if strained to breaking. The knife was hurting him almost as much as it hurt me. I looked at him.
"Don't look at me so; I can't do my duty if you do."
"I don't want you to do your duty so far as I am concerned. I want you to show your friendship for me, by not telling me anything that you may know."
"But, Marcia, it is time—"
"But not now—oh, not now! You don't know what I have borne—I can bear no more—" I spoke brokenly.
"My dear girl, what can you tell me that I do not know, I who was with your mother in her last hour—"
I broke down then, sobbing, trying to explain but only half coherently:
"She was here—twenty-seven years ago—with André—he showed me the tree—"
"Marcia, calm yourself. Tell me, if you can, just what you mean."
I struggled to regain my self-control, and when I could speak without sobbing, I explained in a few words my reason for thinking my mother was here long years before me with the man who was my father.
The Doctor listened intently.
"This makes the past clearer to me, Marcia, but at the same time it complicates the present, the future—"
"Oh, don't let's talk about past or future!" I cried, nervously irritated by this constant reappearance of new combinations of my past in my present, and possible future. "Let me enjoy what is given me to enjoy now—it is so much!"
"I must see my way, Marcia. A duty remains a duty, even if the doing of it be postponed. I am your friend. I cannot let you wreck your life—-"
"Wreck my life? What do you mean?" I demanded sharply. "How can I wreck it when for the first time I am in a safe harbor?"
He could not, or would not, answer me directly.
"Marcia, many a time when I have an operation to perform, the issue of which seems to me to be a clear one of death, I grow faint-hearted and say to myself: 'I will let the trouble take its natural course—it is death in the end, and, at least, not under my knife.' Then I get a grip on myself; look my duty squarely in the face—and do the best that lies in my trained hand, in my keen sight, in my knowledge of this frail body in which we dwell for a time. And sometimes it happens, that, instead of the issue death, of which I felt certain, there is life as the desired outcome—and I rejoice. I asked an old soldier once, a veteran of the Civil War, a three years man,—he is still living and now a minister of God's word,—how he felt in battle? Could he describe his feelings to me?
"'Yes,' he said, 'I can. I don't know how it is with other men, but I used to have but one fear, that of being a coward. I prayed not to be.' That is the way I feel now towards you in relation to this matter. But for the present we will drop the subject; we will not discuss it further."
He changed the subject at once, and I was grateful to him. He began to speak of Jamie.
"He is getting very restless. He told me you knew something of his plans. What do you think of them?"
"You mean his returning to England and settling for the winter in London? He told me that before we left Lamoral. I suppose he ought to go. At any rate, he is much stronger, better, is n't he?"
"He is n't the same man. The truth is he was plucked away from the white scourge as a brand from the burning. I really believe he will not go back in the matter of health, although I wish he might remain another year here to clinch the matter for his own sake, and mine—"
"And mine. I shall miss him so!"
The Doctor looked at me rather curiously, but did not comment on what I said. I was wondering if he were at work reasoning to my conclusion about Mrs. Macleod's leaving Lamoral.
"Well, my dear girl, it's a break-up all round. That's the worst of this camping-out business. Jamie is going so soon—
"Soon? Do you mean he is going to leave Lamoral soon?"
"Yes. He had letters last night from his publishers. The book requires his presence in London by September twenty-third. He will have to sail by the sixteenth. Mrs. Macleod is joyful at the prospect. Jamie told me to tell you. I think he hated to himself. He is very fond of you, Marcia."
I smiled at my thoughts.
"No fonder of me than I am of him. He has changed so much in these last nine months."
"You, too, see that?"
"Oh, yes, and his mother sees it. He has matured in every way."
The Doctor smiled. "You talk as if you were his grandmother. I 'm proud of him, I confess. Had my boy lived—" His voice broke.
"Dear Doctor Rugvie, it is all a wilderness, as Jamie said, is n't it? And we 're fortunate to find a trail, like this, that leads to camp—and friends," I said, pointing to the newly made path through the forest.
"Yes, my dear,—and that reminds me I have n't shown you what I brought you here to see. Come."
He penetrated farther into the woods and off the trail to the left. There we found a blasted tree in which was a great hollow.
"It is filled with honey, Marcia, wild honey. I wonder that no track of bear is to be seen about here."
"Who would ever think of finding such a store of sweet in this poor old lightning-blasted tree!" I exclaimed, looking more closely at it. "What a feast Bruin will have some day."
