Front matter (continued 6)

"Well, if Ewart's queer sometimes, as witness his abrupt departure, you 're queerer with your ideas of money."

I laughed back at him as I went out of the office:

"I can pay the Doctor now, Jamie. I 'm rich, you know."

XXV

We saw little, if anything, of Mr. Ewart for the next week. His time was wholly occupied with the land business. He took his breakfast early, at five or thereabout, and rarely came home for dinner or supper. His return at night was also uncertain. Sometimes a telephone message informed us he was starting for Montreal, or Quebec. I think I saw him but once in the week that followed that morning in the office. Then it was late in the evening, on his return from Montreal. He seemed both tired and preoccupied. We were not at table with him during those seven days. I wondered, and Jamie guessed in vain, whether anything might be worrying him. It seemed natural that something should be the trouble during such a wholesale transference of land.

Mrs. Macleod and I were busy all day in getting ready the camp outfit for the four of us. Cale was not to go, as his work was at home. It surprised me that he had so little to say about Mr. Ewart to whom he was devoted. Whenever, in the intimacy of our half-relation bond, I felt at liberty to question him about his employer, he always put me off in a manner far from satisfying and wholly irritating.

I asked him once if he knew whether Mr. Ewart was a bachelor or a widower.

He stared at me for a moment.

"He ain't said one word ter me sence I come here as ter whether he is one or t'other," he answered, sharply for him.

"That's all right, Cale; I bear you no grudge. But, in justice, you 'll have to admit that when you live month after month in the same house with a man and his friends, you can't help wanting to know all there is to know about him and them."

"Wal, if you look at it thet way, I ain't nothing ter say. How 'bout yourself?" With that he deliberately turned his back on me, and left me wondering if by any incautious word, by my manner, by any small act, I might have betrayed the source of my new joy in life.

By the first of June the Seigniory of Lamoral was a wonderfully active place. The farmers were making greater and more intelligent efforts in cultivating their lands than ever before. Mr. Ewart had established the beginning of a small school of agriculture and forestry.

He used one of the vacant outbuildings for the classes. It was open to all the farmers and their families; and twice a week there were lectures by experts, hired by Mr. Ewart, with practical demonstration on soil-testing, selection of seed, hybridizing, and irrigation methods. They were well attended. The women turned out in full force when it was known that there would be three lectures on bee-culture, and the industry threatened to become a rage with the farmers' wives; I found from personal observation that the flower gardens were increased in number and enlarged as to acreage. Mr. Ewart said afterward, when the blossoming time was come, that the land reminded him of the wonderful flower gardens around Erfurt in Germany where honey is a staple of the country. It was proposed to hold a seigniory exhibition of fruits, vegetables and cereals, the last of September.

The Canadian spring seems to lead directly in to summer's wide open door. In June, Jamie and I were often on horseback—I learning to ride a good Kentucky saddle horse that Mr. Ewart had added to the stables. We were much in the woods, picking our way along the rough beginnings of roads that Cale, with the help of a gang of Canuck workmen, was making at right angles through the heavy timber. He had been at work in this portion throughout the winter in order to bring the logs out on sledges over the encrusted snow.

One afternoon in the middle of June, Mr. Ewart, whose continual flittings ceased with the first of the month, asked me to ride with him to the seigniory boundaries on the north—something I had expressed a wish to see before we left for camp, that I might note the progress on our return in September. He said it was a personally conducted tour of inspection of Cale's roads and trails.

My old panama skirt had to serve me for riding-habit. A habitant's straw hat covered my head. Mr. Ewart rode hatless. I was anticipating this hour or two with him in the June green of the forest. I had not been alone in his presence since those hours in the office—and now there was added the intimacy of the woodsy solitude.

"I am beginning to be impatient to show you the trails through that real wilderness on the Upper Saguenay; but those, of course, we take without horses," he said, as he held his hand for my foot and lifted me easily to the saddle.

"I 've been marking off the days in the calendar for the last three weeks. It will be another new life for me in those wilds."

"I hope so."

"Have you decided which way to go?"

"I think it will be the better way to go by train to Lake St. John—to Roberval. We can cross the lake there and reach our camp about as easily as by way of Chicoutimi. We shall have a lot of camp paraphernalia for so long a camping-out, and, besides, that route will show you and Jamie something of a wonderful country. Of course, we shall come back by the Saguenay; I 'm saving the best for the last."

We forded our creek about a mile above the manor and entered the heavy timber.

"And to think it is I, Marcia Farrell, who is going to enjoy all this!" I was joyful in the anticipation of spending eight weeks, at least, in the presence of this man; eight untrammelled weeks in this special wilderness to which he asked me in order that it might seem something of a home to him!

"And why should n't it be you?"

"I don't know of any reason why it should n't, except that it might so easily have been some one else. But I must n't think of that."

