“The wilderness allus seems full o’ spectres ’n’ creepin’ crawlin’ panthers. Sometimes I think it’s God, an’ then agin, the devil.”–Old Cy Walker.
Tim’s Place, this refuge in the wilderness, cleared and colonized by Tim Connor, was neither better nor worse than such pioneer openings in Nature’s domain are apt to be. Tim, a hardy Irishman of sod-hovel and potato-diet ancestors, had been blacksmith for a lumber camp on this broad river and at its junction with a tributary called the Fox Hole years before Chip was born.
When all the adjacent lumber was cut and sent down this river, the camp was abandoned, and then Tim saw his opening. With his precious winter’s wages he purchased a large tract of this now worthless land, induced a robust Bridget, his brother Mike, and his consort to join fortunes with him, brought in cows, horses, pigs, and poultry, and began farming with the lumber camp as domicile.
Another log cabin was soon added, the first crop of potatoes sold readily to other lumbermen fartherin the wilderness, the pigs in a sty adjacent to his own throve, the poultry multiplied, children came, and the red-shirted men coming into the wilderness or going out found Tim’s Place convenient.
With this added business came an enlargement in Tim’s ideas, the outcome of which was a framed house containing a kitchen and dining room and half a dozen others of closet-like proportions, furnished with box-on-legs beds. It was not a pretentious hostelry. Paint, shutters, and carpets were absent, benches served for chairs, the only mirror in it was eight by twelve inches, and used in common by Bridget and Mary. The toilet conveniences consisted of a wash-basin in the kitchen sink and a “last year’s” towel, used semi-occasionally. A long table bare of cloth and set with tinware served in the dining room, warmed in winter by a round sheet-iron stove; above it usually hung an array of socks and mittens, and a capacious cook stove half filled the kitchen. It was the crudest possible backwoods abode, and yet compared to the log cabin first occupied by Tim, it was a palace, and he was proud of it.
In autumn swarms of lumbermen halted there, content to sleep on the floor if need be. In spring they came again, log-driving down stream; latera few sportsmen occasionally tried it, and all fared alike.
There was no sentiment about Tim. If the citified fishermen objected to what they found, “Be gob, you kin kape away,” he readily told them. A quarter for each meal, or a night’s lodging, was the price, whether a bed or the floor was provided, and from early spring until frost came, all the occupants went barefoot.
When snow had made the sixty miles of log road to the nearest settlement passable, Tim invariably journeyed hither with horse and bob-sled for clothing and supplies.
No knowledge or news from the world reached here, unless brought by chance visitors. Sundays were an unknown factor, the work of clearing land and potato-raising became a continuous performance from spring until autumn; and the change of seasons, the rise and fall of the river, were the only measure of time.
An addition to Tim’s Place, other than babies and pigs, came one fall in an old Indian who, by ample presents of game, soon won Tim’s good-will and help in the erection of a log wigwam; but this relic of a vanishing race–reckoned by Tim as partially insane–remained there only winters, andwhen spring returned, disappeared into the wilderness.
There were also two other occasional visitors both meriting description. First, a beetle-browed, keen-eyed, red-haired man garbed as a hunter, whose speech disclosed something of the Scotch dialect, and who, presenting Tim with a deer and two bottles of whiskey as a peace-offering on his first arrival, soon obtained a welcome. He told a plausible tale of having been pursued for years by enemies seeking his life; how he had been robbed and driven away from the settlements; and how two of these enemies had even followed him into the woods. He had been shot at by them, had killed one in self-defence, a price had been set upon his capture, dead or alive, and, all in all, he was a sorely abused man.
How much of this lurid and fantastic tale Tim believed, is not pertinent to this narrative. The stranger, calling himself McGuire, was evidently a good fellow, since he brought good whiskey, and Tim made him welcome.
The facts as to McGuire, however, were somewhat at variance with his assertions. He had originally been a dive-keeper in a focal city for the lumbering interests of this wilderness, had entertained swarmsof log-drivers just paid off and anxious to spend money, and when the law interfered, he retreated to a smaller town.
In the interval, strange to say, his moral nature–or rather immoral–suffered a brief relapse, during which he persuaded an excellent if confiding young woman to share his name and infamy.
His second business venture came to grief, however, and his wife deserted him and met with a fatal accident a few years after. In the meantime he had kept busy, exercising his peculiar talents and tastes in an individual manner, and evading officers, and his ways of money-getting were peculiar and diverse.
The Chinese Exclusion Act had just become operative, and the admission of Celestials into the land of the free, and of good wages, became a valuable matter. McGuire conceived the brilliant, if grewsome, idea of passing “Chinks” over the border line concealed in coffins. It worked admirably, and with accomplices on both sides to obtain certificates and permits, and take charge of the “corpses,” a few dozen almond-eyed immigrants at two hundred dollars each obtained admission.
In time, this budding industry met an official quietus, and McGuire, with several warrants outagainst him, took to the woods. He still continued business, however, in various ways. He smuggled liquor over the border by canoe loads, hiding it at convenient points, to exchange for log-drivers’ wages. He killed game out of season, and dynamited trout and salmon on spawning beds for the same purpose; and, handy with cards, did not disdain their use in lumbering camps.
