A Cry in the Wilderness

"No, I dare not say I am sure until Ewart himself confirms black and white—sees that certificate; but I must warn you just the same. It is my duty."

I drew a longer breath. He was not wholly sure then. There was a reprieve, meanwhile—

What "meanwhile"? I could not think; but I was aware that the Doctor was speaking again, thinking for me. I listened apathetically.

"Marcia, I have to leave to-morrow morning. I must leave you with Cale. Thank God, you have him near you! It has been impressed upon me that you must be told all this before Ewart gets back. You are a woman—and your womanhood will dictate, will show you the way out. Come to me, come to my home—I shall not be there; come now, with Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I will wire Ewart that you are with us for a little while. Get time to breathe, to think things out, to conquer, before he comes—"

"No." I spoke with decision. I made a physical effort to speak so. "I shall remain where I am—for a while. I have Cale. When I go, he goes with me; but, oh, don't, don't say any more—I cannot bear it!"

My words were half prayer, half groan. I felt suddenly weak, sick throughout my whole body.

"I wish I might bear this for you, dear girl. I had to say it. I could not let you go on—"

"I know, I know, you did your duty—but don't say anything more."

I held out my hand. "I shall be up in the morning and get your breakfast; it's so early for you to start. The others won't be up."

"I wish you would," he said eagerly. "I must satisfy myself that you are up and about before I go, otherwise—" He hesitated.

"Don't worry. I shall be about just the same—only now—"

"I know; you want to be alone—you can bear no more. Good night." He left the room abruptly.

XXX

Mechanically I covered the dying fire with ashes; lighted my candle; snuffed out those in the sconces, and went out into the kitchen. I wound the clock and set my bread to rise. I heard one of the dogs whining in the dining-room; he had been unintentionally shut in. I let him out. He showed his gratitude in his dog's way and followed me, unbidden, upstairs to my room.

I entered, and shut the door softly not to rouse Jamie and Mrs. Macleod. I heard the dog settle on the threshold. Somehow, the sound helped me to bear. It was something belonging to him that was near me in my trouble.

I sat down on the side of my bed—sat there, I think, all night. A round of thought kept turning like a mill-wheel in my head:—"The man I love is my father—Mr. Ewart, my father, is the man I love."

It was maddening.

The mill-wheel turned and turned with terrible rapidity. I held my head in both hands. Towards morning, when the light began to break, I looked about me. At sight of the familiar interior, the wheel in my head turned more slowly—stepped for a moment. In the silence I could think; think another thought: "The Doctor is not sure—"

I rose, steadying myself by holding on to the footboard.

"Not sure—not sure." The mill-wheel was at work again. "Not sure—not sure."

"Of course not." I spoke aloud. The sound of my own voice gave me poise. The wheel turned slowly. In another moment my whole being was in revolt. I spoke again:

"It is not true. Not until he tells me, will I believe. The Doctor is mistaken; black and white can lie—even after twenty-seven years. The man I love—and I cannot help loving him—is not the man who is responsible for me in this world."

All my woman's nature cried out against this blasphemy of circumstances against my love—my love for Gordon Ewart, that was so true, so pure; pure in its depths of passion, true in its patience sanctified through endurance.

"I will go to Cale. He will know. He will tell me. He will see it cannot be true. This love Mr. Ewart feels for me is not, never has been, a father's love. No two human beings could be so drawn the one to the other, as we have been, with that tie between them. It is preposterous on the face of it. It is a monstrosity, born of conflicting circumstances."

The energy of life was returning. I undressed. I bathed face and head and arms. I dressed again in fresh garments. I opened the door; the dog rose, wagging his tail. I slipped noiselessly down the back stairs and found that Cale had been before me. The fire was made; the water in the kettle boiling.

I made the coffee; worked over my bread; fried the bacon; broke the eggs for the omelette; whisked up some "gems" and put them into the oven. The mill-wheel no longer turned. When Cale came in, I sent him upstairs with a pitcher of hot water for the Doctor.

"Seems like home ter see you round again, Marcia," he said, as he took the pitcher.

"It seems good to be at home again." I tried to speak cheerfully.

