A Cry in the Wilderness

And such expansive souls as I found in the tiny homes: the hostess of the inn, Mrs. Macleod's dressmaker who lived beneath the shadow of the great twin-towered church; the furrier and his wife on the market-square; from them I bought my warm coat; ancient Mère Guillardeau and her old daughter, weaver of rag carpets, and some of her friends who followed the same calling and showed me, during the short winter days, how to weave them on their rough looms.

Of the three or four English families, with the exception of the postmistress, I knew nothing, or knew of them only through Mr. Ewart and Jamie. The "Seignior" and "Seignioress", so-called although English, were in Montreal for the winter. The old General and his wife were housed through infirmities. Now and then I saw a bevy of red-cheeked English girls, driving over from their home-school in Upper Richelieu for a jolly lark on their half-holiday. Of other English I heard nothing; there were none in Richelieu-en-Bas.

As the season advanced and I was firm on my winter feet, I made many a snow-shoe call on the farmers' families who lived on the old seigniory lands. It was good to hear them tell their hopes and anticipations; for Mr. Ewart's plan to do away with the old seigniorial rents and leases, and make of each farmer, at present paying rent, a freeholder, was welcomed, with almost passionate enthusiasm, in this community, where, generally, change is looked at askance. It was not long before I discovered that, on entering these homes, I found myself anticipating some word of praise, some expression of loyalty and devotion to the man who was to give them a new outlook on life. I listened with willing ears and led them, many times of my own accord, to speak of him.

In the long winter evenings I read thoroughly into the history of French Canada. It took me far afield, into English as well; into biography and the work of pioneers. It showed me the flaming enthusiasm of the fanatic, the faith of the apostle, the courage of high adventure, the chivalry of noble lives, the loyalty and devotion of the humble. It showed me, also, the cruelty of man to man, the divergence of race, the warring of nations, the battlefields, the conquests, the heavy hand of the conqueror, the red man's friendship, the red man's enmity, fire, sword, torture. But in and through and above all, it opened to me the high heart of the Canadian, the undaunted faith in established principles, and the patriotism that is a veritable passion.

"O Canada, my Canada!" an old French Canadian once exclaimed to me as we sat by the box-stove in his little "cabin". "There is no land like it; no land where they live at peace as we do here; no land where they are so content by their own fireside." And he spoke the truth.

I began to understand, through my intercourse with our neighbors on the estate and the village people, those words of Drummond—Drummond who has shown us the hearts of Canada's children:

"Our fathers came to win usThis land beyond recall—And the same blood flows within usOf Briton, Celt and Gaul—Keep alive each glowing emberOf our sireland, but rememberOur country is CanadianWhatever may befall."Then line up and try us,Whoever would deny usThe freedom of our birthright,And they 'll find us like a wall—For we are Canadian, Canadian forever,Canadian forever—Canadian over all!"

One night in February, just before the Doctor's mid-winter visit, a friend of the dead poet passed a night beneath the roof of the old manor house as Mr. Ewart's guest. After the yellow chintz curtains were close drawn, so shutting out the wintry night, and while the backlog was glowing, he read to us from those poems that at the author's will exact tears or smiles from their hearers. After the reading of "The Rossignol", Jamie took his seat at the piano and played softly that exquisite old French Canadian air "Sur la montagne".

Mr. Ewart rose and, taking his stand beside him, sang the words of the poem which have been set to this music.

"Jus' as de sun is tryin'    Climb on de summer skyTwo leetle birds come flyin'    Over de mountain high—Over de mountain, over de mountain,    Hear dem call,Hear dem call—poor leetle rossignol!"

They recalled to me that twin song of Björnson's which, despite its joyous note of anticipation, holds the same pathos of unsatisfied longing.

The last note had scarcely been struck when Jamie broke into the jolly accompaniment to

"For he was a grand Seigneur, my dear,He was a grand Seigneur."