In all and through all his various ways of money-getting, one purpose had governed him–that of money-saving. Trusting no one, as he had reason to feel no one trusted him, he continually emulated the squirrels and hid his savings in the woods. A trapper and hunter by instinct, as well as thief, dive-keeper, smuggler, poacher, and gambler, he had in his wanderings discovered a cave in a slate ledge upon the shores of a small lake far into the wilderness. It was while trapping here that he found this by the aid of a fox which, while dragging a trap, became caught and held in a crevasse while attempting to enter it.
The fox thus secured, McGuire made further investigation, and by removing a loose slab of slate, he was enabled to enter a roomy cavern, or rather two small ones partially separated by slate walls. A little light entered the larger one, through a seamcrossing it lengthwise. They were free from moisture at this time–early autumn–and so secluded was the spot that McGuire decided at once to use this place as a hiding-spot for his money. The entrance could be kept concealed, its location served his purpose, and, fox-like himself, he decided to occupy what he would never have found without the aid of a fox, believing no one else would find it. It could also be used as a domicile for himself as well. A fireplace of slate could be built in it, an escape for smoke might be formed through the crack, if enlarged, and so this cave’s possibilities increased.
There were still several other advantages. This lake was surrounded by precipitous mountains; no lumbermen, even, were likely to operate there; the stream flowing out of it soon crossed the border line, finding escape into the St. Lawrence valley at a point some twenty miles distant; a short carry enabled him to reach the Fox Hole which flowed by Tim’s Place, and so this served as an excellent whip road in case of pursuit.
His transient asylum at Tim’s Place also served as a vantage point in another way.
Here all who entered this portion of the wilderness invariably halted,–officers and wardens as well,–and as by this time McGuire had become an outlawmurderer, with a reward offered for his capture, this outpost was of double advantage.
Caution was a strong point in his make-up, yet he was daring as well. He still visited the settlements occasionally, to sell furs and obtain ammunition and whiskey; and when he, as ill luck would have it, happened there at the time his child was left motherless, some malign impulse led him to take her to Tim’s Place and leave her in servitude there.
There was also another chance caller at this outpost–a half-breed trapper and hunter named Bolduc, who had established himself in a lone cabin on the Fox Hole, some ten miles up from Tim’s Place. He was a repulsive minor edition of McGuire. A wildcat, with laudable intentions, had essayed putting an end to his career, and succeeded to the extent of one eye and some blood. He had been the accomplice and partner of McGuire in many a whiskey-smuggling trip. He also dealt in this pernicious, but valuable, fluid, was a poacher ever ready to pot-hunt for a lumbering camp in winter, or find a moose yard on snow-shoes, after slaughtering the helpless inmates of which, he would sell them to the busy wood-choppers.
He, too, could be classed as brigand of the wilderness, and while no warrants or charges against himwere rife, he felt it wise to avoid meeting minions of the law. Tim’s Place was a convenient point to obtain information as to location of new lumber camps or possible visits of officers. An occasional bottle of whiskey secured Tim’s favor. The evenings and meals there impressed Pete with the advantages of owning a woman’s services, and as Chip matured in domestic and other possibilities, a desire to possess her began to increase his visits.
His wooing met no response, however, and when persisted in always awoke on her part the same instinct once displayed toward him by a wildcat.
Then recourse to her father’s greed for money was taken, with results as described.
The only thing that saved poor Chip from pursuit and capture, however, was his wholesome fear of her finger-nails, and the belief that it was best to let her father earn the balance of her price and fetch her, as agreed. Acting upon this theory, Pete had departed from Tim’s Place at dawn, to await her arrival at his cabin, quite oblivious of the fact that his bird had flown.
All that long day he waited in great expectancy. Toward evening he returned to Tim’s Place to learn that Chip had not been seen since the previous night; that her father had also vanished withoutcomment. That he was a party to this trick and deception, and, after securing his three hundred dollars, had taken her away, was Pete’s conclusion, and he vowed a murderous revenge. He returned to his cabin, little realizing that twenty miles away poor Chip, faint with hunger and the terror of a vast wilderness, was fighting her way through bush, bramble, and swamp in a mad attempt to escape.
Neither did Tim, while regretting the loss of his slave, know or care that one of his occasional visitors was now a mortal enemy of the other, and that a tragedy, dark and grewsome, would be its outcome.
“The size o’ a toad is allus reg’lated by the size o’ the puddle.”–Old Cy Walker.
A weekwas spent by Martin and his party at the settlement, during which he acquired the title to township forty-four, range ten, which included the little lake near the hermit’s hut, and made a foursquare-mile tract about it.
Chip, thanks to Angie, secured a simple outfit of apparel and–surprising fact–evinced excellent taste in its selection, thereby proving that eight years of isolation and a gunny-sack and red-shirt garb had not obliterated the deepest instinct of woman.
To Levi, Martin’s woodwise helper, was left the selection of fittings for the new camp. A couple of husky Canucks were engaged to bring them in in a bateau, and then the party started on its return.