"That is sensible; although I confess I don't like to think that you might so easily have been some one else. Hark! Hear that cuckoo—"

We drew rein for a few minutes, there beneath the great trees. The western light was strong, for the sun was still two hours high. Then we rode on slowly over the wide rough clearings which Cale had run at right angles, north and south, east and west through the woods.

"These are all to be grassed down next fall; in another year, if the grass catches well, they will make fine going for horses or for carriages, as well as good fire-lanes for which I have had them cut. In the second season I can turn some of the prize Swiss cattle in here to graze for extra feeding. They know so well how to do all this in Europe, and we can learn so much from those older countries! I am sure, too, if you knew France, you would say that these river counties in French Canada are so like the north of France—like Normandy! When I drive over the country hereabout, I can fancy myself there. I find the same expanse and quiet flow of the river, the highroads bordered by tall poplars, the villages sheltered from the north by a wood break—forest wood. Even the backwater of the river, like our creek, recalls those ancestral lands of my French brothers' forefathers:—the clear dark of the still surface, the lindens, their leaves as big as a palm-leaf fan, coming down to the water's edge, and a wood-scow poling along beneath them. I love every feature of this country!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm, "and I want you to." He turned in his saddle to look directly at me.

"I do love it, what I know of it—and I wish I might sometime see those other countries you have spoken of, especially those flower gardens of Erfurt." I smiled at my thought.

His words conjured in my imagination enticing pictures of travel—such as I had planned when in New York, when my ten years' savings should permit me to indulge myself in a little roaming. My dream that was! I was tempted to tell him of it then and there.

"You know, Mr. Ewart, I spoke very freely to you and Jamie that morning in the office."

"Yes; I am thankful you felt you could—at last. I have been waiting for some opportune hour when I could ask you a few personal questions, if you permit."

"Well, that was one of my day dreams—at twenty-six," I said, wondering what his was, still unexpressed, at "forty-six". "The truth is, I wanted to break with every association in New York and with my past life—

"Why, Miss Farrell? You are so young to say that; at your age you should have no past."

I hesitated to answer. Thoughts followed one another with rapidity: "Shall I tell him? Lay before him what threatened to embitter my whole life? Shall I make known to him the weight of the burden that rested for so many years on my young shoulders—even before I went down into that great city to earn my livelihood? Shall I tell him that? How can he understand, not having had such experience? What, after all, is that to him, now?

"Young?" I repeated, looking away from him westwards into the illumined perspective of forest greens. "When you were young, very young in years, was there never a time when you felt old, as if youth had never passed your way?"

I heard a sudden, sharp-drawn breath. I turned to him on the instant, and in the quivering nostril, the frowning brows, the hard lines about the well-controlled lips, I read the confirmation of my intuition, expressed to Jamie so many months ago, that he had suffered. My question had probed, unintentionally, to the quick.

With a woman's sympathetic insight, I saw that this man had never recovered from his past, never broken with it as, so recently, I had broken with mine. I felt that until he should make the effort, should gain that point of view, he could never feel free to love me as I loved him. The barrier of that past was between us. What it was I hardly cared to know. I was intent only upon helping him to free himself from the serfdom of memories.

"Don't answer me—I don't want any," I said hastily, leaning over to lay my hand on the pommel of his saddle. It was the only demonstration I dared to make to express my understanding, my sympathy.

In an instant his right hand closed hard upon mine; held it, hard pressed, on the pommel.

"I think I want to answer you," he said, speaking slowly, deliberately, without the slightest trace of excitement in his passionless voice.

He was looking into the woods—not at me—as he spoke, and I knew that at that moment his soul was wandering afar from mine; it was with some one in the past. Suddenly, a hot, unreasonable wave of jealousy overwhelmed me; I yielded to the impulse to pull my hand from under his.

"It is not my hand he is clasping, and pressing with the strength of a press-block on the pommel; it's that other woman's!" I said to myself, making a second determined effort to release my hand.

He whirled about in his saddle, looking me directly in the eyes. He read my thought of him.

"Let your hand lie there, quietly, under mine," he said sternly; "it's your hand, remember, not another's."

The tense muscles of my hand relaxed. It lay passive under the pressure of his. I waited, quiescent. I realized that the Past had been roused from its lair. I must wait until it should seek covert again of its own accord, before speaking one word.

"I want to answer you—and answer as you alone should be answered: Yes, I have felt old—centuries old—"

He caught the bridle rein under the thumb of his right hand as it lay over mine. The left he thrust into his pocket; drew out a match-safe, a wax-taper. I, meanwhile, was wondering what it all meant; dreading developments, yet longing to know.

He reached for an overhanging branch of birch and broke off a small twig of tender young green. To do so, he removed his hand from mine which I kept on the pommel. I saw that the Past was still prowling, and it behooved me not to irritate, not to enrage by any show of distrust; nor did I feel any.