Doctor Rugvie gave me one long searching look, when he took his place at the breakfast table. Then he paid his attention to the omelette which he ate with evident relish. We talked of this and that. I went out into the hall with him.

"Goodby, Marcia." He put out his hand. "Wire me just a word from time to time—I have left the California address on the library table."

"Goodby—I shall not forget."

That was all. But I drew a long breath of relief when I could no longer see the carriage. I feel sure he, too, drew another.

All the forenoon I was busy packing, helping Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I gave myself not a moment's rest; I dared not. Only once, just after dinner, and three hours before they were to leave for Montreal, I went up to my room to be alone for a minute or two; to gain strength to go through the rest of the time, before parting with my friends.

I had been there not five minutes when Mrs. Macleod rapped.

"Come in," I said a little wearily.

She entered and came directly to where I sat by the window. She put her arms around me,—motherly-wise as I fancied,—and spoke to me:

"Marcia, my dear, I cannot leave you without telling you I have seen it all. I speak as an older woman to a younger. Dear child, I wish you joy; you deserve all that is in store for you—and there is so much for you, so much here in the old manor. I am so happy for you and with you, my dear."

I lifted my face to hers and she kissed me.

"I don't like to leave you here; it goes against me—there is no woman near you; and you cannot remain in the circumstances, you know, my dear, after Mr. Ewart returns. I only wish you would come with us. But that would never do; Mr. Ewart would be my enemy for life, and I could not blame him."

"Cale will be here," I said. "I have been wanting to tell you something."

I told her of my relation to him; what it meant to me. I told, and to her amazement, of my connection with her of whom both the Doctor and Cale had spoken—and I told it all with a flood of tears, my head on her shoulder, her arms around me.

And she thought I was crying for that Past!

Those tears saved my brain.

When she left me, I had given her my promise that if ever I should need a home, I would make hers mine.

"But you will hardly need it, my dear. Mr. Ewart will make this the one spot on earth for you—and it is right that your future should compensate for your past."

Jamie whistled all day; it got at last on my nerves. When I begged him to stop, he looked at me reproachfully and said never a word, which was unlike Jamie Macleod who has a Scotch tongue—a long and caustic one on occasion.

He steadily refused to say goodby to me, or more than, "I shall see you in Scotland next summer—you and Ewart; give my love to him."

He put his hand from the coach window, and said in a low voice:

"I made such an ass of myself, Marcia, you know how. Forgive me, won't you?"

I forced a smile for answer. There is such a thing as the comedy of irony.

When they drove away, I turned to the empty house—empty except for the dogs—with a sigh of relief. It was good to be alone.

XXXI

The ordering of the house kept me busy the next forenoon, but after dinner I told Cale I was going over to Mère Guillardeau's to tell her about her brother.

"I may go as far as the village, Cale. Don't expect me till just before supper."

"All right."

I told but half of the truth. I determined to carry out a part of what I planned on that voyage down the Saguenay. If there were anything to learn from Mère Guillardeau, that would throw light on that "forest episode" connected with my mother, I wanted to know what it was.

I found the old woman alone, at her loom.

"Ah, mademoiselle, you are come to tell me of André, my brother? You are more than welcome. And how goes it with André and my nephew? Did he send me a pair of moccasins for my old feet, such as he sent by the seignior last year?"

She left her work and, still holding my hand, drew me to the little porch, where we sat down on a bench beneath a mass of wild cucumber vines.

I kept her hand in mine—that old hand, which for nearly one hundred years had wrought and toiled, dug, planted, watered, hoed, milked the cow, cut the wood, woven cloth and carpets, harvested her tobacco! That prehensile thing which, in its youth, clasped the hand of her "mate" at the altar, cooked for him, sewed for him, piecing together the skins from the wilds, when he was at home from the trappers' haunts; and, meanwhile, it had found time to rock the cradle for her seven children and sew the shrouds for six of them!

To me it was a marvellous thing—that hand!

I looked at it, while I was trying to find words to tell her of André. It was thin to emaciation, misshapen from hard work—a frail mechanism, but still powerful because of the life-blood coursing within it. The dark blue veins were veritable bas-reliefs.

"Dear Mère Guillardeau, we have had such a lovely summer with André—dear old André, so young in heart."

