A Cry in the Wilderness

"Will you tell me sometime what you do know of her?"

"Yes, I will tell you."

"Soon?"

"When you will?"

"To-morrow?"

"As you please. I will take you to the tree, my tree—and to hers; you shall see for yourself."

"Thank you, André."

"I must watch the fire," he said, and retraced his steps. Dear old André! It was such a pleasure to be able to talk with him in his own tongue.

We heard the dip of the paddles, a call—our camp call. In a few minutes the Doctor was with us.

I made excuse the next afternoon to go fishing with André. I kept saying to myself:

"This thing is impossible; there can be no connection between me and any woman who may have been here in camp, and Mr. Ewart says several have been here to his knowledge. What if I do look like some other woman who, years ago, lived and loved here in this wilderness? What have I to do with her? I 'll settle this matter once for all and to my satisfaction; André will tell me. He is romantic; and that girl made a deep impression on him, especially in those circumstances. Now the thought of her has become a fixed idea."

The Doctor sulked a little because he was not of my party.

"I don't approve of your solitude à deux parties; they 're against camp rules."

"Just for this once. André is going to show me something I have wanted to see ever since I came."

He was still growling after I was in the canoe.

"Only this once!" I cried, waving my hand to him before we dipped the paddles.

"She used to wave her hand like that," said André, paddling slowly until I got well regulated to his—what I called—rhythm.

I stared at him. Was this an obsession with him? It began to look like it.

We landed on the north shore of the lake. I followed him along a trail, that led through a depression between two heights, upwards to a heavily wooded small plateau overlooking the lake. I followed his lead for another quarter of a mile through these woods. I could see no trail. Then we came into a path, a good one. I remarked on it.

"Yes: I have made it these many years. I come here every year."

We heard the rush of a near-by torrent. The air swept cool over through the woods and struck full on our faces. In a few minutes we were facing it—a singing mass of water pouring down the smooth face of a rock like the apron of a dam; the face was inclined at an angle of fifty degrees. The torrent plunged into a basin set deep among rocks. Above this pool, above the surrounding trees, towered one great pine. André led me to it.

"I have been coming here so many years—count," he said, pointing to the notches from the butt upwards to a height beyond my reach.

This was the tree about which Jamie had sung, notched year after year by André, since he was ten, that he might know his age. And what an age! I counted: "Eighty notches."

"Oh, André, all those years?"

"But yes—and so many more." He held up his ten fingers.

"And Mère Guillardeau will be a hundred her next birthday?"

He nodded. "Yes; my sister is no longer in her first youth."

He began to count backwards and downwards. I counted after him: "Twenty-seven." By the last notch there was a deep gash.

"What is this?"

"Twenty-seven years ago she was here, she whom you are like. I have waited twenty-seven years."

"Tell me about it; I am ready to hear."

"Come here." He beckoned to me from a group of trees, tamaracks, on the other side of the path. He went behind one. I followed him.

"Read," he said. And I read with difficulty, although the lettering was cut deep, one word "Heureuse", and a date "1883. 9. 10."

"'Heureuse'," I repeated. "Happy—happy; oh, I know how happy!"

He looked at me significantly for a moment, and I knew that his "fixed idea" had possession of him. He regarded me, Marcia Farrell, as the child of that "forest love" of nearly twenty-seven years ago.

"You say true; they were happy." Without preliminaries he told me the story he had related to Mr. Ewart and Jamie last year.

"Has Mr. Ewart or Jamie ever seen this tree, André?"

"No. I have told them both of my tree and the notches—but never of this other. You are the first to see it since her blue eyes watched him cut those letters. I have shown it to neither my young comrade nor to the seignior."

"And you say I am so like her?"

"As like as if you were her own child?"

He put up his hand suddenly to "feel the wind". There was a sudden strange movement among the tree tops.

"Come, come quickly, mademoiselle; we must get back. The wind is shifting to the southwest. It is blowing hot. I know the sign. The seignior will not want you to be out even with old André with this wind on the lake."