"You see there is honey even in the wilderness, Marcia. I wanted to convince you that there is such—may you, also, find it so." He turned towards the camp, I following his lead.
"By the way," he said, as he walked on rapidly, "do you know anything that could have given old André any physical or nervous shock recently?"
"No—I don't recall anything, at least anything that he might feel physically. It's just possible a fright I gave him unintentionally that day of the storm may have affected him for a time. Why, does he show any effect of shock?"
"Yes, decidedly. What was it?"
I told him of my carelessness with the paddle while crossing the lake; of the careening of the canoe; of André's terrified shriek and his muttered fear of the depth of the lake.
"That must have been it. I felt sure there was some nervous shock."
"Oh, how could I do it! Dear old André—and I of all others!"
"It's his age, Marcia; it was liable to come at any time; this is why Ewart felt so anxious about you that day and required the promise. Old as he is, he is tough as a pine knot, wiry as witch grass, with great powers of endurance, good eyesight, good teeth; he has seemed less than seventy till this year. Now he is breaking up. It would not surprise me if this were his débâcle."
"I can't bear to think of it. Why must all these changes come at once! What am I to do in the midst of this general débâcle?"
"Marcia," he stopped short, turned to face me, "remember that now and hereafter when you need a friend you will find one in me. Don't hesitate to come to me, to call on me whenever there may be need, or when there is no need. I had once, many years ago, not only a son but a darling daughter. She would have been about your age—a year younger."
I could not thank him, grateful as I was, for I was inwardly rebellious that he should feel called upon to offer me the protection of his friendship, when he must see that his friend was the only one to give me the needed shelter—-and that in Lamoral, because he loved me. For a moment his words seemed almost an insult to Mr. Ewart.
Suddenly he laughed out—his hearty kindly laugh. It put new heart into me.
"What is it?" I asked quickly, ready to respond to a little cheer.
"Ewart is having his surprise too, but domestically. He had word in the mail from Cale last night, and according to his account everything is going to the dogs at Lamoral. Angélique has elected to fall in love with Widower Pierre and he with her. They are to postpone the marriage until the seignior returns, but beg he will consider the state of their affections and be considerate."
I laughed with him. There was humor in this situation at Lamoral, for I had warned Cale before I left how this affair would terminate, and he had sniffed at my clairvoyance.
"The truth is, Cale is homesick for the whole household."
"Poor Cale! He is having a hard time. I ought to be at home to help him, to comfort him. Our new relationship means that I have found another friend."
"And a faithful one."
"You think we shall break camp very soon?"
"Yes. I have to be off to-morrow—"
"To-morrow! Why, you were to stay into the second week of September."
"I have to leave sooner than I planned. The Montagnais brought up a telegram with the mail, and my answer goes back with me to-morrow. I 've kept the Montagnais for guide, although I should not fear to risk it alone, now that I have been over the route so many times."
"Then, if Mrs. Macleod and Jamie are to sail soon, I must go, too, I suppose."
"Yes, Cale needs you; the whole household needs you. I proposed to Ewart that we all go together, then there will be no heart-breaking goodbys, except to André."
I bit my lip to keep back any inquiry about Mr. Ewart's going with us, and was thankful I held my peace for the Doctor continued, tramping steadily on ahead of me:
"But now Ewart will remain to the end—"
"But has it come to this?" I cried. I was depressed at the turn of events.
The Doctor stopped, turned and faced me, saying gravely:
"It has, Marcia; I read the signs. We shall know when we get back. I was with him all last night; there is no help. But Ewart and I did not want you and Jamie and Mrs. Macleod to know it—not till morning. You thought he was out fishing when we left; so did Jamie. Ewart asked me to tell you on our way back."
"André—"
I could not speak another word. The old Canadian had so endeared himself to me during the many weeks in the wilds. Added to this was the thought of his probable connection with my mother's short-lived joy. It was all too sudden.
"Itisthe débâcle, no mistake about that," I said stolidly, and set my teeth together that they should not chatter and betray my weakness of spirit.
"Can't I stay and help to nurse him?"
"No, Marcia, that won't do. André lies in a lethargy; his condition may not change for days, for weeks, although I doubt this. His son and Ewart will do all that is necessary. Ewart will never leave the two here alone. You would be an extra care for them. It is now exceptionally cold for the season in this latitude; the fall rains may set in any time. Don't propose such a thing to Ewart, I beg of you. But Ewart remains—that is the kind of friend Ewart is."