And, listening so to poems and music and the talk of these men of fine mind and high aspirations, to their hopes for Canada as a whole, to their expression of pride in her marvellous growth and their faith in her future, I said to myself:

"Am I the girl, or rather woman now, who a few years ago made her way up from the narrow thoroughfares about Barclay Street to her attic room in 'old Chelsea'—up through the traffic-congested streets of New York, in the dark of the late winter afternoon, the melting snow falling in black drops and streams from the elevated above her; the avenues running brown snow-water; the rails gleaming; the steaming horses plashing through slush; the fog making haloes about the dimmed arc-lights; the hurrying, pressing tide of humanity surging this way and that and nearly taking her off her feet at the crossings; the whole city reeking with a warm-chill mist, and the shrieking, grinding, grating, whistling, roaring polyglot din of the metropolis half deafening her?"

Thinking of this as I stared into the fire, listening to the good talk on many subjects, something—was it the frost of homelessness?—melted in my heart. The feelings and emotions that had been benumbed through the icy chill of circumstance, thawed within me. The tears, usually unready, filled my eyes. I bent my head that the others might not see, but they fell faster and faster. And with every one that plashed on my hands, as they lay folded in my lap, I felt the unbinding from my life of one hard year after another, until the woman who rose to bring in the porridge, in order to cover her emotion, was one who rose free of all thwarting circumstance. I had come into my own—a woman's own.

But I failed to read the third sign.

XVII

Doctor Rugvie's visit! It was fruitful of much, little as I anticipated that.

I wrote regularly every month to Delia Beaseley telling her all that I knew would be of interest to her about my life at Lamoral, and assuring her that my lines had fallen in pleasant places. She wrote, at first, to tell me that my wish, in regard to keeping my identity from Doctor Rugvie for the present, would be respected; but in a later letter she urged me to make it known to him; to ascertain all the facts possible about my parentage. I replied that I preferred to wait.

And why did I prefer to wait? I asked myself this question and found no answer. When the answer came, it was unmistakable in its leadings.

"A letter from Doctor Rugvie; he is coming Monday!" I cried joyfully, flourishing the sheet in Jamie's face when he appeared at the door to ask for his mail.

I was sitting on the floor by the shelves in the living-room, for I was busy cataloguing the books in the general and mixed collection, and searching for allied subjects. This work Mr. Ewart assigned to me after I had finished the "forestry" cataloguing.

"Where 's mine?"

"You have n't any, nor Mr. Ewart—from the Doctor, I mean."

"You seem to be particularly elated over the fact."

"Jamie, my friend, feel—" I held up the envelope to him; he took it and fingered it investigatingly.

"What's this in it?"

"That is an object which in international currency exchange we call a draft—the equivalent of my wages, Jamie; in other words, payment for industrial efficiency; do you hear?"

"My, but you are a mercenary woman! One of the kind we read of in the States," he retorted.

"Wait till you get your first check for royalties from London, then use that word and tone to me again if you dare."

Mr. Ewart opened the door of the office.

"What's this I hear about the Doctor and mercenary tendencies—the two don't go together as I happen to know." He spoke from the threshold.

Jamie showed him the envelope, holding it high above my head.

"This, Ewart, is the compensation for sundry days of so-called labor on the part of Miss Farrell—drives, snow-shoeing, tobogganing with Cale not discounted, of course. Shall I read it, Marcia?"

"For all I care."

Mr. Ewart looked on smiling at our chaff.

"It's on the First National Bank of New York, Ewart, for the amount of fifty-two dollars and eighty-seven cents—how 's that about the cents, Marcia?"

"Because the Doctor insists on paying me every two months and seems to call thirty days a month—why every two, I don't know, do you?" I said laughing, and looking up, questioning, into Mr. Ewart's face. What I saw there, what I am sure Jamie saw, was not encouraging for more jesting on Jamie's part or mine. He turned away abruptly and sat down at his desk before he spoke:

"The Doctor wired me this afternoon that he would be here to-night instead of Monday, as he can get in an extra day. I can't say how sorry I am it has happened so, for I made arrangements to be in Quebec to-night and in Ottawa to-morrow night. I return Monday. Well, I must leave him in your hands—he won't lack entertainment. I wish, Jamie, it were possible for you to risk it and meet him with me this evening; but I suppose this night air is too keen—it's ten below now. I shall take the train he comes on and may not have time for a word of welcome."

"I suppose it would be risking too much." Jamie spoke with something that sounded like a sigh. "I don't want the Doctor to roar at me the first thing because I am indiscreet—not after what he and his advice and kindness have done for me already."

Mr. Ewart laid a hand on his shoulder.