I looked at the pool; it was black. The singing waters of the torrent showed unearthly white against the intensified green. The sky became suddenly overcast with swiftly moving clouds. In a moment the wind was all about us; the sound of its going through the forest filled the air with a confused roar. The great trees were already swaying, as we ran down the trail to the lake—and found Mr. Ewart just drawing his canoe and ours high up and away from the already uneasy water. He was breathing quickly.

"There 's a storm coming, André—we saw it from the other side of the lake; coming hard, too, from the southwest. The lake will not be safe till it is over. We will stay here in the open even if we get wet. It is not safe in the woods; the trees are already breaking. I hear the crash of the branches."

"And the seignior did not trust mademoiselle with me?" Evidently he was disgruntled. "True, I am no longer in my first youth" (I saw Mr. Ewart suppress a smile), "but years give caution, seignior—and I have many more than you."

Mr. Ewart laughed pleasantly. The sound of it dissipated André's anger—the quick resentment of old age.

"True, mon vieux camarade, you have the years; but I stand between you and mademoiselle when it comes to a matter of years. I must care for you both."

"I am content that it should be so, moi." He squatted by the canoes which he lashed to a small boulder.

No rain fell, but the wind was terrific in its force. We were obliged to lie flat on the sand. The air was filled with confused torrents of sound, so deafening that we could not make ourselves heard one to the other. It was over in ten minutes. The sky cleared, the sun shone; the lake waters subsided; the sounds died away, and very suddenly. In the minute's calm that followed it seemed as if, in all that land, there were no stirring of a leaf, a twig, or fin of fish, or wing of fowl. There was again a sudden change of wind, and we knew the very moment when the upper air currents, cool and crisp with a touch of Arctic frost, swept down upon the earth and brought refreshment. In another quarter of an hour there was no trace of the storm on the lake; but behind us, on each side of the trail, we saw great trees uprooted.

"I can leave you and André now, and with a clear conscience, to your fishing," he said, as he ran down his canoe.

I felt positively grateful to him for not insisting on taking me back with him; it would have hurt old André's pride as well as feelings.

"We 'll bring home fish enough for supper," I said with fine amateur assurance.

"I warn you 'We are seven' plus the two Montagnais; they stay to-night."

"If I don't make good, André will." And André smiled in what I thought a particularly significant way.

We watched the swift course of his canoe over the lake. Just as he was about to round a small promontory, that would hide him from our sight, he stood up, and swung the dripping paddle high above his head. I waved my hand in answering greeting.

André turned to me with a smile. "The seignior has a look of that other—but he is not the same."

What an obsession it was with this man of ninety! I watched him preparing lines and bait. The canoe had passed from sight.

"André," I said, speaking on the impulse of the moment, "I want to go back to camp."

"As you please, mademoiselle. I can fish on that side as well as this." Upon that he put up his pipe,—I verily believe it was still alive and his pockets must have been lined with asbestos,—and we embarked on our little voyage.

I used my paddle mechanically, for I was thinking: "Is it for one moment probable I have any connection with that girl? Is that past, I am trying so hard to eliminate from my life, to present itself here as a quantity with which I must reckon—here in my life in this wilderness? Is there no avoiding it? André is so sure. Jamie knows he is sure; Mr. Ewart knows this too. They can say nothing to me about it—it is a matter of such delicacy; and they do not know who I am; even my journal does not tell that, and I knew this when I gave it into his hands.

"But the Doctor—he knows. He knows from Cale and Delia Beaseley. He knows who I am; in all probability knows this very day, from those papers in his possession, my father's name; but he knows nothing of this new complication that André has brought about by his insistence that I am like some woman who camped here many years ago—

"Twenty-seven years! That must have been just before I was born—and the date—and that word 'heureuse' with a queer capital H—oh—"

Perhaps it was a groan that escaped my lips, for, like a searchlight, the logic of events illumined each factor in that tragedy in which my mother—

My paddle fouled—the canoe careened—

"Sit still, for the love of God, sit still!" André fairly shrieked at me.

"It's all right, André," I said quietly, to calm him.

"They say the lake has no bottom just here, mademoiselle—and if I had lost you for him—" he muttered, and continued to mutter, easing himself of his fright by swearing softly. He soon regained his composure; but was still frowning when I glanced behind me.

