165CHAPTER VIIIDoubts
It was with a violent start that Hugo awoke, feeling chilled to the bone in spite of his heavy blankets. His injured shoulder was so stiff that for some minutes he was scarcely able to move it. He got out of his bunk, his whole frame shaking with the cold, and managed to kindle a fire in the stove. But presently he felt warm again, rather unaccountably warm, in fact, and his face grew quite red. Curiously enough, for a man with the vast appetite of hard workers in cold regions, he did not at all feel inclined to eat. Yet he prepared some food, according to custom, and sat before a tin pint dipper of strong hot tea. This he managed to swallow, with some approach to comfort, but when he tried to eat the first few mouthfuls satiated him and he pushed the remainder away.
He had opened the door to let Maigan go out, and when the dog returned after a good roll in the snow Hugo swept his breakfast of166rolled oats and bread into a pan and fed it to his companion.
“You’re certainly not going hungry because my own grub doesn’t taste right, old boy,” he commented.
Men of the wilderness learn to speak to their dogs, or even to think out aloud, when no living thing chances to be near. It answers to the inherited need of speech, to an instinct so long inbred in man that he must needs, at times, hear the sound of a voice, even if it be but his own, or go crazy.
Maigan wagged his tail and gobbled up the food. When he saw his master fastening on his snowshoes he barked loudly. Hugo allowed him to romp about for a few minutes before hitching him up to the toboggan.
A few minutes later they were on their way to Papineau’s. An attempt to smoke his pipe was immediately abandoned by the young man. For some reason it tasted wretchedly. While the start was made at a good pace little more than a couple of hundred yards had been covered before Hugo realized that he was going ever so slowly. Maigan was stopping all the time and waiting for him. What on earth was the matter? He judged that the poor night’s sleep had had some ill effect upon him. It couldn’t be his shoulder. Certainly167not! The pain in it was no more than any chap could bear, even if he had to make a wry face over it at times. He wondered whether anything he had eaten on the previous day could have disagreed with him. He decided that it probably was some canned meat he had bought at McGurn’s. That explained the thing quite satisfactorily to him. Anyway, it was bound to wear off soon. Such things always did. With this cheering thought he sought to lengthen his stride again, but a moment later he was dragging himself along, dully, wondering what was the matter with him.
He was anxious to see Madge again. He must tell her of the finding of her message. Surely he would be able to talk to her, calmly and quietly, and to obtain from her all that she knew of this strange jumble of mysteries. He hoped that she had been able to rest, that he would find her less weary and overwrought. This girl had been badly treated, sinned against most grievously. If there was anything he could do he would offer his services eagerly.
“I expect she’ll want to turn right back to Carcajou,” he told himself. “I wish I were feeling more fit for the journey. If Papineau is home from his trapping he will help me168out. But I’ll feel all right soon. This is bound to pass off. If I get too tired when I reach Carcajou, Stefan will put me up for the night. It––it seems a pity that girl will have to go.”
He trudged along behind the toboggan. He could have ridden on it, most of the way, but wanted to keep Maigan fresh for the trip to Carcajou, for the trunk would have to go also. The light sled was nothing for the dog to pull, of course, and sometimes he dashed ahead so that his pace became too great for his master. Then he would stop and sit down in his traces, to wait until he was overtaken. The road was unaccountably long, that morning, but at last they came in sight of the Papineau homestead and the cleared land upon which some crops of oats and potatoes had already been raised, amid the short stumps of the half-cleared land. In summer the river ran very slowly at this place, and big trout were ever making rings on the surface which they broke in their dashes after all sorts of flies and beetles. On the land opposite, where there had once been a forest fire, the red weeds that follow conflagrations grew strong and rank in the summer time and little saplings sprouted up among the charred and wrecked trunks of thebrulé. But at this time it all looked very bleak and desolate.
169
“She couldn’t ever have lived in such a country,” he told himself, with perhaps a tinge of regret. “Poor little thing, I wonder what’s to become of her? The whole thing’s a shame––a ghastly shame. Wait till Stefan and I find out all about it. Somebody’s got to get hurt, that’s all!”
Maigan had already hauled the toboggan to the door of the big shack, and the other animals had come near to renew assurances of armed neutrality. The good woman of the house appeared just as Hugo came up. She must have been rather staggered by his appearance, for she drew back, staring at him and shaking her head in decided disapproval.
“’Ow many mile you call heem to de depot at Carcajou,” she asked him, with hands on her hips and a severe look on her face.
“Why, it’s twelve miles to my shack and one more to this place,” he answered, dully. “You know that just as well as I. Don’t you remember the county surveyors told us so last year?”
“An’ you tink you goin’ pull dat toboggan all way back wid you h’arm all bad an’ you seek, lookin’ lak’ one ghosts! Excuse me, Monsieur Hugo, but you one beeg fool. My man Papineau ’e come back from de traps to-morrow an’ heem pull de young lady ’ome170wid de dogs. You no fit to go. I tink you go to bed right now, bes’ place for you, sure.”
She pulled him inside, holding on to his uninjured arm as if he had been under arrest. She was a masterful woman, to be sure. Madge had arisen from a chair and Mrs. Papineau addressed her. A glance at the man’s countenance had left the girl appalled. His features were drawn, the brown tint of his face had changed to a characterless gray, his eyes looked sunken and brighter, as if some fever brought a flame into them.
“Sure you no in h’awful beeg ’urry for to go ’ome, Mees?” asked the hostess. “Dis man heem real seek. Heem no fit for valk all vay back to Carcajou now. To-morrow my man take you. Papineau he no forgif me if I let Monsieur Hugo go aff an’ heem so seek.”