He struck the taper. "This is against forest rules," he said, "but for this once I shall break them."

He held the fresh green of the tiny birch twig in the flame. The young life dried within leaf and leaf-bud. The living green hung limp, blackened.

"Such was my life when I was young," he said, calmly enough; but, suddenly, a dull red flush showed beneath the clear brown of his cheeks. It mounted to temples, forehead, even to the roots of his hair where a fine sweat broke out.

And, seeing that, I dared—I could bear the sight no longer:—I took my hand from the pommel and laid it over the poor blackened twig, crushing it in my palm; hiding it from his sight, from mine.

I believe he understood the entire significance of my action; for he turned his hand instantly, palm upwards, and caught mine in it. The limp bit of foliage lay between the two palms. He looked at me steadily; not a flickering of the eye, not a twitch of the eyelid.

"I lost the woman I loved—how I lost her I need not say. That's all. But I have answered you."

"Yes—but—"

"What? Speak out—you must," he said hastily, with the first outward sign of nervous irritation.

"Is—is she dead?"

I felt my whole future was at stake when I put that question.

"Yes!"—a pause,—"are you answered fully now?"

"Fully.—Let me have the twig."

He released my hand. I looked at the bit of birch closely, scrutinizingly. I found what I was hoping to find: a tiny sign of life, a wee nub of green; something ready, unseared, for another year.

"I think I 'll take it home," I said, as if interested only in botany; "I find there is life left in it—a tiny bud that may be a shoot in time. I 'll see what I can do with it; the experiment is worth trying."

He smiled for answer. He understood. The beast of the Past was again in its lair. I regained my usual good spirits and proposed that we see Mrs. Boucher's flower gardens before we turned homewards.

"I like to hear you use that word—it is a new one for me."

"For me, too; and if you don't object I would like you to know why it means so much to me. You see I am anticipating the personal questions."

"I want to know—all that I may."

"It is your right, now that I am in your home. Shall I find you in the office this evening?"

"Yes; but rather late. Shall we say ten? I shall not be at home for porridge."

"Any time will do."

We rode out into the open, where the horses cantered quickly along the highroad to Farmeress Boucher's. There I dismounted to visit her gardens and bee-hives and share her enthusiasm over the new industry.

We gave our horses the rein on the homeward way and rode in silence, except for one remark from Mr. Ewart.

"We have not been over the roads, and Cale will be disappointed. We will go another time."

"That will do just as well; I only want to be able to mark the progress in September when we return from camp."

It was supper time when we reached the manor, but Mr. Ewart did not stay for any. He was off again—"on business" he said.

XXVI

"What shall I tell him? How shall I tell him? Shall what I tell him be all, or garbled? Is there any need to mention my mother? Shall I confess to non-knowledge of my father's name? What is it, after all, to him, who and what they were? It is I, Marcia Farrell, in whom his interest centres."

I thought hard and thought long when I found myself alone after nine in my room. I came at last to the conclusion that there was no need to bring in my mother's name into anything I might have to say to him—not yet. I regretted that he was not present that evening when Cale told the terrible story of her short life. It would have been all sufficient for me to say to him after that, "I am her daughter." Only once, on the occasion of making myself known, had I mentioned her to Cale; not once referred to her, or her desperate course since that narration. And Cale, moreover, had sealed our lips—the four of us. I had no wish to speak of what was so long past. But, sometime, I intended to ask Cale if George Jackson ever obtained a divorce from my mother, and when. In a way, what people are apt to consider a birthright depended on his answer.

Again and again during that hour of concentrated thought, there surged up into consciousness, like a repeating wave of undertone, the realization that all that belonged to a quarter of a century ago, all, all past; done with; their accounts settled. They were forgotten, mostly, by everyone; forgiven, perhaps, by the few, including Cale. Why should what my mother did, or did not do, figure as a factor in my present and future life? I determined to take my stand with Mr. Ewart on this, and this alone.

I was sitting by the open window in the soft June dark and, while thinking, deliberating, weighing facts, choosing them, defining my position to myself, I was aware that I was listening to catch the first distant thud of a horse's hoofs approaching the manor from—somewhere. The night was clear but dark. There was no wind. I rose from my chair and leaned out, stemming both hands on the window ledge. Far away, somewhere on the highroad above the bridge, I heard the long drawn note of an automobile horn, and for the first time since my coming to Lamoral! I listened intently; the machine was coming nearer. At last, I could hear voices in the still night. There was another note of warning, sweet, mellow, far-reaching. I leaned still farther out in order to see if I could catch a glimpse of the light, for I knew it was coming towards the manor. It was a curious thing—but just that sound of an automobile, that action of mine in the dark warmth of a summer night, reacted in consciousness. The motor power invoked the perceptive—and I saw myself as I was nine months before, leaning out from my "old Chelsea" attic window into the sickening sultry heat of mid-September, and shaking my puny fist at the great city around me!