Only one incident of importance occurred during the wait at this village known as Grindstone. Angie and Chip had just left the only store there, in front of which a group of log-drivers had congregated, when Angie, glancing back, saw that one of thegroup was following them. She quickened her pace, and so did he, until just as they turned into a side street, he passed them, halted, and turned about.
“Wal, I’m damned if ’tain’t Chip, an’ dressed like a leddy,” he exclaimed, as they drew near.
“Hullo, Chip,” he added, as they passed, “when did you strike luck?”
Chip made no response and he muttered again, “Wal, I’m damned, jest like a leddy!”
It was annoying, especially to Angie, and neither of the two realized how soon this blunt log-driver’s discovery would reach Tim’s Place.
And now, leaving the bateau to follow, the party started once more on their journey into the wilderness. No sight or sign of pursuit from the half-breed had been thus far observed. A few idle lumbermen in the village–the only visible connection between the vast forest and a busy world–were little thought of, as their canoes crept slowly up the narrowing river and gave no hint of interference from this low brute to any one except Levi.
He, however, seldom speaking, but ever acting, kept watch and ward continually. At every bend of the stream his eyes were alert to catch the first sight of a down-coming canoe in time to concealChip, as he decided must be done. When night camps were made, a site at the head of the lagoon or up some tributary stream was selected, and while not even hinting his reason for this, he felt it wise. As they drew near to Tim’s Place, it began to occur to Martin that Chip’s presence had best be concealed until that point was passed. He also desired to learn the situation there. He had always halted at this clearing in all his up-river journeys, so far, usually to buy pork and potatoes, and he now intended to do so again. He also felt it imperative to conceal Chip in Ray’s canoe, before they reached Tim’s Place, and let Ray paddle slowly on while the halt was made. But Levi dissented.
“’Tain’t best,” he said, “to let Tim know there’s two canoes of us and one not stoppin’. It’ll make him s’picious o’ suthin, ’n’ what he ’spects, Pete’ll find out. I callate we’d best pass thar in the night, leave the wimmen above, ’n’ you ’n’ I go back ’n’ git what we want.”
“But what about the Canucks following us with the bateau?” returned Martin. “They’ll tell who is with us, won’t they?”
“They didn’t see us start,” answered Levi, “’n’ can’t swear wimmen came. We’ll say we’re alone, ’n’ bein’ so’ll make it plausible, ’n’ you might say we’regoin’ to build a camp ’n’ ’nother season fetch our wimmen in.”
“But how about our men, on the return trip, after finding we have women at the camp?” rejoined Martin. “They will be sure to tell all they know on the way back.”
“We’ve got to keep the wimmen shady, an’ fool ’em,” answered Levi. And so his plan was adopted.
It was in the early hours of morning when the two canoes crept noiselessly past Tim’s Place. The stars barely outlined the river’s course, the frame dwelling, log cabin, and stump-dotted slope back of them. All the untidiness existent about this dwelling was hid in darkness, and only the faint sounds and odors betrayed these conditions. But every eye and ear in the two canoes was alert, paddles were dipped without sound, and Chip’s heart was beating so loudly that it seemed to her Tim and all his family must be awakened. Her recent escape from this spot and all the reasons forcing it, the fear that both her father and the half-breed might even now be there, added dread; and not until a bend hid even the shadowy view of this plague spot did she breathe easier.
“I was nigh skeered to death,” she whispered to Ray when safety seemed assured, “an’ if everPete finds I’m up whar the folks is goin’, I’m a goner.”
“Oh, we’ll take care of you,” returned that boy, with the boundless confidence of youth; “my uncle can shoot as well as any one, and then Old Cy is up at the camp, and he’s a wonder with a rifle. Why, I’ve seen him hit a crow a half-mile off!”
Smoke was ascending from the chimney, and the rising sun was just visible when Martin and Levi returned to Tim’s. Mike was out in an enclosure, milking; Tim was back of the house, preparing the pigs’ breakfast. The pigs were squealing, and a group of unwashed children were watching operations, when Martin appeared. A pleasant “Good morning” from him and a gruff one from Tim was the introduction, and then that stolid pioneer started for the sty. Not even the unusual event of a caller could hinder him from the one duty he most enjoyed,–the care of his beloved swine.
“You have some nice thrifty pigs,” began Martin, when the pen was reached, desiring to placate Tim.
“They are thot,” he returned.
“My guide and I are on our way into the woods, to build a camp,” continued Martin, anxious to have his errand over with, “and we halted to buy a few potatoes of you and some pork. I have a coupleof men following with a bateau,” he continued, after pausing for a reply which did not come; “they will be along in a day or two with most of our supplies; but I felt sure I could get some extra good pork of you and some choice potatoes.”
“You kin thot same,” replied Tim, his demeanor obviously softening under this flattery, and so business relations were established.
Martin had intended asking some cautious question regarding Chip or her father; but Tim’s surly face, his unresponsive manner, and a mistrust of its wisdom prevented. He was blunt of speech, almost to the verge of insolence, and the arrival of Martin with all his polite words evoked not a vestige of welcome; and yet back of those keen gray eyes of his a deal of cunning might lurk, thought Martin.