The request was too earnest for me not to accede to it with as good a grace as possible.
On our return we found that it was as the Doctor had predicted: the old guide was unconscious.
Mr. Ewart decided the matter of breaking camp. We were to leave the next morning with the Montagnais and André the Second for guides. André's son was to accompany us only to the fourth portage. The Doctor, with the other Montagnais, was sufficient for the rest of the way. The camp belongings were to follow later with Mr. Ewart, whenever that should be.
I remember that day as one of dreary confusion—packing, sorting, shivering a little in the chill air. The sun shone pale; it failed to warm the earth or our bodies. All the forest stirred at times uneasily. André's son declared it foretold long cold rains followed by sharp frost. And amid all the confusion of the day we could hear the undertone of our thought: "Old André is dying". Mr. Ewart would not permit us to see him.
"It is better to carry with you only the memory of him as he has looked to us during all these weeks—young in his heart, joyful in our companionship."
I saw the relief in Mr. Ewart's face when we were ready. He spoke cheerily to me who failed to respond with anything resembling cheerfulness.
"It's a bad business in camp during the fall rains, and they are setting in early this year. I shall know you are safely housed—and there is so much to look forward to. Home will be a pleasant place for us, won't it?"
"I thought this, also, was home to you—"
"Only so long as you are here; my home henceforth is where you are."
And, hearing those words, despite the chill air, despite the lack of warm sunshine, despite the fact that old André lay dying in his tent just beyond the camp, despite the fact that Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were to leave me alone in Lamoral, that the Doctor was going away for an indefinite time, my happiness was at the flood.
For a moment only, we stood there on the shore of the little cove, together and alone—and glad to be! We stood there, man and woman facing each other, as primeval man and woman may have stood thousands of years ago on this oldest piece of the known earth, there in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. Something primeval entered into the expression of our love for each other; our souls were naked, the one to the other; our eyes promised all, the one to the other; our lips were ready for their seal of sacrament when the time should come that we might give it each to the other without witness.
And no word was spoken, for no word was needed.
The Doctor joined us rather inopportunely and, accounting for the situation, made no end of a pother with his traps and his canoe.
Once more Jamie and I asked if we might not take one look at old André, but the Doctor put his foot down.
"Better not. Remember him as you last saw him; it will be a memory to dwell with—this would not be."
Jamie put on a brave face, but I knew he was ready for a good cry.
"I am not reconciled to say goodby to you here, Gordon," he said.
The two clasped hands.
"Oh, I shall be running over to see you and Mrs. Macleod before long. Be sure, Mrs. Macleod, to have my room ready for me next summer in Crieff—and don't forget the green canopy over my bed. I have n't forgotten it."
She smiled. "I shall never forget your kindness, never; but I can't help the longing for home."
"There, there, no more you can't," said the Doctor brusquely. "No more leave-takings; they don't set well on my breakfast. We shall all be together again soon, please God. The ocean is but a pond and the crossing a five days' picnic now-a-days. You may follow us in a few days, Ewart. Meanwhile, I 'll see that your household is safely landed at Lamoral—if only the rain will hold off, we shall have cause for thankfulness," he added fervently. We all knew the Doctor was talking against time and parting. "Raincoats all in readiness?" And then, not waiting for an answer:
"I shall run up to Lamoral after I get back from San Francisco, Gordon; I 'm not sure I shan't return by the Canadian Pacific."
"Good luck, John, and goodby till then," said Mr. Ewart. "Bon voyage, Mrs. Macleod. Miss Farrell, I give you carte blanche for all wedding preparations. Tell Pierre to order from his tailor, and charge to me. I shall give them away.—Macleod, you full-fledged genius,"—he caught Jamie's hands in his,—"let me hear from you—a wireless will just suit my impatience. Oh, Miss Farrell, may I trouble you to see Mère Guillardeau and tell her of André? I will telegraph you before I return. Goodby—goodby."
There was a hand-clasp all around again. The Montagnais and André's son took their places; pushed off. Our return voyage was begun.
With the dip of the paddles I heard, as an undertone, old André's little song he used to sing to us in camp, the little French song that Jamie incorporated in his "André's Odyssey":
"I am going over there, over there,To search for the City of God.If I find over there, over there,What I seek—oh afar, oh afar!—I will sing, when I'm home from afar,Of the wonders and glory of God."