For a moment I relived that hour and the six following. Then, in a flash of comprehension, I saw my way to tell the master of Lamoral something of any very self—of myself alone: I would put into his hand the journal in which I wrote for the last time on that memorable night, when the course of my life was altered, its channel deepened and widened by my acceptance of the place "at service" in Lamoral—the Seigniory of Lamoral.

The automobile was coming up the driveway. Underbrush and undergrowth having been removed by Cale, I caught through the opening the bright gleam of its acetylene lamps. It stopped at the door; I could not distinguish the voices, for the throb of its engine continued. A moment—it was off again. I heard the front door open and close. He was at home and alone.

I lighted my lamp; opened my trunk and took from the bottom the journal, the two blank books. I waited a few minutes till I heard the clock in the kitchen strike ten; then, softly opening my door, I went down the corridor, down stairs into the living-room, now wholly dark, and moved cautiously, in order not to stumble against the furniture, to the office door which was dosed. I rapped softly. It was flung wide open. The Master of Lamoral was standing on the threshold of the brilliantly lighted room, with both hands extended to welcome me.

"I was waiting for you."

But I did not give him mine. Instead, I laid the two blank books in his outstretched palms.

"What's this?" he said, surprised and, it seemed, not wholly pleased.

"Something of me I want you to give your whole attention to when it is convenient; it is my way of answering those personal unput questions. Good night."

He looked at me strangely for a moment, then at the books in his two hands, as if doubtful about accepting them without further explanation on my part.

"Good night," I said again, smiling at his perplexity.

"I suppose it must be good night to one part of you, the corporal, at least; but not to this other," he said, with an answering smile. "Who knows but that I may say good morning to this?"—indicating the journal—"I shall not sleep until I have read it. So good night to this part of you standing before me—and thanks for giving this other part of yourself into my hands."

For the fraction of a minute I hesitated to go. It was so pleasant standing there on the threshold of the room I had furnished for him—the room that found favor with every one who entered it; so pleasant to know that he and I were alone there together with the intimate recollection of the afternoon in the forest between us. I had to exercise all my fortitude of common sense to rescue me from overdoing things, from lingering or entering.

I beat a hurried retreat through the living-room. I knew that he was still standing on the threshold, for the flood of light from the office was undimmed. The door must have been open when I reached the upper landing on the stairs; then, in the perfect quiet of the darkened house, I heard him shut it—so shutting himself in with that other part of me.

I wondered what he would think of that intangible presence? Long after I was in bed I could not sleep. Was he reading it through by course, or dipping into it here and there as I did on that night nine months ago? Would he, could he, placed as he was, understand something of my struggle?

I lost myself in conjecture. I opened my door a little way, for a "cross draft", I said to myself, so lying gently; in reality it was to enable me to hear when Mr. Ewart should come up to his room. I listened for some sound. I heard nothing but the indefinite murmur of summer-night woodsy whisperings. The kitchen clock struck the time for four successive hours—and then there was a faint heralding of dawn. At three the woods showed dark against the sky. My straining ears caught the sound of a door closing somewhere about the house. I heard the soft pattering of the dogs running to and fro without it—then silence, broken only by a cock crowing lustily out beyond the barns.

He had gone out, and he had not come upstairs.

Of the latter I made sure when I rose, sleepy and heavy-eyed, at seven that June morning, and looked into the wide open door of his room in passing. He had not used it.

For weeks, yes, for months, he never mentioned that night or the journal. He never spoke of keeping or returning it. So far as I actually knew he might not have read it; but I was aware of a change in his manner to me. His kindness and thoughtfulness for his household were universal; they included me. From that day, however, when he made his appearance at breakfast, immaculate and seemingly as fresh as if from a good sleep, I became the object of his special thought, his special solicitude.

I was sure Cale noticed this at once. It dawned upon Jamie slowly but surely, and a more bewildered youth I have never seen. I knew he was trying to rhyme ever present facts with my sentiment about leaving Lamoral as expressed to him so recently. Mrs. Macleod, if she perceived the change in Mr. Ewart's manner towards me, gave no sign that she did—and I was grateful to her. She and I were much together, for we were busy getting ready for the camp outing. We were to start within ten days. The Doctor wrote me that he envied me the extra four weeks; he promised his friend to be with him the first of August.

When all was in readiness, Mr. Ewart, with the load of camp belongings, left three days in advance of us. We were to meet him at Roberval.

XXVII

In the wilds of the Upper Saguenay! By the lake that, in this narration at least, shall have no name. It is long, narrow, winding at its southern extremity; at its northern, it is expanded pool-like among forest-covered heights the reflection of which darkens and apparently deepens it where its waters touch the marginal wilderness! In camp by the margin of the lake, beneath some ancient pines, rare in that region, and surrounded by the spicy fragrance of balsam, spruce and cedar, that came to us warm from the depths of the seemingly illimitable forest behind us!