Two slovenly women peered out of back door and window while the interview was in progress. Mike came and looked on in silence; two of the oldest children were down by the canoe where Levi waited; the rest, open-eyed and astonished, seemed likely to be trodden on by some one each moment. When the stores were secured and paid for, and Martin had pushed off with Levi, he realized something of the life Chip must have led there.
He had intended not only to obtain potatoes, but some information of value. He obtained the goods, paying a thrifty price, also a good bit of cold shoulder, and that was all.
But Levi, shrewd woodsman that he was, fared better.
“I larned Chip’s gone off with old McGuire,” he asserted with a quiet smile when they were well away, “an’ that Pete’s swearin’ murder agin him.”
“And how?” responded Martin, in astonishment. “I felt that silence was golden with that surly chap, and didn’t ask a question.”
“I’m glad,” rejoined Levi. “I wanted to tell you not to, and I’ve larned all we want. Children are easy to pump, an’ I did it ’thout wakin’ a hint o’ ’spicion. Tim’s folks all believe Chip’s gone with her dad. Pete thinks so, an’ is watchin’ for him with a gun, I ’spect, an’ if so, the sooner they meet, the better.”
It was gratifying news to Martin, and when the other canoe was reached, the two again pushed on, with Martin, at least, feeling that the ways of Fate might prove acceptable.
Three days more were consumed in reaching the lake now owned by him, for the river was low, carries had to be made around two rapids, andwhen at last the sequestered, forest-bordered sheet of water was being crossed, Martin wished some titanic hand might raise an impassable barrier about his possessions.
Old Cy’s joy at their return was almost hilarious. To a man long past the spasmodic exuberance of youth, loving nature and the wild as few do, the six months here with the misanthropic old hermit, then a month of more cheerful companionship, followed by the departure of Martin and Angie, made this forest home-coming doubly welcome.
But Chip’s appearance, and the somewhat thrilling episode of her escape from Tim’s Place and her rescue, astonished him. Like all old men who are childless, a young girl and her troubles touched a responsive chord in his heart, and on the instant Chip’s unfortunate condition found sympathy. Her bluntly told story, with all its details, held him spellbound. He laughed over her description of spites, and when she seemed hurt at this seeming levity, he assured her that spites were a reality in the woods–he had seen hundreds of them. It was not long ere he had won her confidence and good-will, as he had Ray’s, and then he took Martin aside.
“That gal’s chaser’s bin here ’bout a week ago,”he said, “an’ the worst-lookin’ cuss I ever seen. I know from his description ’twas him. He kept quizzin’ me ez to how long we’d been here, if I knew McGuire, or had seen him lately, until I got sorter riled ’n’ began to string him. I told him finally that I’d been foolin’ all ’long; that McGuire was a friend o’ mine; that he’d been here a day or two afore, borrowed some money ’n’ lit out fer Canada, knowin’ there was a bad man arter him. Then this one-eyed gazoo got mad, real mad, ’n’ said things, an’ then he cleared out.”
When Martin explained the situation, as he now did, Old Cy chuckled.
“’Tain’t often one shoots in the dark ’n’ makes a bull’s eye,” he said.
“I think you and I had better keep mum about this half-breed’s call,” Martin added quietly, “and if Angie mentions it, you needn’t say that you know who he was. It will only make my wife and the girl nervous.”
The two tents were now pitched at the head of a cove, some rods away from the hermit’s hut, and well out of sight from the landing, and to these both Angie and Chip were assured they must flee as soon as the expected bateau entered the lake, and remain secluded until it had departed.
In a way, it was a ticklish situation. All knowledge that this waif was with Martin’s party must be kept from Tim’s Place and this half-breed, or she wouldn’t be safe an hour; and until the Canucks had come and gone, she must be kept hidden. Another and quite a serious annoyance to Martin was the fact that he had counted on these two men as helpers in cutting and hauling logs for this new camp. Only man-power was available, and to move logs a foot in diameter and twenty feet long, in midsummer, was no easy task; but Levi, more experienced in camp-building, made light of it.
“We’ll cut the logs we need, clus to the lake,” he said, “float ’em ’round, ’n’ roll ’em up on skids. It’s easy ’nough, ’n’ we don’t need them Canuckers round a minit.”
It was four days of keen suspense to Chip before they appeared. Neither she nor Angie left the closed tent while they remained over night, or until they had been gone many hours, and then every one felt easier.
The ringing sound of axes now began to echo over the rippled lake, logs were towed across with canoes, a cellar under the new cabin site was excavated, and home-building in the wilderness went merrily on.
While the men worked, Angie and Chip were not idle. Not only did they have meals to prepare over a rude outdoor fireplace, but they gathered grass and moss for beds, wove a hammock and rustic chair seats out of sedge grass, and countless other useful aids.
Chip was especially helpful and more grateful than a dog for any and all consideration. Not a step that she could take or a bit of work that she could do was left to Angie; her interest and do-all-she-could desire never flagged, and from early morn until the supper dishes were washed and wiped, Chip was busy.