What had this searchlight shown me?

Just this:—that "heureuse" is French for happy—and the capital made it a proper name, "Happy". This word told me its own story. According to what Cale had said—and I had all detailed information from him—no trace of my mother was found although detectives had been put to work. She had simply dropped out of sight, not to come to the surface until that night in December when she tried to end her young life from the North River pier. Was she not for a part of that year and three months here in these wilds?

Oh, what a far, far cry it must have been from this Canadian wilderness not made by man, to that other hundreds of miles away—that great metropolis, man made!

We paddled for the rest of the way in silence.

That evening we sat late around the camp fire, and before we separated for the night Mr. Ewart said, turning to me:

"I want a promise from you, Miss Farrell."

"What is it?"

"Caution, caution!" said the Doctor.

"That you will make no more solitude à deux excursions, as John calls them, with old André. He is old, despite his seeming strength, and his age is beginning to tell on him. I see that he has failed much since last year."

"You 're right there, Gordon; she should not risk it with him," said Jamie, emphatically. "I 've noticed the change from last year when I have been out with him on the trails. Why, he fell asleep only the other day with his line in his hand and his bait in the water!"

"Did you see that?" said Mr. Ewart. "It happened, too, the other day with me. I was amazed, but not so much as I was last week when we were in the woods making the north trail. He sat down to smoke and, actually, his pipe dropped from his hand. I trod out the fire or there would have been a blaze. Apparently he was asleep. I watched him for an hour, when he seemed to come to himself. It was not a sleep; it was a lethargy. You say it is often so, John—the beginning of the end. We must not let him know anything of this—dear old André!"

"He is already immortalized in that Odyssey of yours, Jamie. People won't forget him, for he lives again in that." The Doctor spoke with deep feeling.

"And your promise, Miss Farrell?"

"Since you insist, yes. But it is hard to give it; we have had so much pleasure together André and I; we have been great chums—dear old André!" Unconsciously I echoed Mr. Ewart's words.

I am sure that was the thought of all of us; our good nights were not the merry ones of the last two months. We were saddened at the thought that he might not be with us again.

For a moment or two Mr. Ewart and I stood alone by the embers of the camp fire; he was covering them with ashes.

"Thank you for your promise. I don't care about experiencing another hour like that when I was crossing the lake this afternoon, with a young cyclone on its way. I have lost so much of life—I cannot lose you."

His speech was abrupt; his voice low, but tense with emotion.

"There will be no need of losing me. I will keep my promise." I spoke lightly, but I knew he knew the significance of my words, as I knew that of his, for with those words I gave myself to him. I felt intuitively that he would not speak of love to me, until he had broken completely with that past to which in thought he was still, in part, a slave. I was willing to wait patiently for his entire emancipation.

XXVIII

"Marcia," said the Doctor one morning, after he had been enjoying, apparently, every minute of his vacation-life in the open, "will you come with me over the north trail as far as Ewart and André have made it? I want to show you something I found there the other day."

Before I could answer, Jamie spoke:

"How about your solitude à deux principle, Doctor?"

"It is wise to forget sometimes, Boy. Will you come this morning, Marcia?"

I promptly said I would. I saw that he was slightly ruffled at Jamie's innocent jest; indeed, ever since his arrival, the Doctor had not been wholly like his genial self. Mrs. Macleod noticed it and spoke of it to me.

"We don't realize, when we see him enjoying everything with the zest of a boy, how much he has on his mind. He told me the other day he must cut his vacation short; he is called to the Pacific coast for some of his special work."

I said nothing at the time, because I could not agree with her. I noticed that, at times, there was a slight constraint in his manner towards me—me who was willing for him to know all there was to know, except the fact that I loved his friend. I was convinced that he wanted to air his special knowledge of me with me alone; that after he had freed his mind to me, there would be no constraint.