"You 're another man, Macleod, since coming here. We won't make any back tracks into that wilderness, will we?" He spoke so gently, so affectionately, that Jamie turned suddenly to him, exclaiming impulsively:

"Gordon, if you were a woman I 'd kiss you for saying that."

I knew what courage it gave him to hear this from his friend; and I wondered what kind of a man this might be who, one moment, could look stern and unyielding at our half childish chaffing, and in the next be all affectionate solicitude for this younger man who, at times, was all boy.

"Then, Miss Farrell," he turned to me, "won't you come? Cale will drive me over in the double pung."

There was no hesitation in my giving an affirmative answer.

"We 'll have supper within an hour, please, Mrs. Macleod," he said, as she entered the room. He looked at the pile of books on the floor beside me.

"It's too late for you to work any more." He stooped and, gathering up an armful, began to place them. "Will you be so kind as to speak to Marie and tell her to have four soapstones thoroughly heated, and ask Cale to warm the robes? It will be twenty below before you get back."

"Just what I 've wanted to do all winter," I exclaimed; "a drive on such a clear, full-moon night to Richelieu-en-Haut will be something to remember."

"I hope to make it so; for it's a typical Canadian midwinter night—a thing of splendor if seen with seeing eyes."

"Then you won't expect me to talk much, will you?"

"No,"—he smiled genially, and Jamie audaciously winked at me behind his back,—"it's apt to make my teeth ache, and although yours are as sound as mine, I don't believe they can stand prolonged exposure to severe cold any better. But how about Cale? There is no ice embargo on his flow of speech."

Jamie burst into a laugh. "You 're right, Gordon, he 'll do all the talking for both, and for the Doctor too. By the way, mother," he said, turning to Mrs. Macleod and at the same time holding out a hand to help me up from the floor—an attention I ignored to save his strength—"something Cale said the other day, but casually, led me to think he may be a benedict instead of a bachelor; you have n't found out yet?"

"No, but sometime it will come right for me to ask him. He has consideration for women in just those little things that would lead me to believe that he has been married—"

"Oh, I say, mother, that's rough on Ewart and me. Give us a point or two on the 'little things', will you?"

"Stop teasing, Jamie; I still think, as I thought from the first, that he has been—"

"Perhaps more than once, mother! Perhaps he 's a widower, or even a grass widower—I 've heard of such in the States—or he might be a divorcé, or a Mormon, or a swami gone astray—"

"Havers!" she exclaimed, with a show of resentment which caused her son to rejoice, for it was only when thoroughly out of patience with him that she used the Scotch.

"You 're too absurd," I said with a warning look.

"Mother is for stiff back-boned unrelentingness in such things," he remarked soberly, after she and Mr. Ewart left the room; "and I 've put my foot into it too," he added dolefully. "Why, the deuce, did n't you stop me in time?"

"How did I know how far your nonsense would lead you?"

"Well, I don't care—much; I can't step round on eggs just because of what I 've heard—"

"If only you had n't said anything about 'grass widower'!"

"Don't rub it in so," he said pettishly, and by that same token I knew he was repentant because, without intention, he might have spoken in a way to hurt momentarily his friend.

"Beats all how dumb critters scent a change," said Cale, just after supper. He was loaded with the robes he had been warming. Pierre was waiting in the pung, having brought the horses around a little early. Little Pete with a soapstone was following Cale. "They begun to be uneasy 'bout two hours ago; I take it they heard Mr. Ewart say he was leavin' on the night express, and begun to get nerved up."

"So they did, Cale; they were in the office, all four of them, and heard every word. Look at them!"

Cale stopped on his way to the front door and looked up the stairway. Mr. Ewart was coming down, a dog on each side of him, and two behind fairly nosing his heels. They made no demonstration; were not apparently expectant; but, as Cale remarked 'they froze mighty close to him', sneaking down step by step beside and behind him, ears drooping, tails well curled between their legs—four despairing setters!

We watched them. Mr. Ewart paid no heed to them. They heeled along in the passageway almost on their bellies when he took his fur coat from the hook. He had another on his arm which he held open for me.

"I really am warmly enough dressed," I said.