But Martin, and especially Levi, had other causes for worry than those which camp-building entailed. The fact that this “Pernicious Pete,” as Angie had once called him, would soon learn of their presence here, and hating all law-abiding people, as such forest brigands always do, would naturally seek to injure them, was one cause. Then, there were so many ways by which he could do harm. A fire started at one corner of the hut at midnight, the same Indian-like malice applied to their two tents, the stealing of their canoes or the gashing of them with a hunting-knife, and countless other methods ofventing spite, presented themselves. In a way, they were helpless against such a night-prowling enemy. Over one hundred miles separated them from civilization and all assistance; an impassable wilderness lay between. The stream and their canoes were the only means of egress. These valuable craft were left out of sight and sound each night, on the lake shore, and so their vulnerability on all sides was manifest.
Then, Chip’s presence was an added danger. If once this brute found that she was here, there was no limit to what he would do to secure her and take revenge. They had smuggled her past Tim’s Place, but concealment here was impossible; if ever this half-breed returned, she would be discovered, and then what?
And so by day, while Martin and Levi were busy with hut-building, or beside the evening camp-fire when Ray picked his banjo and Chip watched him with admiring glances, these two guardians had eyes and ears ever alert for this expected enemy.
“It allus makes me coltish to see two young folks a-weavin’ the thread o’ affection.”–Old Cy Walker.
Therewere three people at Birch Camp,–as Angie had christened it,–namely, herself, Ray, and Chip, who did not share Martin’s suspicion of danger. A firm belief that a woman’s aid in such a complication was of no value, coupled with a desire to save her anxiety, had kept his lips closed as to the situation.
Life here at all hours soon settled itself into a certain daily routine of work, amusement, and, on Chip’s part, of study. True to her philanthropic sense of duty toward this waif, Angie had at once set about her much-needed education. A reading and spelling book suitable for a child of eight had been secured at the settlement, and now “lessons” occupied a few hours of each day.
It was only a beginning, of course, and yet with constant reminders as to pronunciation, this was all that Angie could do. The idioms of Tim’s Place, with all its profanity, still adhered to Chip’sspeech. This latter, especially, would now and then crop out in spite of all admonitions; and so Angie found that her pupil made slow progress.
There was also another reason for this. Chip was afraid of her, and oft reproved for her lapses in speech, soon ceased all unnecessary talk when with Angie.
But with Ray it was different. He was near her own age, the companionship of youth was theirs, and with him Chip’s speech was ready enough. This, of course, answered all the purposes of benefit by assimilation, and so Angie was well satisfied that they should be together. Beyond that she had no thought that love might accrue from this association.
Chip, while fair of face and form, and at a sentimental age, was so crude of speech, so grossly ignorant, and so allied to the ways and manners of Tim’s Place, that, according to Angie’s reasoning, Ray’s feelings were safe enough. He was well bred and refined, a happy, natural boy now verging upon manhood. In Greenvale he had never shown much interest in girls’ society, and while he now showed a playmate enjoyment of Chip’s company, that was all that was likely to happen.
But the winged god wots not of speech or manners. A youth of eighteen and a maid of sixteen are the same the world over, and so out of sight of Angie, and unsuspected by her, the by-play of heart-interest went on.
And what a glorious golden summer opportunity these two had!
Back of the camp and tending northwest to southeast was a low ridge of outcropping slate, bare in spots–a hog-back, in wilderness phrase. Beyond this lay a mile-long “blow-down,” where a tornado had levelled the tall timber. A fire, sweeping this when dry, left a criss-cross confusion of charred logs, blueberry bushes had followed fast, and now those luscious berries were ripening in limitless profusion. Every fair day Ray and Chip came here to pick, to eat, to hear the birds sing, to gather flowers and be happy.
They watched the rippled lake with now and then a deer upon its shores, from this ridge; they climbed up or down it, hand in hand; they fished in the lake or canoed about it, time and again; and many a summer evening, when the moon served, Chip handled the paddle, while Ray picked his banjo and sang his darky songs all around this placid sheet of water.
And what a wondrous charm this combination of moonlight on the lake and love songs softened and made tender by the still water held for Chip! As those melodies had done on that first evening beside the camp-fire, so now they filled her soul with a strange, new-born, and wonderful sense of joy and gladness.
The black forest enclosing them now was sombre and silent. Spites still lurked in its depths and doubtless were watching; but a protector was near, his arm was strong; back at the landing were kind friends, and the undulating path of silvered light, the round, smiling orb above, the twinkling stars, and this matchless music became a new wonder-world to her.
Her eyes glistened and grew tender with pathos. She had no more idea than a child why she was happy. Each day sped by on wings of wind, each hour, with her one best companion, the most joyful, and so, day by day, poor Chip learned the sad lesson of loving.
But never a word or hint of this fell from her lips. Ray was so far above her and such a young hero, that she, a homeless outcast, tainted by the filth and service of Tim’s Place, could only look to him as she did to the moon.