“Why, of course! I’m not in any special hurry. To-morrow will do just as well. He––he mustn’t think of going to-day and––and it doesn’t matter in the least. It––it makes no difference at all.”
“Do you really think that you can manage to stay here for another day?” the young man asked her, as he dropped rather heavily on a bench by the table. “I don’t think there ’s really much the matter with me, really, and171I’m sure I could manage it if you’re anxious to get away. But perhaps to-morrow....”
“Mrs. Papineau has been ever so kind to me,” answered the girl, slowly. “That sort of thing is such a comfort, especially when––when one isn’t used to it. Nobody ever took such care of me over there in New York. I’ve had plenty to eat and a nice warm place to sleep in. I haven’t been used to much luxury where––where I came from. And––and you mustn’t mind me. It will always be time enough to go, but––but I won’t know how to thank this––this kindly woman.”
Hugo didn’t know whether these words held a reproach to him, but they sounded very hopeless and sad. The girl had sat down again, on a low stool near the fire. A chimney had been built in a corner, to supplement the stove, and she was looking intently at the bright flames leaping up and the fat curling smoke that rose in little patches, as bits of white bark twisted and crackled. Mrs. Papineau had gone back to the stove at the other end of the room, where she and her eldest girl had been washing dishes. In the rising sparks of the logs on fire Madge saw queer designs, strange moving forms her eyes followed mechanically. She felt that she was merely172waiting––waiting for the worst that was yet to come, but the heat was grateful.
“If that’s the case we might as well postpone the trip for a day,” Hugo acknowledged, somewhat shamefacedly. “I don’t often get played out but for some reason I’m not quite up to the mark to-day.”
“You keep still an’ rest yourself a bit,” Mrs. Papineau ordered, coming back to him and feeling his pulse gravely, whereat she made a wry face. She informed him that he undoubtedly had a fever and must remain absolutely quiet while she brewed him a decoction of potent herbs she had herself picked and stored away.
Madge looked at Hugo again, anxiously, feeling that her careless handling of that little pistol was undoubtedly responsible for his illness. Their eyes met and he managed to smile.
“A mere man can do nothing but obey when a woman commands, Miss Nelson,” he declared, with a weak attempt at jocularity. “I’m sure it’s dreadful stuff she’s going to make me swallow. Still, I’m glad of a short rest.”
He drew his chair a little nearer, and, speaking in a lower voice, went on:
“I’ll tell you, Miss Nelson. We––we173perhaps owe one another some explanations. It happens that I’ve found something. It’s the queerest thing ever happened. I’d like to explain....”
“What is the use, Mr. Ennis?” she replied, her voice revealing an intense discouragement. “And besides, you are ill now. It––it doesn’t really matter what has happened, I suppose. I couldn’t expect anything else, I dare say. I was a fool to come, to––to believe what I did. And––and I’m ashamed, it––it seems as if the least little pride that was left me has gone––gone for ever. Please––please don’t say anything more. It distresses me and can’t possibly do any good.”
She turned away from him to stare into the fire again and watch the little tongues of flame following threads of dry moss, till her face, which had colored for a moment, became pale again and her lips quivered at the thoughts that had returned to her. Uppermost was that feeling of shame of which she had spoken. She had realized that she had come to this man she had never met, ready to say: “Here I am, Madge Nelson, to whom you wrote in New York. If you really want me for your wife I am willing. In exchange for food, for rest, for a little peace of mind I am ready to try to learn to love you, to respect and obey174you, and I will be glad to work for you, to keep your home, to do my duty like a diligent and faithful wife.” But the man had looked at her with eyes genuinely surprised, because he had not really expected her. And of course she had found no favor in his sight. She was an inconvenient stranger whom he did not know how to get rid of, and on the spur of the moment he had found recourse in clumsy lies. By this time he had probably thought out some fables with which he expected to soothe her. At any rate he must despise her, in spite of the fact that he seemed to try to be civil and even kind. The important thing was that the end had come. In her little purse six or seven dollars were left, not enough to take her even half the distance to New York, to the great city she had learned to hate and fear. For nothing on earth would she have accepted money from Hugo. At least that shred of pride remained. It was therefore evident that but one way, however dark, was open before her, since the end must come.
But that unutterable weariness was still upon her. She was not pressed for time, thank goodness. She had been given food in abundance and unwonted warmth and, for some hours, the wonderful sharp tingling air of the forest had driven the blood more swiftly175through her veins. Moments had come during which it had seemed a blessing merely to breathe and a marvelous gift to be free from pain. But she was not so very strong yet. In another day, or perhaps two, she might feel better able to take that last leap. It would be that river––the Roaring River. That––that little gun made horrid jagged wounds. On her way to Papineau’s she had noticed any number of great air-holes in the ice. In such places she had even heard the rumbling of the water on its rushing journey towards the sea. It seemed an easy, restful, desirable end to all her troubles. She would slip away by herself and these dear kindly people would never know, she hoped. Like so many others, she had gambled and lost, and perhaps she deserved to lose. Who could say? If she had sinned in coming to this place she would bear the punishment bravely. It would surely be very swift; there would be but a gasp or two from the stunning chill of the icy water, after which must come swift oblivion. The world was indeed a very harsh and dangerous place. She would be glad to leave it; there could be nothing to regret.