"I don't doubt it—for now; but you 'll be grateful enough to me three hours later for insisting on your wearing it—in with you!" He moved a dog or two from under his feet, gently but forcibly with the tip of his boot; whereupon they literally crawled on the floor.

"If you don't mind, Cale,"—he spoke purposely in a low monotone, but with a look of amusement,—"if you don't mind having the dogs in with you under the robes on the front seat, I 'm willing to have them go, but I don't want them to run with the pung."

I noticed no movement on the part of the dogs except an intense quivering of the whole body. One who does not understand doghood might have fancied they were shivering at the prospect of the eighteen-mile drive in the cold.

"I ain't no objection," said Cale; "the fact is there ain't no better foot-warmer 'n a dog on a cold night, an' I was goin' ter ask if I could n't have the loan of one of 'em fer ter-night."

"Well, they can all go—"

The last word was drowned in a chaos of frantically joyous barks. They leaped on him, caressed him, stood up with their forepaws stemmed on the breast of his fur coat, licked his boots, his hands, and attempted his face—but of that he would have none.

"Be still now—and come on, comrades!" he said. The four made a mad but silent rush for the door. Cale gave them right of way; Pierre swore great French oaths wholly disproportionate to the occasion, for the outrush of the dogs caused the French coach horses to plunge only twice. At last we were in—the dogs in front with Cale, and Mr. Ewart and I on the back seat, so muffled in furs, fur robes, fur caps, coats and mittens, that we humans were scarce to be distinguished from our canine neighbors.

We no longer used the frozen creek for a crossing, but drove a mile up the road to the highroad bridge. The night was very cold. The moon had not yet risen. The stars shone with Arctic splendor. Cale drove us rapidly over the dry, hard-packed snow—to my amazement in silence. Through the woods, down the river road we sped, and on through Richelieu-en-Bas. The light in the cabaret by the steamboat landing shone dimly; the panes were thick with frost. Here and there a bright lamp gleamed from some window, but, as a whole, the village was dark. We drove on to the open country towards Richelieu-en-Haut six miles away, sometimes through a short stretch of deep woods where the horses shied at the misshapen stumps, snow-covered. Then out into the open again, the flat expanse of white seemingly unbroken. Here and there, far across the snow-fields, I caught a glimpse of a light from some farmhouse. Once we heard the baying of a hound, at which all four setters came suddenly to life from beneath the robes and barked vindictive response.

To the north the sky was dark and less star-strewn than above. Suddenly I was aware of a wondrous change: the stars paled; the north glowed with tremulous light, translucent yellow that deepened to gold—an arc of gold spanning twenty degrees on the horizon. The glory quivered; ran to and fro; fluctuated from east to west, unstable as liquid, ethereal as gas; paled gradually; then, in the twinkling of an eye, dissolved, and in its dissolution sent streamer after streamer, rose, saffron, pale crocus and white, rapidly zenithward, rising, sinking, undulating, till the heavens were filled with marvellous light. Cale reined in the horses for a moment.

"Guess this can't be beat by the biggest show on earth," he remarked appreciatively.

"Look to the right—the east, Miss Farrell," said Mr. Ewart.

I leaned forward to look past him. Over the white expanse, lightened in the rays of the northern aurora, the moon, nearly full, showed the half of its red-gold disk.

The glory faded from the heavens; the moon, rising rapidly, sent its beams over the fields; the horses saw their shadows long on the off side. Cale chirruped to them, and we sped onwards to the station.

I was happy! If Cale had called me by that name at this time I would have welcomed it. It applied to me. It was good to be alive; good to be out in such a world of natural glory; good to have, in the night and the silence, such companionship that understood my own silence of enjoyment.

I was happy at the prospect of the Doctor's coming. The thought of the future removal to the farm no longer filled me with misgivings. "I shall still be near the manor, it will not be banishment in any sense." So I comforted myself.

I turned to get a look over the ridge of fur at the man beside me. He had spoken but once, to ask if I were comfortable. I wondered if he were enjoying all this as much as I? He must have read my thought for he turned his face to me, saying:

"I am enjoying all this on my own behalf, and doubly because your enjoyment of it is so evident."

"How evident? You can't see that, and I have n't said a word."

"Perhaps for that very reason."