"It was ever like that. Is he well, my brother?"

"I hope it may be well with him soon."

The old woman looked at me earnestly with her small deep-set eyes, faded with having looked so long on the sunshine and shadows of life.

"He is dead, my brother?"

"No, not yet. Mr. Ewart wanted me to tell you just as it is." I gave her the details.

She sat quietly, her hand still in mine. Into her faded eyes there crept a shadow of some memory.

"I have not seen him for many years, mademoiselle."

"Was that when he made his voyage to Chicago?"

"Yes. On his return he spent the winter with me. We had comfort together. We could talk of old times; we knew Canada when we were young—that was long ago." She sat quiet, thoughtful. Then she spoke again.

"You will tell me when the seignior sends word?"

"Oh, yes; at once."

"I will pray for him. I will have masses said for his soul."

"Your grandfather was born in the seigniory of Lamoral, so André said."

"Yes; and my father, and I, and my brothers and sisters. My grandfather's seignior was French. Afterwards, the English seigniors had no love for the place. It is our seignior, the Canadian, who cares for it. He carries it on his heart—and us, too, mademoiselle. You know this land is mine now?"

"Yes; I am so glad for you. It should have been yours long ago."

"Yes, it is mine now for a little while; afterwards it will be my daughter's."

"Do you know the old manor well? Have you ever lived there?"

"Yes, I have lived at the manor house."

"When was that, mother?"

"Let me think.—It was ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before André spent that winter with me. It was a hard one; he helped me as a brother should. It was then he was shriven. I was in one of the pews in our church, waiting my turn. There were hundreds come for the shriving. The priest stood in the aisle, the great middle aisle, and all the time there were two kneeling besides him, one confessing, the other waiting his turn."

"Did they have no confessional?"

"We confessed in the aisle, mademoiselle, before all the world,—we all knew we were sinners,—and the crowd was so great. André, too, I saw by the side of the priest, whispering in his ear."

"André! What could his simple life show for sin?"

"He is human like the rest of us, mademoiselle."

She took her pipe from her pocket. It reminded me of André. I filled and lighted it for her, and placed it between her still strong teeth.

"André's was the sin of silence, as was mine. I, too, confessed it."

I wondered if she would tell me further. I waited in suspense for her next words.

"You ask me have I ever lived at the manor? I lived there one winter—a cruel winter even for us Canadians. It is so long ago, I may speak of it now. My brother will never speak of it more. It eases me to speak of it. It was Martinmas when an Englishman came to this very door. It was after dark. He said he had permission from the English seignior, who was in England, to stay in the manor as long as he would. The agent of the estate was with him—a hard man. He said it was all right, and showed me a paper which I could not read. My daughter read for me. It was signed by the English seignior; he, too, was a Ewart. The English gentleman asked me if I would come and keep the house for him and his wife; he was here for her health. Would I stay till spring?

"He offered me twenty pièces the month, mademoiselle—twenty pièces! That meant ease of mind for me and my daughter. I was not to leave the manor to go home, he said. I must stay there on account of his wife.

"I took time to think; but the twenty pièces, mademoiselle! My daughter said, 'Go; it will keep us for three years.'

"I went because I was paid twenty pièces the month—but, mademoiselle, I would have stayed and worked for her for nothing, for love of her alone. Mademoiselle, look in your mirror when you are at home. You will see her again—so much you are like her; but not in your ways. You remember the first time you came to my daughter to buy the carpets? I said to myself then, 'I have lived to see her again.'"

"How long ago was this, Mère Guillardeau?"

"I have said ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before André made that voyage into the west. I loved her—and my brother loved her. She made sunshine in the manor. It was not as it is now; there was little to do with. She made light of everything; made the best of everything. She had a cow, for the warm milk; and hens, for the new-laid eggs—all nourishing and good, mademoiselle. I milked the cow and tended to everything. I was strong. I did all the work. The agent bought provisions in the village and brought them to us. They came, also, from Montreal. The house was full of sunshine, the sunshine of love, mademoiselle.

"They were not married—but how they loved each other! I carried their sin on my soul. I never confessed till André, too, confessed. We confessed the same sin—the sin of silence.