She raised her eyes once more and looked about her. The heat from the birchen logs and the sizzling jack-pine penetrated her.176Somewhere she had read or heard that, to those condemned, a few last comforts were usually proffered. It would be easier to find the end after a few more hours of this blessed peace. It would have been more gruesome to meet it while suffering from hunger with the very marrow of one’s bones freezing and one’s teeth chattering. She was glad enough to sit still on that rough stool. She did not want to be taken back, even to that little village of Carcajou. The little children had made such good friends with her, and would have climbed all over her had their mother not reproved them; the very dogs had come up and rubbed against her, and put their muzzles in her lap. Two of them were but half-grown pups. And best of all the big-hearted and full-bosomed mother of the family always spoke in words that were so friendly, even affectionate. It had been a wonderful vision of a better world from which she did not want to awaken too soon.
In the meanwhile Hugo had been compelled, not without a wry face, to swallow the bitter potion Mrs. Papineau had prepared for him.
“I think I’ll be going,” he remarked.
“You rest one leetle time yet,” ordered the177housewife. “You haf noding for to do. Feel better soon when you rest after de medicine. You no ’urry.”
Perhaps nothing loath he had sat down again, with his chair tilted back a little till the back rested on the table. Madge was sitting nearly in front of him, with her back slightly turned, and he could see the tightly pinned mass of the hair he had seen flooding her shoulders in his shack, and the comely curve of her neck as she leaned forward, staring into the fire. For a time this drove away the pain that was in his wounded arm and the hot, throbbing feeling of discomfort that it gave him. What irked him was the realization of the tragedy brought to this girl somehow and the understanding of all that she must have suffered.
Hugo had not always lived in the wilderness. He also had been of the town during a period of his life, until the longing had come for the greater freedom of the open spaces, of the regions which in their greatness bring forth the sturdier qualities of manhood.
He was thinking of the scorn that had been in her voice when she had told him of the fierce impulse that had bidden her escape from the bondage of carking poverty and care. It had only resulted in bringing disappointment178and the shame, the outraged womanhood that had burned upon her cheeks. And this appealed to him with an irresistible force since that effort on her part showed that she at least possessed courage and the readiness to go far afield in search of an avenue of escape. Weaker souls would long ago have given up the fight.
He had just tried to begin an explanation and find the truth out from her, but she had shaken her head and said it was useless. She did not understand; how could she? Yet he had been sorely disappointed. It had scarcely been a rebuff on her part for she had spoken gently enough, in that low despairing voice of hers. He must wait another and better occasion and hope that he would be able to clear himself of wrongdoing.
At this time a man’s practical nature suggested to him the thought that she must be very poor––that she had perhaps expended her last resources in coming to Carcajou. If this was the case, what would it avail for him to take her back to the railway? What would happen to her then? He could not allow her to depart without finding out how such matters stood, and he wondered in what manner he could make her accept some money and how he could make amends to her for the injury179she had sustained at some unknown individual’s hands. But the more he puzzled his brain the less he could discover any efficient way of coming to her assistance. She had said that every bit of pride had been torn from her, but he knew that this was not altogether true. The flashing of her eyes and the indignation of her voice had contradicted her words efficiently. She would probably resent his offer, refuse to accept anything from him. Yet, if he managed to persuade her that he was guiltless, it was possible....
But here his thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Papineau, who insisted on inspecting his wound again and made a wry face when she looked at it.
“I beg you pardon for to tell de truth, Monsieur Hugo,” she said, “but I tink you one beeg fool man for come here to-day. I tink maybe you get bad seek wid dat h’arm. You stay ’ere to-day an’ for de night. I make you a bed in dis room on de floor, by Jacques an’ Baptiste an’ Pierre. My man Philippe ’e come to-morrow, maybe to-night, an’ I send heem to Carcajou so he telegraph to dedocteurfor see you, eh?”
“You’re awfully good, Mrs. Papineau,” answered the young man, with the obstinacy of his kind. “I’m perfectly sure I’ll be all180right to-morrow, or the next day at the most. And I’ll come back and see how Miss Nelson is getting on. I think I’ll move now so I’ll say good-by. I’m a lot better now. I suppose it’s on account of that stuff you made me drink; it was bad enough to be fine medicine. I hope the rest will do you some good also, Miss Nelson. You’re looking a lot better than yesterday.”
Mrs. Papineau first thought of preventing his exit by main force but felt compelled to let him have his way. She lacked the courage of her convictions and allowed him to depart, with his dog running ahead with the toboggan. She peered at him through one of the small panes and saw that he was walking fairly easily.
“Maybe heem be all right soon,” she confided hopefully to Madge, while she mixed dough in a pan. “But heem one beeg fool man all de same.”
“I––I can hardly believe that,” objected the girl. “Why do you think so?”
“All mans is beeg fools ven dey is ’urted or seek, my dear. Dey don’t know nodings ’ow to tak’ care for heemselves. Dey don’t never haf sense dat vay. Alvays tink dey so strong noding happen, ever. But just same Hugo Ennis one mighty fine man, I say dat sure. I181rather de ole cow die as anyting ’appen to heem.”
Without interrupting her work, and later as she toiled, at her washtub, the good woman launched forth in lengthy praise of Hugo. From her conversation it appeared that he had helped one or two fellows with small sums of money and good advice. In the autumn he had fished out an Indian who had upset his boat while netting whitefish in rough weather, on the lake, and every one knew that Stefan’s life had been saved by him. At any rate the Swede said so, for Hugo never liked much to speak of such things. And then he was a steady fellow, a hard worker, good at the traps and not afraid of work of any kind. And then he was friendly to everybody. Had Madge noticed how gentle he was with the little children? That was always a sign of a good man.
“Yes, mees,” she concluded. “Some time I tink heem de bes’ man as ever lif. Heem Hugo not even ’urt one dog, or anyting.”