Never, never so long as memory lasts, can I forget the separate stages of that return journey. On the first day we had dull overcast skies that threatened rain; the chill wind roughened the lakes and river, and made dismal crossings of the portages at one of which we bade goodby to André's son. We arrived the next afternoon at Roberval in a veritable deluge, the rain having set in while we were crossing Lake St. John. We left by train that evening for Chicoutimi. I remember our late arrival there, the rain still falling in torrents, and, at last, our fleeing the next morning for shelter to the great Saguenay steamer.
On that third day we made the voyage down the Saguenay. It seemed to me as if I were embarking on some Stygian flood, for we looked into a rain-swept impenetrable perspective. The dark waters were beaten into quiescence, except for the current, by the weight of falling raindrops. That was all we saw at first. Despite the Doctor's assumed cheerfulness and his brave attempts to cheer us, we felt depressed. At last came the cessation of rain; the heavy clouds rolled upwards; the perspective cleared and showed the mighty river narrowed to a gorge with the dark outposts of Capes East and West looming vast, desolate, repellent before us.
And always there continued that darkness around, above, beneath us, till, farther down, we swept into the deeper shadow of Capes Trinity and Eternity. In passing them, the pall of some impending calamity fell upon my spirit. I could not emerge from it, try as I might.
Was anything about to happen to the man I loved, to him who was waiting there in the wilderness to entertain Death as his next guest? Should we four friends, who were making this journey, ever be together in the future?
The Doctor kept a watchful eye on me. When the steamer drew to the landing at Tadoussac, I saw him and Jamie remove their hats and stand so, bareheaded, till the boat moved away. Mrs. Macleod and I, watching them, said to each other that they were thinking of André and his voyage of seventeen years ago, when he set out from Tadoussac to see the "New Jerusalem" by that far western lake.
We were glad to take the Montreal express at Quebec which we saw under lowering skies and in a bitter northeast wind. Jamie had telegraphed to Cale from Roberval; he and little Pete were at the junction to meet us. His joy at our return was unmistakable, but his welcome was unique.
"Wal, Mis' Macleod, I guess 't is 'bout time fer you an' Marcia ter be gettin' back ter the manor. Angélique an' Pete have got tied up already—gone off honey-moonin' to Sorel. I could n't hinder it no longer. Marie 's took a notion to visit her 'feller', as they say here, in Three Rivers, an' me an' Pete is holdin' the fort."
How we laughed; we could not help it at Cale's plight. That laugh did us a world of good. Cale, after shaking hands with each of us, stowed us away in the big coach.
"I 'll come over again fer the traps, Doctor."
"All right, Cale. I can be of some use, even if I don't stay but one night at Lamoral. By the way, just leave these things of mine in the baggage-room; it will save taking them over. I have my handbag."
"We ain't got so much grub as we might have, but I guess we can make out to get along, Marcia," said Cale, anxiously.
"Oh, I 'll manage, Cale; don't worry. We 'll stop in the village for provisions, and it won't take me long to straighten things out."
"Of course you did n't think we were coming down on you like the Assyrians of old," said Jamie, taking his seat beside Cale.
"Why, no. I cal'lated you 'd be here likely enough in ten days. I guess Angélique and Pete would n't have got spliced quite so soon if they 'd thought you 'd come this week. They cal'lated ter be home by the time you got here."
We were glad to find something at which we could laugh without pretence. Cale's description of the wedding in the church, at which he was best man; of his inability to understand a word of the service; of Pete's embracing him instead of Angélique when it was all over, and of little Pete dissolving in tears on his return to empty Lamoral and wetting Cale's starched shirt front before he could be comforted, was something to be remembered.
"I must write this up for Ewart," said Jamie, that evening when we sat once again around a normal hearth.
"He will enjoy it; no one better," said the Doctor who was busy looking up New York sailings. "Look here, Boy, you say you want a week, at least, in New York?"
"Yes. I have never seen the place, and I don't want to go home without knowing something about it."
"Well, in that case, I will make a proposition to you. Suppose you sail from New York instead of Montreal? You can have a week there, sail on the sixteenth and be in London on time, provided you leave here to-morrow night."
"To-morrow night?" I echoed dismally.
"Yes, it will have to be to-morrow night—or leave out New York. Better decide to go, Mrs. Macleod, for then I can entertain you for two days before I leave for San Francisco and, in any case, put my house at your disposal."