"In the spring I sent them to André, into the wilderness of the northern rivers. My brother loved her too, my poor brother.

"It is long past, mademoiselle, but I can not forget."

"And the present seignior never knew of this?"

"The present seignior? Oh, no; he did not own Lamoral then. Sometimes, it is true, I think I see in him a look of that other; but it is not he. I never knew their names.

"After they left, that agent took that cow from me, mademoiselle, a fine cow she was. He is dead these many years, but he was a hard man; I have not forgotten or forgiven, mademoiselle." She crossed herself. "The cow was mine; he took her, mademoiselle; a fine cow with a bag as pink as thorn blossoms, and seven quarts to the milking—I cannot forget."

I rose to go, for the old woman threatened to become garrulous. Moreover, I had heard enough. The Doctor was mistaken. I had learned what I came to find out. I felt fortified to speak with Cale.

"Goodby, Mère Guillardeau."

"Goodby, mademoiselle. You will come again and tell me of my brother?"

"Yes; so soon as I have any word."

She stood in the porch to watch me down the road. I went on to the village. As I neared the steamboat landing, I noticed a large river sloop, tacking in the light breeze to the bank. I stopped to watch it. Soon it was abreast of me. I walked rapidly on to keep up with it. It came to anchor nearly opposite the cabaret. Its white hull was filled with apples. There must have been a ton or two—early harvest apples, red, yellow, and green; Astrachan, Porters and early Pippins.

Surely this was the apple-boat which Jamie delighted in and described with such enthusiasm! I walked to the bank. A low trestle, laid in a width of two boards, gave passage to the boat. What a picture it made! The low green bank, the white sloop, the blue lively waters of the St. Lawrence, and, beyond, the islands stacked with the second cutting of hay!

I went on board; bought a few apples; promised to come for a bushel or two the next day, and asked a few questions of the owner and his wife, French both of them.

"How long do you stay?"

"Only a week. This cargo is perishable. We sell here, then we go back for the harvest of winter apples. We come again in October."

She showed me with pride her cabin and the bunk under the companionway, wherein lay her eighteen-months-old baby. "We could not leave him," she said, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead. "The others are at home; they take care of themselves."

The little cabin was absolutely neat.

I bade her goodby, made a few purchases in the village, and walked back to Lamoral with a lighter heart than I had carried since I left camp. The old place looked so beautiful in the mellow September sunlight.

I felt less burdened, less restless, less desperate, less doubtful of the future, after that walk. But I determined to wait a few days before speaking to Cale. I wanted to go over the whole matter, collate facts, sort evidence, before speaking.

We had five pleasant days together, Cale and I. We grew confidential, as became relations. We talked of the Macleods; Cale wagered the Doctor would marry Mrs. Macleod in the end. At which I sniffed, and pretended to think he would lose his wager, but deep down in my heart—well, I had my doubts.

I told him of André, of the Doctor's enjoyment of camp life. He did not ask me about Mr. Ewart directly, and I volunteered no information, except that we might expect a telegram from him any day.

On the sixth day word came:

"André has crossed the last portage; return Wednesday."

He would be here in five days! My first thought was of him, not of André.

O André, dear old guide and voyageur! You were only a withered leaf falling from the great Ygdrasil Tree of Empire—falling there in the wilds of the Upper Saguenay. But it is by such as you—and succeeding generations of millions of such—that the great Tree of Empire has thriven, thrives, and still keeps in abundant foliage!

I knew the time had come when I must tell Cale all.

XXXII

"Cale, I want to talk with you."

"All right, Marcia. I see you 've had something on your mind, thet 's been worryin' you, since you 've come home; better get it off. Nothin' like lettin' off a little steam when there 's too many pounds pressure on."

"Cale, you are a comfort."

"Am I? Wal, it's 'bout time I was something ter you."

"Cale, have you any idea where my mother fled to when she left her home?"

"No; an' nobody else."

"You said George Jackson could get no trace of her?"

"Tried four months, detectives an' all; 't was n't no use. She was gone."

"But did you have any idea in your own mind, I mean, as to where she might have gone?"