So he wouldn’t hurt even a dog! Madge repeated these words to herself. Then why had he played such a sorry joke on a woman who had never injured him? She wondered whether he would be sorry, afterwards, if––if he ever chanced to learn what had become182of her––after everything was all over. It might be that he had just been a big fool, as the Canadian woman had called him, and never reflected on the possible consequences of his action. But then he should have had the manhood to acknowledge his fault and beg her pardon, instead of resorting at once to clumsy lies and pretending utter ignorance. In many ways such conduct seemed inconsistent with the man, now that she had had further opportunity of seeing him. And then there was no doubt that he looked very ill. She was really very sorry for her share in that accident, and yet––and yet men had been shot dead for smaller offenses than he had meted out to her. He might have been killed, of course, and her quickened imagination caused her to see him stretched stark upon the floor of that little cabin, on those rough boards that smelled of resiny things. And then people would have come and she would have been accused of his murder, of course. It would have been her weapon that had done it, and they would have found motive enough for the deed in the story she would have been compelled to relate. They wouldn’t have believed in any accident. And then, instead of being able to end everything in some air hole of Roaring River, she would have been183dragged to some jail to eke out her days in a prison, if she had not been hanged.
The next day she awaited his coming somewhat anxiously. She felt that she must know how he was before––before taking that last step. After all he had tried to be considerate, except in the matter of those amazing lies. During the afternoon Mrs. Papineau, growing anxious, sent little Baptiste over to enquire after him. The small boy returned, saying that he had seen two squirrels and a rabbit on the tote-road, and the track of a fox, and that he had found Hugo sitting by the fire. And Hugo had declared that he was all right and––and perhaps he wasn’t pleased, because he spoke very shortly and had told him to hurry home. So Baptiste had left, and on his way he had seen partridges sitting on a fir sapling, and if he’d had a gun, or even some rocks....
But this circumstantial narrative was interrupted by the barking of the dogs. The sun was about setting. Madge looked out of the window, while Mrs. Papineau rushed to the door. It was a man arriving with a toboggan and two big dogs.
“Dat my man Philippe coming,” announced the woman, happily.
She held the door open, letting in a blast of cold air, and the man entered, tired with184long tramping. From the toboggan he removed a load of pelts, dead hares that would serve chiefly for bait, his blankets and the indispensable axe. Mrs. Papineau volubly explained the guest’s presence and he greeted her kindly.
“You frien’ of Hugo Ennis,” he said. “Den you is velcome an’ me glad for see you,mademoiselle.”
He was a pleasant-faced, stocky and broad-limbed man of rather short stature, and his manner was altogether kindly and pleasant. The simplicity and cordiality of his manner was entirely in keeping with the ways of his family. It was curious that all the people she had met so far seemed to have come to an agreement in speaking well of Ennis.
The man sat down, after the smallest of the children had swarmed all over him, and took off his Dutch stockings, waiting for the plenteous meal and the hot tea his wife was preparing. Meanwhile, to lose no time, he began to skin a pine marten.
“Plent’ much good luck dis time,” he said, turning to Madge. “Fivevison, vat you call mink, and a pair martens. Also one fox, jus’ leetle young fox but pelt ver’ nice. You want for see?”
She inspected the pelts and looked at the185animals that were yet unskinned, realizing for the first time how men went off in the wilds for days and weeks and months at a time, in bitterest weather, to provide furs for fine ladies.
The darkness had come and the big oil lamp was lighted. The children played about her for a time and gradually sought their couches in bunks and truckle-beds. The man was relating incidents of the trapping to his wife, who nodded understandingly. Beaver were getting plentiful along the upper reaches of the Roaring; it was a pity that the law prevented their killing for such a long time. He had seen tracks of caribou, that are scarce in that region; but they were very old tracks, not worth following, since these animals are such great travelers.
During this conversation Madge would listen, at times, and turn towards the door. She had a vague idea that Ennis might come, since the boy’s account had been somewhat reassuring. When she finally went to bed behind an improvised screen in a corner of the big living-room, she was long unable to sleep, owing to obsessing thoughts that wouldn’t be banished. Over and over again she reminded herself of all that had happened. It stood to reason that the man had written186those letters; how could it be otherwise? The proofs in her hands were too conclusive to permit her to pay any heed to his denials. The amazing thing was that when one looked at him it became harder and harder to believe him capable of such wrongdoing.
As she tossed in her bed she began to be assailed with doubts. These worried her exceedingly. He had firmly asserted his innocence. Supposing that he was telling the truth, what then? In such a case, impossible as it seemed, she had accused him unjustly, and her conduct towards him had been unpardonable. And then she had refused to listen to him, when he had sought to begin some sort of explanation. Why shouldn’t one believe a man with such frank and honest eyes, one who wouldn’t harm even a dog and was loved and trusted by little children? Of course, it was quite unintentionally that she had wounded his body, but if he chanced to be innocent she had also wounded his feelings, deeply, in spite of which he had seemed sorry for her, and had been very kind. He had promised to come again to give her further help. If he was guilty it was but a sorry attempt to make slight amends. If he was not at fault, it showed that he was a mighty fine man. Madge felt that she would rather187believe in his innocence, in spite of the fact that if he could prove it she would be covered with confusion.
“It seems to me that I ought to have given him that opportunity he was seeking,” she told herself, rather miserably.