What a day, that one of our arrival! We journeyed by steamer across Lake St. John. We came by canoe on the river, by portage; and again by canoe on river or lake, as it happened. We camped for one night in the open. On the second day there were several portages; many of our camp belongings were borne on the backs of sturdy Montagnais, friends of old André, and led by André the Second, a strapping youth of sixty. There followed a journey of nine miles up the lake, our lake; and, then, at last, in the glow of sunset, we had sight of old André coming to welcome us in his canoe that floated, a "brown leaf", on the golden waters! I heard the soft grating of the seven keels on the clear shining yellow sands of a tiny cove—and Mr. Ewart was first ashore, helping each of us out, welcoming each to this special bit of his beloved Canadian earth.

"Our home for ten weeks, Miss Farrell," he exclaimed, giving me both hands. "Steady with your foot—you must learn to know the caprices of your own canoe—"

"My own?"

"Yes, this is yours for the season; we don't poach much on one another's canoe preserves here in Canada. This is our fleet."

"The whole seven?"

"Yes; André the First and André the Second have three between them, big ones; you, Jamie and I have one each, and there is one for Mrs. Macleod if she will do me the honor of allowing me to teach her to paddle."

"This is great, mother!" said Jamie who had not ceased to wring old André's hand since the two found firm footing. "But first I must teach her to swim, Ewart."

Poor Mrs. Macleod! I doubt if her idea of camping out was wholly rose-colored at that moment, for she was tired with the excitement, and constant travel in canoe and on foot of the last two days.

"The camp will be the safest place for me at present," she said, trying to appear cheerful, but glancing ruefully at the three rough board huts, gray and weather beaten.

"You 've done nobly, Mrs. Macleod, I appreciate your effort; and if you 'll take immediate possession of the right hand camp—it's yours and Miss Farrell's—I hope you will find a little comfort even in this wilderness. I 'll just settle with these Montagnais comrades, for after supper they will be on their way back to Roberval." Jamie interrupted him to say:

"Mother, here 's André, André, mon vieux camarade. This is my mother, André; I told you about her last year."

Old André's hand, apparently as steady as her own, was extended to meet Mrs. Macleod's. I saw how expressive was that handclasp. The only words she spoke were in her rather halting French:

"My son's comrade—he is mine, I hope, André."

What a smile illumined that parchment face! It was good to see in the wilderness; it was humanly comprehensive of the entire situation.

"This is Miss Farrell," said Jamie; "she lives with us, André, in Lamoral."

Never shall I forget the look, the voice, the words with which he made me welcome.

"I have waited many years for you to come. I am content, moi."

He heaved a long sigh of satisfaction. I think only Mrs. Macleod heard the words, for Jamie had run up to the camp. André took our special suit cases and carried them to the hut.

We took possession and found everything needed for our comfort. Tired as we were, we could not rest until we had unpacked and settled ourselves with something like regularity for the night. And, oh, that first supper in the open! The sun was setting behind the forest; the lake waters, touched with faint color on the farther shore, were without a ripple; the ancient pines above us quiet. And, oh, that first deep sleep on my bed of balsam spruce! Oh, that first awakening in the early morning, the glory of sunrise, the sparkle and dance of the lake waters in my eyes!

Oh, that joy of living! I experienced it then in its fulness for the first time; and my sleep was more refreshing, my awakening more joyful, because of the near presence of the man I loved with all my heart.

It was a new heaven for me—because it was a new earth!

While dressing that first morning, André's welcoming words came back to me: "I have waited many years for you to come." And the look on his face. What did he mean? I recalled that Jamie quoted him, almost in those very words, when he told us of that episode of "forest love" which bore fruit in the wilderness of the Upper Saguenay.

Why should he welcome me with just those words? How many years had he "waited"? Had there been no woman in camp since then? It was hardly possible. I determined to ask Mr. Ewart, as soon as I should have the opportunity, if there had been women here before us, and to question André, also, as to what he meant by his words, but not until I should know him better. He would tell me.

And André told me, but it was after long weeks of intimate acquaintance with the forest and with each other; after the fact that I was becoming all in all to the master of Lamoral, was patent to each of my friends in camp. I saw no attempt on Mr. Ewart's part to hide this fact. I believe I should have despised him if he had. Yet never once during those first five weeks did he mention my journal. Rarely was I alone with him; twice only on the trails through the forest; once in the canoe to the lower end of the lake and on the return; that was all. Never a word of love crossed his lips—but his thought of me, his manner, his care of me, his provision for my enjoyment of each day, his delight in my delight in his "camp", his pleasure in the fact that I was not only regaining what I had lost by the fearful illness of the year before—Doctor Rugvie told him of that—but storing up within my not over powerful body, balm, sunshine, ozone, and health abundant for the future.