"Wal, I can't say exactly. I did think 'bout thet time, thet mebbe they 'd crossed the line inter Canady; but it ain't likely they 'd go north with the winter before 'em. Fact is, George was in such a state, I did n't think nor care much 'bout Happy, if he could only keep his head level through it all. An' he did; he had grit, an' no mistake. 'T was an awful blow, Marcia."

"It's my belief she came into Canada."

"'Tis, is it? What makes you think thet?" he asked in genuine surprise.

"Circumstantial evidence that is convincing. I believe she has been in this very house—for months too."

He looked at me suspiciously. (We were in the dining room; one on each side of the table.) I saw his forehead knit; then he spoke in a low voice, but rather anxiously:

"Here in this house? Ain't you got your circumstantial evidence a little mixed, Marcia?"

"No; listen."

I told him all, linking event to event, incident with incident till the chain was complete. I fitted his story into the Doctor's which he heard for the first time from me; I added Delia Beaseley's story, then André's, and, last, Mère Guillardeau's. I made no mention however of the marriage certificate and the Doctor's last talk with me.

"Now, what do you think of it, Cale?"

"I see which way you 're heading, Marcia, but—" he brought his fist down hard on his knee,—"you 're on the wrong track."

"You think so?"

"I know it." He spoke with loud emphasis.

"You have no idea, now, who my father was, or is? Not now, after I have brought in all the evidence available; except—"

"Except what?" He asked quickly.

"Never mind that now. Tell me, have you any idea who he was, or is?"

"No, and nobody else thet I know of. She had high ideas, Happy had. I never believed she took up with any low cuss, not much! She was n't the kind to fall des'pritly in love with anybody like thet. Besides, had n't she had a man that was a man, even if he was only a boy in his years, to love the very ground she trod on? Happy was one of the uncommon kind of gals; she would n't take up with anyone thet come along. Now thet I know all this from you, I guess her love for thet man, whoever he was, or is, went 'bout as deep with her, as George's love for her went with him. Oh, Lord! It makes me sick to think of Happy Morey tryin' to throw herself inter the North River."

"Then,"—I spoke slowly, hesitatingly; I gathered all my strength to ask the crucial question—"you don't think that Mr. Ewart is my father?"

He stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. He swallowed hard twice. He leaned forward on the dining-room table, both fists pressed rigidly upon it.

"Do you think thet? Have you been thinkin' thet all this time, Marcia Farrell?"

"No. I not only do not think it, I do not believe it. I was told so."

"Who told you?" he demanded. He continued to stare at me; his attitude remained unchanged.

"Doctor Rugvie."

"What the devil does he know about it?"

"He has the certificate—my mother's marriage certificate."

"To which one?"

"To my father."

"An' he says Ewart is your father?"

"He believes he is from the evidence—"

"Evidence be damned. Has he shown you the name?"

"No, I could n't—I would n't let him tell me."

"I glory in your spunk, Marcia."

"Then you do not believe it, Cale?"

"Believe!" He spoke in utter scorn, and I laughed out almost hysterically; the tension was relieved too quickly.

"Look here, Marcia Farrell, or whatever your name happens to be, he is no more your father than I am." He lifted both fists and brought them down on the table with the solidity of a stone-breaker's hammer. "It's God's truth, I am tellin' you."

I laughed again in the face of this statement that so suddenly buttressed, as with adamant, my broken life, my wrecked hopes.

"Can you prove it, Cale?" I, too, leaned across the table, my hands gripping the edge.

"Prove it? Wal, I guess I ain't takin' any chances at jest this cross roads. I ain't makin' any statements that I can't take my oath on."

"Prove it, then, Cale—in mercy to me, prove it."

He looked at me with inexpressible pity. His eyes filled.

"You poor child! As if you had n't had enough, 'thout bein' murdered this way. What in thunder was the Doctor thinkin' of?"

"He wanted to save me—"

"Save you, eh? Wal, the next time he wants to save you he 'd better borrow the life-preserver from me. You can tell him thet."

"Prove it, Cale."

He drew a long breath and, reaching over, laid his right hand over mine.

"Marcia, I ain't no right to speak—to break a promise; but, by God, I 'll do it this time to save you—whatever comes! Gordon Ewart ain't no more your father 'n I am, for he was your mother's husband."