Before she fell asleep she decided that on the morrow she would walk over to his shack if he did not turn up in the forenoon. He might be in want of care, in spite of what the small boy had said. If he was all right she would sit down and question him. The letters she had received were in her bag; she would show them to him. Now that she thought of it, the curious, ill-formed, hesitating character of the writing seemed utterly out of keeping with the man’s apparent nature. He ought to have written strongly and boldly, it seemed to her. Gradually she was becoming certain that his word of honor that he had never penned them, or caused some one else to do it for him, would suffice to change the belief she had held. Yes––she would go there, even before noon. If she met him on the road they could as well speak out in the open air. And if she could be sure that she had been mistaken in regard to him, she would beg his pardon, because he had tried to be good to her, with little encouragement on her188part. She––she didn’t want him to think afterwards––when everything would be ended, that she had been ungrateful and unjust. Of course, the great effort had failed; nearly everything was ended now and there were no steps that could be retraced. Someone had been very wicked and cruel, that was certain. But she didn’t care who it was; it could make no difference. She really hoped it was not Hugo Ennis.
In the darkness her tense features relaxed and her body felt greater ease. Finally her eyes closed and she slept.
189CHAPTER IXFor the Good Name of Carcajou
The morning came clear and somewhat warmer. Beyond the serrated edges of the woodlands covering far-away hills were masses of sunlit rolling clouds that seemed as if they were utterly immovable and piled up as a background to the purpling beauty of the mountains.
Madge awoke early. Outside the house the dogs were stirring, the two young ones chasing one another over the snow and rolling over it while the others nosed about more sedately. She heard a ponderous yawn from Papineau, on the other side of the slender partition, and a general scurrying of small feet and the moving of washbasins. When she came out Mrs. Papineau had already kindled the wood in the fireplace and was stirring the hot embers in the stove. From without she heard sounds of lusty chopping.
She wrapped a borrowed knitted scarf about her neck and put on Hugo’s woolentuque, after which she stepped out. There190was a wondrous brilliancy over the world. On trees hung icicles that took on the appearance of gems. The cold air made her breathe so deeply that she felt amazingly strong and well. The oldest boy’s smiting with his axe came in thumps that awakened a little echo, coming from over there where the river narrowed down between high banks. It was very wonderful; it gave one a desire to live; it seemed a pity that one must so soon say good-by to all this. It––it was perhaps better not to think of that just now.
She went indoors again. There were potatoes to be peeled and the girl, in spite of protests, took up a knife and went to work. It was such a pleasure to do something to help. Indeed she had been idle too long, allowing these people to do everything for her while she crouched disconsolately in warm corners. At present all the weariness and weakness seemed to have left her. It was just like a fresh beginning instead of the ending of a life. It would have made her happy to think that, somewhere in the world, providing it were away from the city, she might have found honest work to do in exchange for some of this wonderful peace. If she could only have remained among these gentle and placid people and let her existence flow on, easily, without191pain and the constant worry for the morrow. It was like some marvelous dream from which she was compelled to awaken at once, for she realized that there was no place for her in this household. The older children were already of the greatest assistance to their parents, and there was no room for her in the crowded shack. She had caused these people some inconvenience, which they had accepted cheerfully, it was true, but which she could not keep on inflicting on them. But for some hours––some blessed hours, she could play at being happy and pretend that life was sweet. She could smile now, when these people spoke to her, and she hugged some of the little ones without apparent reason.
“You stay ’ere some more day,” Mrs. Papineau told her, “an’ den you look lak’ oder gal sure. Get fat an’ lose de black roun’ you h’eyes. You now a tousan’ time better as ven you come, you bet. Dis a fine coontree, Canada, for peoples get strong an’ hoongree an’ work ’ard an’ sleep good.”
“It’s a perfectly beautiful and wonderful country,” cried the girl, enthusiastically. “I––I wish I could always live here.”
“You one so prettee gal,” commented the good woman. “Some day you fin’ one good ’usban’ an’ marry an’ h’always lif in dis coontree.192Den you is happy and strong. Plenty mans in dis coontree want wife to ’elp an’ mak’ good ’ome. It one h’awful big lan’.”
Yes, there was any amount of room in this great country. And the woman wanted her to go and find a good husband! Well, she had come far to seek one. It––it had not been a pleasant experience. She saw herself wandering about this wilderness looking for another man who would take her to wife. Oh, the shame of it––the hot flashing of her cheeks when she thought of it! No, she was now looking on all this as a pauper looks into the shop-front displaying the warm clothing that would keep the bitter cold from him, or as starvelings of big cities, through the windows of great restaurants and hostelries, stare upon the well-fed people sating themselves with an abundance of good cheer. She must remain outside and now the end of it all was near.
They had their breakfast, during which Mrs. Papineau said that she was becoming anxious about Hugo. Presently she would send one of the children again. Papineau wouldn’t do because he knew nothing about sick people. She would go over there herself soon. If he was sick she would bring him a loaf of bread. It would soon be ready to193bake; the dough was still rising behind the stove. There might be other things to be attended to. Not more than an hour would elapse before she was ready to go. She remarked that men were a very helpless lot whenever they were ill, and became grumpy and took feminine tact to manage.
The feeling of anxiety that had gradually come over the girl became deeper. If the man was ill, it was her fault. What had possessed her to spend some of her scant store of money in that dirty little shop for a pistol? Of course, she realized that a vague feeling of danger had guided her––that the thing could be a means of defense or offer a way to end her troubles. And it had only served to injure a man who, if he had sinned against her, manifested at any rate some desire to treat her kindly.