Twice I caught him looking at Mr. Ewart, as if he were diagnosing his case, and I laughed inwardly. From time to time I surprised the same expression on his face when he was silent, smoking and, at the same time, watching me weave my baskets under the tutelage of a Montagnaise, the squaw of our postman. Mr. Ewart heard me express the wish to learn this handicraft, and within a week my teacher was provided. She remained in camp five days. Perhaps this opened the Doctor's eyes. Perhaps Jamie had spoken with him about what was evident to all. The Doctor grew more and more silent, more thoughtful, less inclined to jest with me. Added to this was the thought that we must break camp sooner than Mr. Ewart had intended. The "homing sense" was making itself felt, for September was with us. We saw some land birds going over early, and the first frost was a heavy one.

The Doctor and I followed the north trail for half a mile; then the Doctor bade me rest, for it was rough going.

"Marcia," he said abruptly, sitting down in front of me, his back against a tree, his hands clasping his knees, "let's have it out."

I saw he felt ill at ease and could but wonder, for, after all, it was only I with whom he had to deal.

"I am ready. I 've only been waiting for you all these weeks."

"Do you know that I have been to Delia Beaseley for certain information?"

"Yes; she wrote me. I wrote her to tell you all she knew of me."

He seemed to breathe more freely after my speaking so frankly, as if I really would welcome anything he might have to say.

"Ah—this clears the atmosphere; we can talk. Of course, you know with Cale's story dovetailing so perfectly into what I told you on my first making acquaintance with you, I simply had to put two and two together; besides, your smile was a constant reminder of some one whom I had known or met—but whom I could not recall try as hard as I might. The result of it all was that I went to Delia Beaseley and put a few questions. Now,"—he hesitated a moment; he seemed to brace himself mentally in order to continue,—"do you know positively whether your father is living or dead? Have you ever known?"

"No; but dead to me even if living—that is why I said I was an orphan."

"I understand; but you don't know either the one or the other for a fact?"

"No; I have no idea."

"You never knew his name?"

"No; and none of the family knew it—you know what Cale said. He gave me the details for the first time."

"You do not know, then, that I have in my possession some papers that might give the name?"

"Yes; I know that. But I told Delia Beaseley not to mention that fact to you, or the papers in any way."

"Why?"

"Why?"

I think all the bitterness of my past must have been concentrated in the tone in which I uttered that syllable. He did not press for the reason, and I did not offer to give it.

"Did it ever occur to you that your father might be living?"

"I have no father, living or dead," I replied passionately. "I own to no such possession. Does a man, simply because he chooses to pursue his pleasure, unmindful of results, acquire the right to fatherhood when he assumes no responsibility for his act?"

"Marcia, poor child, has life been so hard for you? Has nothing compensated for just living?"

He knew he was searching my very soul. I knew it; and the thought of my joy in life, in just living, because of my love that was filling every minute of the day and part of the night with a happiness so intense that, sometimes, I feared it could not endure from its sheer intensity, brought the tears to my eyes, softened my heart, turned for the moment the bitter to sweet.

I answered, but with lips that trembled in spite of my efforts at control: "Yes, there is compensation, full, free, abundant. For all that life has taken out of me, it has replaced ten thousand fold. Perhaps I never had what we call 'life' till now."

"Oh, child, I have seen this happiness in your face—would to God I might add to it!" His face worked strangely with emotion. "Marcia, dear, I am the friend, but also the surgeon. I have to use the knife—"

"But not on me—not on me!" I cried out in protest. "Don't tell me you know who my father is or was—don't, if you are my friend; don't speak his name to me."

"Why not, Marcia?"

"I must not hear it; I will not hear it—will not, do you understand? I am trying to forget that past, live in my present joy—don't, please don't tell me." I covered my eyes with my hands.

He drew down my hands from before my face.

"Listen, my dear girl. There are rights—your rights I have every reason to believe, and legal, as it seems to me. This whole matter involves a point of honor with me. Let me explain—don't shrink so from hearing me; I won't mention any names. Let me ask you a question:—Did Delia Beaseley tell you there was a marriage certificate among those papers?"

"Yes, but, thank God, she could not remember the name! It has been so many years—and all before I was born."

"But I know it. It stands in black and white, and through that unlying witness you have rights—that money, you know—"

"The 'conscience money'?"