And what did I not learn from him! And from André with whom I spent hours out of every day! What forest lore; what ways of cunning from the shy forest dwellers; what tricks of line and bait for the capricious trout, the pugnacious ouananiche, the lazy pickerel! What haunts of beaver I was shown! How I watched them by the hour, lying prone in my Khaki suit of drilling,—short skirt, high laced-boots,—my feminine "bottes sauvages" as André called them,—and bloomers,—from some cedar covert.

Those five weeks were one long dream-reality of forest life, and this was despite flies and mosquitoes which we treated in a scientific manner.

One of the Montagnais brought us the mail once a week from Roberval. The first of August he brought up a telegram that announced the Doctor would be with us the next day. Mr. Ewart decided to meet him at the last portage. André the Second went with him. They would be back just after dark that same day, he said. André the First was left to reign supreme in camp during his absence.

"I am only as old as my heart, mademoiselle; you know that is young, and you make it younger while you are here," he said that afternoon, when he and I were trimming the camp with forest greens for the Doctor's coming, and Jamie was laying a beacon pile near the shore, just north of the camp where there was no underbrush or trees. André told us its light could be seen far down the lake.

After supper I lay down in my hammock-couch, swung beneath the pines at the back of the camp. As I rocked there in the twilight, counting off the minutes of waiting by my heartbeats, I heard Jamie and André talking as they smoked together, and rested after the exertions of the day.

"How came you to think of it, André?"

"How came le bon Dieu to give me eyes—and sight like a hawk?"

"But why are you so sure?"

"Why? Because what I see, I see. What I hear, I hear. It is the same voice I hear in the forest; the same laugh like the little forest brook; the same face that used to look at itself in the pool and smile at what it saw there; the same eyes—non, they are different. I found those others in the wood violets; these match the young chestnuts just breaking from the burrs after the first frost."

"But, André, it was so many years ago."

"To me it is as yesterday, when I see her paddling the canoe and swaying like a reed in the gentle wind."

"And you never knew her name?"

"No. She was his 'little bird', his 'wood-dove' to him; and to her he was 'mon maître', always that—'my master' you say in English which I have forgotten, so long I am in the woods. They were so happy—it was always so with them."

There was a few minutes of silence, then Jamie spoke.

"Has Mr. Ewart ever spoken to you about what you told us that night in camp, André—about that 'forest love'?"

"No, the seignior has never spoken, but,"—he puffed vigorously at his pipe,—"he has no need to speak of it; he thinks it now."

"Why, now?" There was eager curiosity in Jamie's voice, and I knew well in what direction his thoughts were headed. I smiled to myself, and listened as eagerly as he for André's answer.

"I have eyes that see; it is again the 'forest love' with him—"

"Again?" Jamie interrupted him; his voice was suddenly a sharp staccato. "What do you mean by that?"

"I mean what I say. The forest knows its own. She has come again; and my old eyes, that still see like the hawk, are glad at the sight of her—and of him. Have I not prayed all these years that Our Lady of the Snows might bless her—and her child?" There was no mistaking the emphasis on the last words.

"André,"—Jamie's voice dropped to an excited whisper, but I caught it,—"you mean that?"

"I mean that," he said.

I heard him rise; I heard his steps soft on the cedar-strewn path. Jamie must have followed him, for in a moment I heard him calling from the shore:

"Mother, Marcia, come on! André says it's time to light the beacon."

I joined Mrs. Macleod, and in the dusk we made our way over to the pile of wood.

"You are to light it, mademoiselle," said André, handing me the flaming pine knot. I obeyed mechanically, for André's words were filling all the night with confusing sounds that seemed to echo conflictingly from shore to shore.

"Just here, by the birch bark, mademoiselle."

The beacon caught; there was no wind. The bark snapped, curled and shrivelled; the branches crackled; the little flames leaped, the fire crept higher and higher till it lighted our faces and the waters in the foreground. We waited and watched till we heard a faint "hurrah", and soon, in the distance, a calcium light burned red and long. We went down again to the cove. Jamie was with his mother; I walked behind with André.

"André," I whispered to him, "when you first saw me you said, 'I have waited many years for you to come'. Why did you say that?"

"Why? Because I desired to speak the truth."

"Am I like some one you have seen before? Tell me."

"Yes."

"Who was she?"

"I do not know."

"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.

"Dear Doctor Rugvie, it is all a wilderness, as Jamie said, is n't it? And we 're fortunate to find a trail, like this, that leads to camp—and friends," I said, pointing to the newly made path through the forest.

"Yes, my dear,—and that reminds me I have n't shown you what I brought you here to see. Come."

He penetrated farther into the woods and off the trail to the left. There we found a blasted tree in which was a great hollow.

"It is filled with honey, Marcia, wild honey. I wonder that no track of bear is to be seen about here."