But the thought that he might not be guilty returned to her, insistently. It was on her part a change of thought that was not due to carefully reasoned considerations, to any deep study of conditions, for when she tried to argue the matter out she became involved in a thousand contradictions and her head would begin to ache in dizzy fashion. Rather it was some sort of instinct, one of the conclusions so often and quickly reached by the feminine194mind and apt, in spite of everything, to prove accurate and reliable.
“Mrs. Papineau,” she said, suddenly, “I think I will go over there now. I––I have rested long enough and the fresh air will be good for me. I will come back very soon, I suppose, but if––if Mr. Ennis should be ill you will find me there.”
Her proposal was assented to without the slightest objection. The good woman insisted on furnishing her with footwear better suited to the tote-road than the boots she wore. On the trail the snow would be fairly well beaten down and there would be little need of snowshoes if she picked her way carefully. She could not lose her way. Still, it might be as well for one of the children to go with her. People who were not used to the woods sometimes strayed off a trail and got in trouble.
Under escort of the second oldest girl Madge started, briskly. She had covered but a short distance before she wondered that she felt so strong and well. The plain substantial food she had eaten and the bright, stimulating air were filling her with a new life. She walked along quite fast, for she was now anxious to see this man again. If she had been wrong she wanted to make amends. But what if he were very ill? She thought of the195lonely little shack and the lack of any comfort and care within it. He might be lying there helplessly, with only a dog for a companion. At every turn of the little road she looked ahead, keenly, thinking that perhaps she might meet him on his way to the Papineau’s. As she hurried on she felt that the house had perhaps been too warm and it was splendid to be walking beneath the snow-laden trees, to see the little clouds of her breath going out into the frosty air and to hear the crackling of the clean snow under her feet.
The child was walking sturdily at her side and told her of some Christmas presents Hugo had brought. It was evident that to the children of that family he was a very wonderful being, a sort of Santa Claus who had done his full duty and one to be forever after welcomed with joyous shrieks. And father said he was a very good shot, and Stefan Olsen, the big man, thought there was no one like him. And he could sing songs and tell stories, wonderful stories. Madge, as she listened to the girl, suddenly wondered whether it was not possible that the loneliness of such a life might not in some way have disturbed the man’s mind, at least temporarily. Wasn’t it possible for one, in such a case, to do queer things and never remember anything about196them afterwards? No one better than she knew what a terrible and maddening thing loneliness was. She recollected distracting hours spent in little hall-bedrooms while she tried to mend, after an exhausting day’s work, the poor clothing that wore out so terribly soon, and how at times she had felt that she must be becoming crazy.
“But no! He couldn’t have done it. He––he’s a very quiet sensible man, I should think, and––and he wouldn’t hurt even a dog,” she repeated to herself.
They were journeying quite fast over the trail that snaked along through the woods, bending here and there in order to avoid boulders and stumps and fallen trees but always coming in sight of the frozen river again. At times Madge trudged through rather deep snow. Also she stubbed her toes upon rocks and stumbled over branches broken off by the great gales of winter. But it really wasn’t very hard. And the child kept on chattering about Monsieur Hugo and asking eager questions about the big city. Was it true that as far as one could see there were houses standing right up against one another for miles and miles, and that people swarmed in them as do the wild bees in hollow trees? It was natural for bees to do such things, and197for ants, and for the minnows in shoals down in the river, but why did people have to crowd in such a way? How could they breathe?
Finally they came in sight of the shack and the child gave a swift glance.
“No smoke, mees,” she said. “Heem go away, or mebbe heem seek.”
Madge hurried along faster for an instant, and then stopped short. What if neither of the child’s conclusions was correct? If she went over there and knocked at the door he might come out, looking rather surprised. She had told him that she had come to Carcajou, looking for an unknown husband, for a man she was willing to accept under certain conditions, just because her life had become intolerable. He might lift his brow and perhaps ask her quite civilly to come in. But what would he think? Would he imagine that she was running after him and trying to compel him to marry her? It was not alone the frost that brought color to her cheeks now. No, it would never do.
“I think I will wait here,” she told the little girl. “Will you please go and find out if Mr. Ennis is there, and whether he is all right again? I’ll sit down on this log and wait till you come back.”
The child looked rather puzzled but she198ran down the path that led to the cabin. Madge saw her stopping in front of the door, at which she knocked. She heard her call out and then wait, as if listening. At once came Maigan’s voice. He was barking but the sound was not an angry one. Rather it sounded plaintively. Finally the girl pulled the door open, after fumbling at the latch, and the dog ran out, barking again and rolling in the snow. Then he sniffed the air and discovered Madge, at once running towards her and pushing his muzzle in her hand. She stroked his head and he ran back, going but a few steps and turning around to see if she followed. She rose slowly, a sense of fear coming over her, and hesitatingly went down the path also. At this moment the child came out, looking frightened, and hastened over to her.
“Heem seek––very seek,” she cried, and Madge found herself running now, with her heart beating and her breath coming fast. The terrifying idea came to her that perhaps he was dead. But as she entered the place the man rose painfully on his bunk. His face was amazingly pale and his features drawn––hardly recognizable.
“Sorry, must beg your pardon––I intended to come over,” he told her, hoarsely.199“It––it’s some silly sort of a fever. I––I’ll be better pretty soon. It’s that blessed arm of mine, I think, and––and I’m frightfully thirsty. If––if you’ll ask the kid....”
Madge peered about her, but there was no water in sight. Even if there had been any she knew it would have frozen solid in the fireless shack whose interior had struck a chill through her. She seized a pail.
“Where does one get it?” she asked. “Or do you have to melt ice?”