They laughed and exchanged histories. Ofttimes he reproved her speech. They fished, picked berries, and worked together like two big children, and only her wistful eyes told the other why they were wistful.
Martin, busy at camp-building and watching ever for an enemy’s coming, saw it not. Angie was as obtuse; the old hermit, misanthropic and verging into dotage, was certainly oblivious, and so no ripples of interest disturbed these workers.
Such conditions were as sunshine to flowers in aiding the two young lovers, so this forest idyl matured rapidly. Chip, perhaps more imaginative than Ray, since most of her education had been the weird superstition of Old Tomah, felt most of its emotional force, though unconscious of the reason.
“I dunno why I feel so upset all the time lately,” she said one afternoon to Ray as, returning from the berry field, they halted on top of the ridge to scan the lake below. “Some o’ the time I feel so happy I want to sing, ’n’ then I feel jes’ t’other way, ’n’ like cryin’. When the good spell is on, everything looks so purty, ’n’ when I come on to a bunch o’ posies, then I feel I must go right down on my knees ’n’ kiss ’em. When I was at Tim’sPlace, I never thought about anything ’cept to get my work done ’n’ keep from gettin’ cussed ’n’ licked. I was scart, too, most o’ the time, ’n’ kept feelin’ suthin awful was goin’ to happen to me. Now that’s ’most gone, but I feel a heartache in place on’t. I allus hev a spell o’ feelin’ so every mornin’ when I wake up ’n’ hear the birds singin’. They ’fect me so that I’m near cryin’ ’fore I git up. You ’n’ Mis’ Frisbie ’n’ everybody’s been so good to me, I guess it’s made me silly. Then thar’s ’nother thing worries me, an’ that’s goin’ to the settlement whar you folks is from. I feel I kin sorter earn my keepin’ here, but I s’pose I can’t thar, ’n’ that bothers me. If only you ’n’ all the rest was goin’ to stay here all the time ’n’ I could work some, same as I do now, an’ be with you odd spells ’n’ evenin’s, I’d be so happy. It ’ud be jest like the spot Old Tomah said we’re goin’ to when we die. He used to tell how ’twas summer thar all the time, with game plenty, berries ripe, flowers growin’, too, all the year ’round, ’n’ birds singin’. He believed thar was two places somewhar: one for white folks and one fer Injuns; that when we died we turned into spites, stayed ’round till we got revenge for everything bad done us, or got a chance to pay up what good we owed for.”
“I don’t know where we go to when we quit this world, and neither does anybody else, I believe,” Ray answered philosophically, and scarce understanding Chip’s mood. “I believe, as Old Cy does, that the time to be happy is when we are young and can be; that when we are ready to leave this world is time enough for another one. As to your worrying about your going to Greenvale,” he added confidently, and encircling Chip’s waist with one arm, “why, you’ve got me to look out for you, and then Angie won’t begrudge you your keep, so don’t think about that.” And then this young optimist, quite content with what the gods had provided in this maid of sweet lip and appealing eye, assured her she had everything to make her happy, including himself for companion; that all her moody spells were merely memories of Tim’s Place, best forgotten, and much more of equally tender and silly import.
Not for one instant did he realize the growing independence and self-reliance of this wilderness waif, or how the first feeling that she was a burden upon these kind people would chafe and vex her defiant nature, until she would scorn even love, to escape it.
Just now the tender impulse of first love wasall Ray felt or considered. This girl of sweet sixteen and utter confidence in him was so enthralling in spite of her crude speech and lack of education, her kisses were so much his to take whenever chance offered, and himself such a young hero in her sight, that he thought of naught else.
In this, or at least so far as his reasoning went, they were like two grown-up children entering a new world–the enchanted garden of love. Or like two souls merged into one in impulse, yet in no wise conscious why or for what all-wise purpose.
For them alone the sun shone, birds sang, leaves rustled, flowers bloomed, and the blue lake rippled. For them alone was all this charming chance given, with all that made it entrancing. For them alone was life, love, and lips that met in ecstasy.
Oh, wondrous beatitude! Oh, heaven-born joy! Oh, divine illusion that builds the world anew, and building thus, believes its secret safe!
But Old Cy, wise old observer of all things human, from the natural attraction of two children to the philosophy of content, saw and understood.
Not for worlds would he hint this to Angie orMartin. Full well he knew how soon this “weavin’ o’ the threads o’ affection,” would be frowned upon by them; but he loved children as few men do.
This summer-day budding of romance would end in a few weeks, these two were happy now–let them remain so, and perhaps in Chip’s case it might prove the one best incentive to her own improvement.
And now as he watched them day by day, came another feeling. Homeless all his life so far, and for many years a wanderer, these two had awakened the home-building impulse in his. He could not have a home himself, he could only help them to one in the future, and to that end and purpose he now bent his thought.
The weeks there with Ray had opened Old Cy’s heart to him. Even sooner, and with greater force, had Chip’s helpless condition made the same appeal, and as he watched her wistful eyes and willing ways, in spite of her speech and in spite of her origin, he saw in her the making of a good wife and mother. Her heritage, as he now guessed, was of the worst, her education was yet to be obtained; but for all that, a girl–no, a child–of sixteen who would dare sixty miles ofwilderness alone to save herself from a shameful fate, was of the metal and fibre to win, and more than that, deserved the best that life afforded.