Both Mrs. Macleod and Jamie hesitated; I felt they were considering me, not wishing to leave me alone in Lamoral.
"Don't think of me," I said. "The sooner this parting from you and Jamie is over the better it will be for me." I fear I spoke too decidedly.
"Marcia, my dear, I don't see how I can leave you here alone."
"I 'm used to being alone." I answered shortly to hide my emotion.
"Yes, better cut it short," Jamie said with a twitch of his upper lip. "We 'll accept your invitation, Doctor Rugvie—you 're always doing something for us; we 've come to expect it; I hope we shan't end by taking it for granted."
"Nothing would please me better than that, Boy. You are a bit over-tired, to-night; better go to bed now, and do all there is to be done in the morning. I must go then."
"What, can't you wait to go with us?" Jamie demanded.
"No; I must be in New York to-morrow evening. I will meet you at the station the next day."
"I believe I am a bit fagged—and I know mother is. That portage business is a strain on the best legs. But you were game, Marcia, no mistake."
"Help me to be 'game' now—and go to bed. I 'll follow just as soon as I set the bread to rise."
"It's too bad that I must leave you to this, Marcia," said Mrs. Macleod regretfully, as she kissed me good night—for the second time at Lamoral.
"Oh, I can do all there is to be done."
I returned her kiss. I was beginning to love this gentle, reticent Scotchwoman.
"I don't want any good night from you, Marcia," said Jamie gruffly. "Oh, I hate the whole business!" He flung out of the room, and I rose to follow him and Mrs. Macleod.
"Stay with me a little while, Marcia; you are not so tired as they are. Who knows whether I shall see you for a whole month or more?" The Doctor spoke earnestly.
"You expect to be gone so long?"
"Perhaps longer—it depends on what I find awaiting me. You permit another?" He reached for a cigar.
"Let me light it for you."
I performed the little service for him, which he loved to accept from me, and then sat down in Jamie's corner of the sofa.
The Doctor puffed vigorously for a while. Then he spoke, suddenly looking at me:
"After all, it is Ewart that makes Lamoral, is n't it, Marcia?"
"Yes," I replied promptly. I was so glad to speak his name here in his own home. I was hoping his friend would feel inclined to talk of him.
"I have never had an opportunity to realize this before; it is the first time I have been here without him."
"I remember Jamie said, the night before you came last November, that I should n't know the house after Mr. Ewart took possession."
The Doctor turned to me, smiling almost wistfully, r so it seemed to me.
"His presence makes the difference between the house and the home. Is n't that what Jamie meant?"
"Yes, I am sure it is. Mr. Ewart himself calls the old manor 'home' now." I smiled at my thoughts. Had he not said, "My home is henceforth where you are"?
"And I, for my part, am thankful to hear him use that word. Marcia, Ewart has been, in a way, a homeless man."
"I thought so from the little he has said."
"He was orphaned early in life. Has he ever spoken to you of his wife?" The question was put casually, but I knew intentionally.
"Only once."
"And once only to me, his friend—several years ago. He has suffered. I have known no detail, but whatever it was, it went deep."
I was willing to follow his lead a little further and, although I realized the ice was thin, I ventured.
"I wonder if you have ever heard any gossip—"
"Gossip? What gossip?" The Doctor's words were abrupt, his tone resentful.
"Something Jamie heard here in the village, and because he did not believe it, he told me, when I first came, that if I ever heard it I should not believe it either—"
"About Ewart?" He ceased to puff at his cigar.
"Yes; about his having been married and divorced, and that he has a child living, a boy whom he is educating in England."
"That's all fool-talk about the boy." The Doctor spoke testily. "I don't mind telling you that he was married, as of course you know, and lost his wife. I don't mind telling you that he was divorced from her; I suppose that is a matter of public record somewhere. I don't know who she was—or what she was; he is loyal to that memory. But there is no boy in the case."
He tossed his cigar into the fire and began tapping the floor rapidly with the tip of his boot.
"I inferred, of course, from a remark he made to me then, that there was a child mixed up in the affair—"
"All this must be the foundation for the rumors, then?" I said.
"Yes; but if Ewart has a child, and I am convinced he has—"
"You are?" I asked in amazement, thereby proving to the Doctor that I had never given credence to this part of the report.