"Who would ever think of finding such a store of sweet in this poor old lightning-blasted tree!" I exclaimed, looking more closely at it. "What a feast Bruin will have some day."

"You see there is honey even in the wilderness, Marcia. I wanted to convince you that there is such—may you, also, find it so." He turned towards the camp, I following his lead.

"By the way," he said, as he walked on rapidly, "do you know anything that could have given old André any physical or nervous shock recently?"

"No—I don't recall anything, at least anything that he might feel physically. It's just possible a fright I gave him unintentionally that day of the storm may have affected him for a time. Why, does he show any effect of shock?"

"Yes, decidedly. What was it?"

I told him of my carelessness with the paddle while crossing the lake; of the careening of the canoe; of André's terrified shriek and his muttered fear of the depth of the lake.

"That must have been it. I felt sure there was some nervous shock."

"Oh, how could I do it! Dear old André—and I of all others!"

"It's his age, Marcia; it was liable to come at any time; this is why Ewart felt so anxious about you that day and required the promise. Old as he is, he is tough as a pine knot, wiry as witch grass, with great powers of endurance, good eyesight, good teeth; he has seemed less than seventy till this year. Now he is breaking up. It would not surprise me if this were his débâcle."

"I can't bear to think of it. Why must all these changes come at once! What am I to do in the midst of this general débâcle?"

"Marcia," he stopped short, turned to face me, "remember that now and hereafter when you need a friend you will find one in me. Don't hesitate to come to me, to call on me whenever there may be need, or when there is no need. I had once, many years ago, not only a son but a darling daughter. She would have been about your age—a year younger."

I could not thank him, grateful as I was, for I was inwardly rebellious that he should feel called upon to offer me the protection of his friendship, when he must see that his friend was the only one to give me the needed shelter—-and that in Lamoral, because he loved me. For a moment his words seemed almost an insult to Mr. Ewart.

Suddenly he laughed out—his hearty kindly laugh. It put new heart into me.

"What is it?" I asked quickly, ready to respond to a little cheer.

"Ewart is having his surprise too, but domestically. He had word in the mail from Cale last night, and according to his account everything is going to the dogs at Lamoral. Angélique has elected to fall in love with Widower Pierre and he with her. They are to postpone the marriage until the seignior returns, but beg he will consider the state of their affections and be considerate."

I laughed with him. There was humor in this situation at Lamoral, for I had warned Cale before I left how this affair would terminate, and he had sniffed at my clairvoyance.

"The truth is, Cale is homesick for the whole household."

"Poor Cale! He is having a hard time. I ought to be at home to help him, to comfort him. Our new relationship means that I have found another friend."

"And a faithful one."

"You think we shall break camp very soon?"

"Yes. I have to be off to-morrow—"

"To-morrow! Why, you were to stay into the second week of September."

"I have to leave sooner than I planned. The Montagnais brought up a telegram with the mail, and my answer goes back with me to-morrow. I 've kept the Montagnais for guide, although I should not fear to risk it alone, now that I have been over the route so many times."

"Then, if Mrs. Macleod and Jamie are to sail soon, I must go, too, I suppose."

"Yes, Cale needs you; the whole household needs you. I proposed to Ewart that we all go together, then there will be no heart-breaking goodbys, except to André."

I bit my lip to keep back any inquiry about Mr. Ewart's going with us, and was thankful I held my peace for the Doctor continued, tramping steadily on ahead of me:

"But now Ewart will remain to the end—"

"But has it come to this?" I cried. I was depressed at the turn of events.

The Doctor stopped, turned and faced me, saying gravely:

"It has, Marcia; I read the signs. We shall know when we get back. I was with him all last night; there is no help. But Ewart and I did not want you and Jamie and Mrs. Macleod to know it—not till morning. You thought he was out fishing when we left; so did Jamie. Ewart asked me to tell you on our way back."

"André—"

I could not speak another word. The old Canadian had so endeared himself to me during the many weeks in the wilds. Added to this was the thought of his probable connection with my mother's short-lived joy. It was all too sudden.

"It is the débâcle, no mistake about that," I said stolidly, and set my teeth together that they should not chatter and betray my weakness of spirit.

"Can't I stay and help to nurse him?"

"No, Marcia, that won't do. André lies in a lethargy; his condition may not change for days, for weeks, although I doubt this. His son and Ewart will do all that is necessary. Ewart will never leave the two here alone. You would be an extra care for them. It is now exceptionally cold for the season in this latitude; the fall rains may set in any time. Don't propose such a thing to Ewart, I beg of you. But Ewart remains—that is the kind of friend Ewart is."

The request was too earnest for me not to accede to it with as good a grace as possible.

On our return we found that it was as the Doctor had predicted: the old guide was unconscious.