How he could at present aid her, he saw not. A few years of help and time to study must be given her, and as Old Cy realized how much must be done for her and how uncertain it was whether Angie would find time, or be willing to do it, then and there he determined to share that duty with her.
It was midsummer when Martin and his party returned to the lake with Chip. In two weeks the new log cabin–a large one, divided into three compartments–was erected and ready for occupation, and so convenient and picturesque a wildwood dwelling was it that a brief description may be tolerated.
All log cabins are much alike–a square enclosure of unhewn logs thatched with saplings and chinked with mud and moss. A low door of boards or split poles is the usual entrance, with one small window for light; its floor may be of small split logs or mother earth, and at best it is a cramped, cheerless hovel.
But Martin’s was a more pretentious creation. Its location, well out on the birch-clad point, backof which stood the hermit’s hut, commanded a view of the lake. A group of tall-stemmed spruce, amid which it stood, gave shade, yet allowed observation. It was of oblong shape, with a wide piazza of white birch poles and roof of same; two four-pane windows to each room gave ample light; a small Franklin stove had been brought for the sitting room, and a cook stove occupied the “lean-to” cook room back of the main cabin. Beds, chairs, and benches were fashioned from the plentiful white birch stems, and floor and doors were of planed boards.
It was but a crude structure, compared to even the humblest of civilized dwellings; and yet with all its fittings conveyed into this wilderness in one bateau, and with only axes, a saw, and hammer for tools, as was the case, it was a marvel.
Working as all the men had done from dawn until dark to complete this cabin, no recreation had been taken by any one except Ray and Chip; and now Martin, a keen sportsman, felt that his turn had come. The trout were rising night and morn all over the lake, partridges so tame that they would scarce fly were as plenty as sparrows, a half-dozen deer could be seen any time along the lake shore–in fact, one had already furnishedthem venison–and so Martin now anticipated some relaxation and sport.
But Fate willed otherwise.
One of Old Cy’s first and most far-sighted bits of work, after being left with the hermit the previous autumn, had been the erection of an ice-house out of large saplings. It stood at the foot of a high bank on the north of the knoll and close to the lake, and here, out of the sunshine, yet handy to fill, stood his creation. Its double walls of poles were stuffed with moss, its roof chinked with blue clay, a sliding door gave ingress, and even now, with summer almost gone, an ample supply of ice remained in it.
In the division of duties among these campers, Levi usually started the morning fire while Old Cy visited the ice-house for anything needed. One morning after the new cabin was completed, he came here as usual.
A fine string of trout caught by Martin and Ray the day before were hanging in this ice-house, and securing what was needed, Old Cy closed the door and turned away. As usual with him, he glanced up and down the narrow beach to see if a deer had wandered along there that morning, and in doing so he now saw, close tothe water’s edge and distinctly outlined in the damp sand, the print of a moccasined foot.
It was of extra large size, and as Old Cy bent over it, he saw it had recently been made. Glancing along toward the head of this cove, he saw more tracks, and two rods away, the sharp furrow of a canoe prow in the sand.
“It’s that pesky half-breed, sure’s a gun,” he muttered, stooping over the track, “fer a good bit o’ his legs was turned up to walk on, and he wore moccasins t’other day.”
Curious now, and somewhat startled, he looked along where the narrow beach curved out and around to the landing, and saw the tracks led that way. Then picking his way so as not to obscure them, he followed until not three rods from the new cabin they left the beach and were plainly visible behind a couple of spruces, in the soft carpet of needles, which was crushed for a small space, where some one had stood.
Returning to camp, Old Cy motioned to Levi and Martin. All three returned to the ice-house, looked where the canoe had cut its furrow, took up the trail to its ending beside the two trees, and then glanced into one another’s eyes with serious, sobered, troubled faces.
And well they might; for the evening previous they had all been grouped upon the piazza of this new cabin until late, while scarce three rods away a spying enemy, presumably this half-breed, had stood and watched them.
“Blessed be them that ’spects nothin’, they won’t git fooled.”–Old Cy Walker.
Christmas Covewas never disturbed by aught except small boats, and few of them. It was a long, crescent-shaped arm of the sea, parallel to the ocean, and separated from it by a spruce-clad cliff; its placid surface scarcely more than rippled or undulated outside, and so shallow was it that each ebb tide left its sandy bottom bare.
A stream found devious way along this crescent when the outflow left it bare. Mottled minnows, schools of white and green smelts, crabs of all sorts and sizes, swam and sported up and down this broad, shallow brook while the tide was away, and few of human kind ever watched them.
Alongside this cove and inward a dozen or more brown houses and a few white ones faced its curving shore, a broad street with many elms and ruts between which the grass grew separated the housesand cove, and a small white church with a gilt fish for weather-vane on its steeple stood midway of these dwellings.