“There’s a spring. It’s halfway down to the pool. Never quite freezes over. Let that girl go for it, Miss Nelson. Or––or I may go myself in a minute. Only waiting till––till my teeth stop chattering. Then I can light––light the fire and––and make hot tea. It––it’s such a stupid nuisance and––and I’m giving you a lot of bother.”
But Madge ran out of the shack and down to that spring, where the clear water seemed to be boiling out of the ground, since a little cloud of steam rose from it. But it was just pure icy water and she filled the pail and hurried back with it. When she returned the child was efficiently engaged in making a fire in the little stove. The man had sunk down on his bunk again and she went up to him. His teeth were no longer chattering, but his200cheekbones now bore patches of deep red. When she ventured to touch his hand, she found that it was burning hot. At this an awful, distressing, unreasoning fear came upon her. She––she had killed this man, for––for he certainly was going to die, she thought. Even in the big hospital she had never seen a face more strongly stamped with the marks of impending death. It was frightful!
She gave him water which he drank greedily, calling for more. She had to hold the cup, since his hand shook too badly. Dully, feeling stricken with a great desolation, she prepared some tea and gave it to him. She had found some biscuits in a box but he refused to eat anything. Presently he was lying flat again on his bunk, with his eyes closed, and when she spoke he made no answer. But he was breathing, she noted. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. It might do him a great deal of good, she thought.
The child had thrown herself down on the floor, next to Maigan, who was stretched out at length, enjoying the welcome heat of the stove. From time to time the animal lifted his head and looked towards his master anxiously. He knew that something was all wrong, but now that these other people had201come everything would doubtless be made all right.
For some time Madge kept still, sitting down on a stool she had drawn to the side of the bunk. She had the resigned patience innate in so many women, but presently she could stand it no longer. Something must be done at once. Valuable time was passing and no help was being obtained. Things simply couldn’t go on this way!
Rising again she called the child.
“We must go and get a doctor at once,” she whispered, breathlessly. “I––I’m horribly afraid. Come outside with me.”
She caught the little girl’s arm in her impatience, and took her out.
“Your––your friend, Monsieur Hugo, is dreadfully ill, do you understand, child? I heard your mother say that one could telegraph from Carcajou for a doctor. We’ve got to do it! How long would it take me to get there?”
The girl was evidently scared, but she looked at Madge with some of the practical sense of one versed with the difficulties of life in the wilds.
“If you ’lone you never get dere. If Maigan work for you maybe three-four hour,” answered the child. “Heem go a202leetle way den turn back for de shack. No leave master.”
There came upon Madge a dreadful feeling of helplessness. The man looked terribly ill; she felt that he was probably going to die. This great wilderness suddenly grew as wicked in her eyes as that of the city. Nay, it was even worse. She remembered how ill she had become and how she had struggled to fight off the sickness, in a little lone room of a top floor. But as soon as people had come she had been bundled away to the hospital. A wagon had come, with a doctor in a white coat, and they had clattered off. The people in the hospital had seemed interested, indifferent, friendly, according to their several dispositions, but she had been taken care of, and fed, and washed, and some of the nurses had sweet faces, after all, and after a time she had recovered. All this had seemed rather terrible at the time, but what was it compared to this lying desperately ill in a freezing hut, too feeble to procure even the cup of water craved by a dry tongue and lips that were parched?
“I can surely walk that distance,” she cried, but the child shook her head again.
“You no good for walk far,” she asserted. “You jus’ fall down dead. Twelve mile and203snow deep some place. Moch cole as freeze you quick when tired.”
“Then what’s to be done?” asked Madge, entering the house again, followed by the child. “I think I ought to try to get to Carcajou.”
“Please don’t,” said the man, hoarsely, looking as if he had awakened suddenly, and lifting himself up on one elbow painfully. “I’ll––I’ll be all right to-morrow, sure––surest thing you know, and––and I’ll take you down myself, with old––old Maigan.”
“Please hurry back to your house and tell your mother to come over as soon as she can,” Madge told the child. “Perhaps your father could go. I didn’t think of it at first.”
“Now you spik’ lak’ you know someting,” said the girl, with refreshing frankness. “I ’urry all right. Get modder quick.”
She started, her little legs flying over the snow, and Madge closed the door again.
She put a little more wood in the stove and sat down by the bunk. The man’s eyes were closed again. It was strange that he had heard her so distinctly, and that he had gathered the impression that she wanted to get to Carcajou on her own account. And––and he had said he would take her himself. Again204his first thought had been to do something for her, to be of service to her.
One of his hands was lying outside the blankets, and instinctively Madge placed her own upon it. She was frightened to feel how hot it was. The pulse her fingers sought was beating wildly. She felt glad that she was there. The man didn’t care for her and she––well, she supposed that she disliked him, but she wasn’t going to let him die there alone in a corner, like a wounded animal in some obscure den among the rocks. For the moment her own troubles were pretty nearly forgotten, for there was something for her to do. She had been but a useless by-product of humanity in the great melting pot of the world and had proved incapable of rising above the dross and making even a poor place for herself. But this man was young and strong and able, bearing all the marks of one destined to be of use. He had looked splendid in his efficient and sturdy manhood and therefore there was something wrong, utterly wrong and against the course of nature in his being about to be snuffed out before her very eyes, just because she had dropped that abominable pistol. It––it just couldn’t be!
She leaned forward again and looked upon his face, that was ashen under the coating of205tan. Once he opened his eyes and looked at her, but the lids closed down again and once more she became obsessed by the idea that she might have been very unjust to him, that she had perhaps insulted and wronged him. All at once the face she was looking at became blurred, but it was because she saw it through a mist of gathering tears. It had been easy, when she had bought that pistol, to think of killing a man; now it seemed frightful, abominable, and the resentment she had felt against the man was turning against herself in spite of the fact that it had been an accident, just a miserable accident.