"Yes."

"It is tainted, tainted, and my mother's blood is on it—I will not touch it. I will not have it. I have taken wages in Lamoral because Jamie assured me the money was your own—not one penny of it from that fund."

"Yes, it is my own, and I never made a better investment with so few dollars. But, Marcia—"

He hesitated; his face looked tense; his voice sounded as if strained to breaking. The knife was hurting him almost as much as it hurt me. I looked at him.

"Don't look at me so; I can't do my duty if you do."

"I don't want you to do your duty so far as I am concerned. I want you to show your friendship for me, by not telling me anything that you may know."

"But, Marcia, it is time—"

"But not now—oh, not now! You don't know what I have borne—I can bear no more—" I spoke brokenly.

"My dear girl, what can you tell me that I do not know, I who was with your mother in her last hour—"

I broke down then, sobbing, trying to explain but only half coherently:

"She was here—twenty-seven years ago—with André—he showed me the tree—"

"Marcia, calm yourself. Tell me, if you can, just what you mean."

I struggled to regain my self-control, and when I could speak without sobbing, I explained in a few words my reason for thinking my mother was here long years before me with the man who was my father.

The Doctor listened intently.

"This makes the past clearer to me, Marcia, but at the same time it complicates the present, the future—"

"Oh, don't let's talk about past or future!" I cried, nervously irritated by this constant reappearance of new combinations of my past in my present, and possible future. "Let me enjoy what is given me to enjoy now—it is so much!"

"I must see my way, Marcia. A duty remains a duty, even if the doing of it be postponed. I am your friend. I cannot let you wreck your life–"

"Wreck my life? What do you mean?" I demanded sharply. "How can I wreck it when for the first time I am in a safe harbor?"

He could not, or would not, answer me directly.

"Marcia, many a time when I have an operation to perform, the issue of which seems to me to be a clear one of death, I grow faint-hearted and say to myself: 'I will let the trouble take its natural course—it is death in the end, and, at least, not under my knife.' Then I get a grip on myself; look my duty squarely in the face—and do the best that lies in my trained hand, in my keen sight, in my knowledge of this frail body in which we dwell for a time. And sometimes it happens, that, instead of the issue death, of which I felt certain, there is life as the desired outcome—and I rejoice. I asked an old soldier once, a veteran of the Civil War, a three years man,—he is still living and now a minister of God's word,—how he felt in battle? Could he describe his feelings to me?

"'Yes,' he said, 'I can. I don't know how it is with other men, but I used to have but one fear, that of being a coward. I prayed not to be.' That is the way I feel now towards you in relation to this matter. But for the present we will drop the subject; we will not discuss it further."

He changed the subject at once, and I was grateful to him. He began to speak of Jamie.

"He is getting very restless. He told me you knew something of his plans. What do you think of them?"

"You mean his returning to England and settling for the winter in London? He told me that before we left Lamoral. I suppose he ought to go. At any rate, he is much stronger, better, is n't he?"

"He is n't the same man. The truth is he was plucked away from the white scourge as a brand from the burning. I really believe he will not go back in the matter of health, although I wish he might remain another year here to clinch the matter for his own sake, and mine—"

"And mine. I shall miss him so!"

The Doctor looked at me rather curiously, but did not comment on what I said. I was wondering if he were at work reasoning to my conclusion about Mrs. Macleod's leaving Lamoral.

"Well, my dear girl, it's a break-up all round. That's the worst of this camping-out business. Jamie is going so soon—

"Soon? Do you mean he is going to leave Lamoral soon?"

"Yes. He had letters last night from his publishers. The book requires his presence in London by September twenty-third. He will have to sail by the sixteenth. Mrs. Macleod is joyful at the prospect. Jamie told me to tell you. I think he hated to himself. He is very fond of you, Marcia."

I smiled at my thoughts.

"No fonder of me than I am of him. He has changed so much in these last nine months."

"You, too, see that?"

"Oh, yes, and his mother sees it. He has matured in every way."

The Doctor smiled. "You talk as if you were his grandmother. I 'm proud of him, I confess. Had my boy lived—" His voice broke.