He nodded emphatically, looking away from me into the fire. "If he has a child, I know it to be a girl—no boy."
"I had n't thought of that."
"I see you have n't," he said dryly; then, clearing his throat, he turned squarely to me, speaking deliberately, as if hoping every word would carry conviction.
"Marcia, if Ewart has a child, as I am convinced he has, it is a daughter,—" with a quick turn of his head he faced me, speaking distinctly but rapidly,—"and that daughter is you."
It was said, the unheard-of. He had used his knife when I was off my guard. I was powerless to shrink from it, to protest against its use. All I could do was to bear.
I heard one of the dogs whine somewhere about the house. I know I counted the vagrant sparks flying up the chimney. I heard the kitchen clock striking. I counted—ten. I remembered that I had forgotten to wind it, and must do so when I made the bread. I moistened my lips; they were suddenly parched. Then I spoke.
"Why have you told me this?" I failed, curiously, to hear my own voice, and repeated the question.
"Marcia, it had to be said—it was my duty."
"Why?"
"Why?" He turned to me with something like anger flashing in his eyes. "Because I don't choose to have you make a wreck of your life, as I told you only the other day—"
"But if I choose—" I did not know what I was saying. I was merely articulating, but could not tell him so.
"If you choose! Good God—don't you see your situation? Marcia, dear girl, come to yourself—you are not yourself."
Without another word he rose quickly, and went out. I heard him go into the kitchen. He came back with a third of a glass of water.
"Take this, Marcia."
I obeyed. The bitter taste is even now, at times, on my tongue. Soon I was able to hear my own voice.
"Thank you." I felt his finger on my wrist.
"You are better now?"
"Yes." I passed my hand across my eyes to clear my sight. I heard a heavy long-drawn sigh from the man standing in front of me.
"Does he know?" was my first rational question.
"Ewartknow? Marcia, Marcia—think what you are saying! Ewart is a gentleman—the soul of honor—"
"No, of course, he does n't. I did n't think.— Why have n't you told him instead of me?"
"Why? I tell you because you are a woman; because it is your right to withdraw from a situation that is untenable; you must be the first to know."
"I see; I am beginning to understand."
"Marcia, this is a confession. I blame myself for much of this. I am guilty of procrastinating in a matter of duty. Listen, my dear girl; you remember that night in February when you met me at the junction?"
"Oh, yes, I remember—I wish I could forget." I felt suddenly so tired.
"I heard all this in Ewart's voice when he bade me look out for you. I saw all this in your face when you greeted him on his return. I did not know then of your connection with Cale, with that sad affair of twenty-seven years ago; but, from the moment I knew your birthday, from that night when Cale's story fitted its key to mine, from the moment I learned the truth from Delia Beaseley about you, from the moment I examined those papers in my possession, I should have spoken; should have written you at least; should have warned—but I waited to make more sure."
"Areyou sure?"
I put that question as a drowning man catches at a floating reed.
"No, I dare not say I am sure until Ewart himself confirms black and white—sees that certificate; but I must warn you just the same. It is my duty."
I drew a longer breath. He was not wholly sure then. There was a reprieve, meanwhile—
What "meanwhile"? I could not think; but I was aware that the Doctor was speaking again, thinking for me. I listened apathetically.
"Marcia, I have to leave to-morrow morning. I must leave you with Cale. Thank God, you have him near you! It has been impressed upon me that you must be told all this before Ewart gets back. You are a woman—and your womanhood will dictate, will show you the way out. Come to me, come to my home—I shall not be there; come now, with Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I will wire Ewart that you are with us for a little while. Get time to breathe, to think things out, to conquer, before he comes—"
"No." I spoke with decision. I made a physical effort to speak so. "I shall remain where I am—for a while. I have Cale. When I go, he goes with me; but, oh, don't, don't say any more—I cannot bear it!"
My words were half prayer, half groan. I felt suddenly weak, sick throughout my whole body.
"I wish I might bear this for you, dear girl. I had to say it. I could not let you go on—"
"I know, I know, you did your duty—but don't say anything more."
I held out my hand. "I shall be up in the morning and get your breakfast; it's so early for you to start. The others won't be up."
"I wish you would," he said eagerly. "I must satisfy myself that you are up and about before I go, otherwise—" He hesitated.
"Don't worry. I shall be about just the same—only now—"
"I know; you want to be alone—you can bear no more. Good night." He left the room abruptly.