Long minutes, forty or fifty of them, went by as she waited and listened. But presently Maigan, that had laid his head in her lap and was looking at her pitifully, as if he had been begging her to help the man he loved, rose suddenly and dashed to the door, barking. It proved to be Papineau and his wife, who was very breathless.
The man came in, looked at Hugo and rushed out again. He took the time to exchange his toboggan for Hugo’s, which was lighter and to which he hitched his three powerful dogs. Madge went to him.
“You’ll hurry, won’t you?” she cried. “I––I’m afraid, I’m horribly afraid.206Don’t––don’t come back without a doctor will you?”
“You bet de life, mees, I make dem dog ’urry plenty moch. Yes, ma’am, you bet!” he repeated, calmly, but looking at her with the strong steely eyes that seemed peculiar to these men of the great North.
He ran with his team up the path. When he reached the tote-road the girl saw that he had jumped on the sled, which was tearing away to the southward.
Within the shack Mrs. Papineau busied herself in many ways, placing things in order and fussing about the stove, upon which she had placed a pot containing more herbs she had brought with her. Every few minutes she interrupted her work in order to take another look at Hugo. Once or twice Madge saw a big tear roll down her fat cheeks, which she swiftly wiped off with her sleeve. A little later she managed to make the man swallow some of her concoction. He appeared to obey unconsciously, but when she spoke to him he just babbled something which neither of the women understood. Finally the Frenchwoman sat down at the side of Madge, snuffling a little, and began to whisper.
“Big strong man one day,” she commented, “an’ dis day seek an’ weak lak one leetle child.207Eet is de way so strange of de Providence. It look lak de good Lord make one fine man, fines’ Heem can make––a man as should get de love of vomans an’ leetle children––an’ den Heem mak up his min’ for to tak heem avay. An’ Heem good Lord know why, but I tink I better pray. Maybe de good Lord Heem ’ear an’ tink let heem lif a whiles yet, eh?”
And so the woman knelt down and repeated prayers, for the longest time, speaking hurriedly the invocations she had all her life, known by heart, and ending each one with the devout crossing of her breast. Then Madge, for the first time in a very long while, remembered words she had so often heard in the little village church at home, which promised that whenever two or three were gathered together in the name of the Lord, He would be among them. Yes, she had heard that assurance often in the place of worship she could now see so vividly, in which the open windows, on summer days, let in the droning of the bees and the scent of honeysuckle outside. So she knelt beside the other woman and began to pray also, haltingly, in words that came well-nigh unbidden because they were the call of a heart in sore travail which had long forgotten how to pray for itself.208And it seemed as if the great Power above must surely be listening.
Finally Mrs. Papineau rose. She was compelled to go back home and see that the children were fed. She promised she would return in a short time. The doctor would certainly not come before night, perhaps not even until early morning, for he would be compelled to make a journey on the train. Papineau would wait for him, of course. As soon as he had sent the message he would give the dogs a good feed and they would be ready for the return. Then when the doctor turned up, Papineau would rush him to Roaring River, and––and if the Lord was willing he might be able to do something, providing....
But she had to interrupt herself to wipe away another big tear. She placed a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, seeking to encourage her a little, and started off, her heavy footsteps crackling over the snow. Then silence came again, but for the hurried breathing of the sick man and the occasional sighs of Maigan, who refused food offered to him.
Madge forced herself to eat a little, dimly realizing that for a time there might be need of all her strength. After this she sat down again, feeling crushed with the sense of her helplessness and with the thought of the terribly209long hours that must elapse before the doctor could arrive.
Once Hugo seemed to awaken, as if from a sleep. The hand that had lain so still seemed to grope, searchingly, and she placed her own upon it.
“Take you over––all right––to-morrow,” he said. “It––it’s a pity, because––because you’re so––so good and kind, now,” he muttered. “She––she thinks I––I’m the dirt under her feet. Ain’t––ain’t you there, Stefan?”
His eyes searched the room for a moment. Then, with a look of disappointment, his head sagged down on the pillow again and he lay quiet for a long time, till he began to mutter words that were disconnected and meaningless to her.
The noon hour came and went, with a glowing sun that shone brightly over the snow and tinted the mist from the great falls with the colors of the rainbow. But Madge did not see it, for within the little shack the panes were dimmed by the frost. The stove crackled and spat, with the sudden little explosions of wood fires. Close to it one felt very warm but the heat did not extend far, since the cold seemed to be seeking ever to penetrate the room, making its way beneath the door and210through some of the chinked spaces between the logs. It affected Madge now as a sort of enemy, this cold that seemed to be on the watch for victims. It was one of the things that were always rising up in order to crush struggling men and women.
Another hour elapsed, that had been cruelly long, when Maigan suddenly leaped up and stood before the door, with hair bristling all over him and standing like a ridge along his back. He scratched furiously and looked back, as if demanding to be let out, and kept up a long, ominous growl that was very different from his usual bark.
Madge went to the door, feeling very uneasy. She opened it, after slipping her hand under Maigan’s collar. Upon the tote-road she saw a large sled that had been drawn by a pair of strong, shaggy horses, which a man was blanketing. From where she stood she heard confused voices of men and women, all of whom were strangers to her. They seemed to be consulting together. Finally they came down the path towards the shack, nine or ten of them, walking slowly and looking grim and unfriendly. Maigan was now barking fiercely and Madge had to struggle with him to prevent his dashing out towards them.