A low range of green hills to the northward of this village shut off the wintry winds, at the upper end of the street a stream from a cleft in the hills crossed it, and here stood a mill, its roof green with moss, its clapboards brown and whitened with mill dust, the log dam above it half obscured by willows. To the right of this a short flume was entirely hidden by alders, and above the dam lay a pond, entirely covered with green lily-pads, and dotted by white blossoms all summer.
Beside the mill and nearer the roadway stood an ancient dwelling, also moss-coated; two giant elms shaded it, and the entire impression conveyed by the mill’s drowsy rumble and splashing wheel on a hot August afternoon was–find a shady spot and take a nap.
These were the summer conditions existent at Christmas Cove. The winter ones may be left undescribed.
Just beyond where the mill stream crossed the road the highway divided, one fork following the trend of these hills to where a railroad crossed them, ten miles away; the other, running closeto the upper and marshy end of Christmas Cove to where a spile bridge connected the two uplands and thence over to another village called Bayport. This, the larger of the two, had once contained a shipyard, now idle, a score of its dwellings were vacant, and the two hundred or more of its population existed by farming, fishing, lobster-catching, and a small factory devoted to the production of sardines duly labelled with a French name.
Christmas Cove, however, was more respectable, with its hundred residents, mostly retired sea captains with an income, and no litter of lobster pots or nets to obstruct its one long, narrow wharf which reached out to deep water at the mouth of the cove. A few small pleasure craft were tethered to the wharf, and gardens, cows, and poultry were merely diversions here.
One other income it had, however, which was considered less plebeian than Bayport’s–the money a score of city-bred people left each summer.
Keeping boarders was all right at Christmas Cove. It did not smack of trade and commerce. No smoke of engines, no dust of coal, no noise of hammer and saw, were parts of it. No odor from a canning factory, no wrack of dismantled boats, tarred nets, and broken traps, was connected with it. Thedwellings at Christmas Cove were roomy, few children were now a part of its population–scarce enough to fill the one schoolhouse presided over by Mr. Bell, and so each season a few dozen of the uneasy horde, always anxious to leave home and board somewhere, came here.
A daily stage line–an ancient carryall drawn by one sleepy horse–connected this village with the railroad. Its church bell called the faithful to Thursday evening prayer-meeting and Sunday service with unfailing regularity. Its one general store and post-office combined, was the evening rendezvous for a score of sea captains–grizzled hulks who had sailed into safe harbor here at last, and who watched the weather, discussed the visitors, and swapped yarns year in and year out.
Here also, many years before, when Bayport was more prosperous, the threads of a romance had been woven, and two brothers, Judson and Cyrus Walker, born at Bayport, and sailing out of it, had paid court to two sisters, Abigail and Amanda Grey, here at Christmas Cove.
It was, as such sailors’ courtships ever are, intermittent. Six, eight, and sometimes twelve months marked its interims, until finally only one brother, Judson, returned to announce a shipwreck in mid-ocean,a separation of their crew in two boats, and Abbie Grey, whom Cyrus had smiled upon, was left to wait and watch and hope.
In time, also, Judson and “Mandy” joined fortunes. In time, and after many voyages, during which he vainly tried to find some tidings of his brother, Judson, now Captain Walker, gave up the sea, and with wife and two young sons retired inland, purchased an abandoned farm in a sequestered valley, and began another life.
Another mating had also occurred at Christmas Cove, for Abbie, the other sister and the sweetheart of Cyrus, giving him up for lost, finally consented to share the ancestral home of Captain Bemis–once a sailor and now the miller, who had exchanged the sea’s perils for that peaceful vocation.
His father had ground grist here for a lifetime, and passed on. His mother still survived when Abbie Grey, once the belle of the village and a boarding-school graduate, married Captain Bemis, twice her age, and her old-time romance became only a memory.
No children came to fill this great, cheerless house with laughter. The old mother was laid away in due time, Abbie, once a handsome girl, grew portly and became Aunt Abbie to neighboring children,and finally all the village; and disappointed as she had cause to be, she turned her thoughts to good works and religion.
But Cyrus, adrift in an open boat with half the crew, was finally rescued by a whaler, after starvation had left him almost an imbecile. A four-year, compulsory voyage to southern seas followed; then another wreck and a year on an island, and then a chance meeting with another sailor from Bayport, and from whom he learned two unpleasant facts,–first that his sweetheart, Abbie Grey, was married; and secondly that his brother had been lost at sea.
One was true, of course, and somewhat disheartening to Cyrus; the other, as discomforting, but not true. It was simply a case of mistaken identity, his own disappearance being confounded with that of his brother.
This story served the purpose of so affecting Cyrus that he resolved never to set foot in either Christmas Cove or Bayport, and also never to allow any one there to know that he was alive.
From now on, also, he deserted the sea and became a wanderer. He first lived in the wilderness, where as trapper and hunter and lumberman he learned the woodsman’s habits; and when mid-life was reached, having become sceptical of all things, hefinally settled down at Greenvale. Here, loving children and the woods, fields, brooks, and Nature more than raiment, religion, and respectability, he became a village nondescript, a social outcast, and–Old Cy Walker.