He leaned over and drew the robe farther about my exposed shoulder. I felt the strength of his arm as he pulled at the heavy pelt, the gentleness of his touch as he tucked it behind my back. So little of this thoughtfulness and care had been mine! Almost nothing of it in my life! No wonder that other women who are cared for, carried on loving hands, protected by the bulwark of a man's love, cannot understand what the simple adjustment of that robe around a chilled shoulder meant to me, Marcia Farrell!

He was always doing something in general for my comfort and pleasure, but never anything special. Even this drive I owed to Jamie's physical inability to accept his friend's invitation. But this fact did not quench my joy.

"Are you comfortable—feet warm?" he asked for the second time.

"As warm as toast."

What was it that I felt as I continued to sit silent by this man's side?—an alien, I had called him to the Doctor; fool that I was! I felt a peculiar sense of perfect physical rest I had never before experienced, a consciousness of happy companionship that needed no word to make itself understood. This sense of companionship, this rest of soul and body during the two hours I passed at this man's side—I enjoyed them to the full. The feelings and emotions of the woman who, only a few evenings before, had thrown off the yoke of burdening circumstance, who had broken, to her own physical benefit, with past associations and memories, found scope, in the protecting night and the silence, for perilous nights of imagination. Thoughts undreamed of hitherto, desires I had never supposed permissible in my narrow walk of life, proved their power over me at this hour. Hopes unbounded, if wholly unfounded,—for what had this man ever said to me since his home-coming that he had not said a dozen times to every member of his household?—imagined joys of another, a dual life—

"Yes," I said to myself, giving rein to pleasing fantasy, "a dual life in one—our lives, his and mine, one and inseparable; why not, Marcia Farrell? Why should n't I grasp with both hands outstretched at all life may have to give me? Why not hold it fast even if it have thorns?"

Imagination was carrying me out of myself. I called a halt to all this frenzy, as it at once appeared to me by the cold light of the moon, and brought myself down to earth and common sense with a jolt. I moved uneasily.

"Are you cold?" Mr. Ewart asked, evidently noticing the movement.

"No; but too much aurora, I 'm afraid."

"Did you feel that too? I thought I would n't mention it, but something affected me powerfully for the moment, and there has been an aftermath of sensation since. If this display is wholly electrical, it may easily be that some human machines are tuned like the wireless to catch certain vibrations at certain times."

I sat down hard, metaphorically, on eight feet of frozen earth upon hearing this explanation. "You little fool," I said to myself, but aloud:

"Whatever it was, it was effectual; I have never experienced anything like it."

"Never?"

"No; have you?"

The answer seemed long in coming.

"Yes, many years ago; and it was here in this northern country too. Sometime I would like to tell you about it.—Cale," he spoke quickly, abruptly, "I hear the train. Keep the horses in the open roadway behind the station, then if they bolt at the headlight you can have free rein and a clear road. They 've never seen that light. We 'll get out here," he said, throwing off the robes as Cale drew rein at the edge of the platform, "and you can welcome the Doctor for me if I miss him."

He whisked me out of the pung, giving me both hands as aid, and replaced the robes.

"Keep the horses head on, and don't let the dogs run," were his last words to Cale.

The Quebec express whistled at the curve an eighth of a mile distant from the junction; the sound fell strangely flat in the intense cold. Cale braced himself to handling the horses. I followed Mr. Ewart to the front of the platform.

The engine was thundering past us, and the train drawing to a stop of fifteen seconds.

"Take off your mitten," he said abruptly; I pulled it off with a jerk. He held out his ungloved hand, and I laid mine within it. The two palms, warm, throbbing with coursing life, met—

"Goodby till Monday—and thank you for coming. There he is!"

He had just time to see the Doctor appear on the platform at the other end of the car. Mr. Ewart called to him as he swung himself on to the already moving train:

"John, look out for Miss Farrell—"

The dazed Doctor failed to grasp the situation. Mr. Ewart waved his hand as he passed him; "Till Monday—Miss Farrell will explain."

"Miss Farrell, eh?" The Doctor turned to me who was at his side by means of an awkward skip and a jump, cumbered as I was with the long coat. "Br-r-rre! Is this the weather you give me as a greeting?"

"Why don't you say rather: 'Is this the weather you brave to meet me in?' Would n't that sound more to the point? Come on to the pung; the soapstones are fine."