Mr. Ewart decided the matter of breaking camp. We were to leave the next morning with the Montagnais and André the Second for guides. André's son was to accompany us only to the fourth portage. The Doctor, with the other Montagnais, was sufficient for the rest of the way. The camp belongings were to follow later with Mr. Ewart, whenever that should be.

I remember that day as one of dreary confusion—packing, sorting, shivering a little in the chill air. The sun shone pale; it failed to warm the earth or our bodies. All the forest stirred at times uneasily. André's son declared it foretold long cold rains followed by sharp frost. And amid all the confusion of the day we could hear the undertone of our thought: "Old André is dying". Mr. Ewart would not permit us to see him.

"It is better to carry with you only the memory of him as he has looked to us during all these weeks—young in his heart, joyful in our companionship."

I saw the relief in Mr. Ewart's face when we were ready. He spoke cheerily to me who failed to respond with anything resembling cheerfulness.

"It's a bad business in camp during the fall rains, and they are setting in early this year. I shall know you are safely housed—and there is so much to look forward to. Home will be a pleasant place for us, won't it?"

"I thought this, also, was home to you—"

"Only so long as you are here; my home henceforth is where you are."

And, hearing those words, despite the chill air, despite the lack of warm sunshine, despite the fact that old André lay dying in his tent just beyond the camp, despite the fact that Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were to leave me alone in Lamoral, that the Doctor was going away for an indefinite time, my happiness was at the flood.

For a moment only, we stood there on the shore of the little cove, together and alone—and glad to be! We stood there, man and woman facing each other, as primeval man and woman may have stood thousands of years ago on this oldest piece of the known earth, there in the heart of the Canadian wilderness. Something primeval entered into the expression of our love for each other; our souls were naked, the one to the other; our eyes promised all, the one to the other; our lips were ready for their seal of sacrament when the time should come that we might give it each to the other without witness.

And no word was spoken, for no word was needed.

The Doctor joined us rather inopportunely and, accounting for the situation, made no end of a pother with his traps and his canoe.

Once more Jamie and I asked if we might not take one look at old André, but the Doctor put his foot down.

"Better not. Remember him as you last saw him; it will be a memory to dwell with—this would not be."

Jamie put on a brave face, but I knew he was ready for a good cry.

"I am not reconciled to say goodby to you here, Gordon," he said.

The two clasped hands.

"Oh, I shall be running over to see you and Mrs. Macleod before long. Be sure, Mrs. Macleod, to have my room ready for me next summer in Crieff—and don't forget the green canopy over my bed. I have n't forgotten it."

She smiled. "I shall never forget your kindness, never; but I can't help the longing for home."

"There, there, no more you can't," said the Doctor brusquely. "No more leave-takings; they don't set well on my breakfast. We shall all be together again soon, please God. The ocean is but a pond and the crossing a five days' picnic now-a-days. You may follow us in a few days, Ewart. Meanwhile, I 'll see that your household is safely landed at Lamoral—if only the rain will hold off, we shall have cause for thankfulness," he added fervently. We all knew the Doctor was talking against time and parting. "Raincoats all in readiness?" And then, not waiting for an answer:

"I shall run up to Lamoral after I get back from San Francisco, Gordon; I 'm not sure I shan't return by the Canadian Pacific."

"Good luck, John, and goodby till then," said Mr. Ewart. "Bon voyage, Mrs. Macleod. Miss Farrell, I give you carte blanche for all wedding preparations. Tell Pierre to order from his tailor, and charge to me. I shall give them away.—Macleod, you full-fledged genius,"—he caught Jamie's hands in his,—"let me hear from you—a wireless will just suit my impatience. Oh, Miss Farrell, may I trouble you to see Mère Guillardeau and tell her of André? I will telegraph you before I return. Goodby—goodby."

There was a hand-clasp all around again. The Montagnais and André's son took their places; pushed off. Our return voyage was begun.

With the dip of the paddles I heard, as an undertone, old André's little song he used to sing to us in camp, the little French song that Jamie incorporated in his "André's Odyssey":

XXIX

Never, never so long as memory lasts, can I forget the separate stages of that return journey. On the first day we had dull overcast skies that threatened rain; the chill wind roughened the lakes and river, and made dismal crossings of the portages at one of which we bade goodby to André's son. We arrived the next afternoon at Roberval in a veritable deluge, the rain having set in while we were crossing Lake St. John. We left by train that evening for Chicoutimi. I remember our late arrival there, the rain still falling in torrents, and, at last, our fleeing the next morning for shelter to the great Saguenay steamer.

On that third day we made the voyage down the Saguenay. It seemed to me as if I were embarking on some Stygian flood, for we looked into a rain-swept impenetrable perspective. The dark waters were beaten into quiescence, except for the current, by the weight of falling raindrops. That was all we saw at first. Despite the Doctor's assumed cheerfulness and his brave attempts to cheer us, we felt depressed. At last came the cessation of rain; the heavy clouds rolled upwards; the perspective cleared and showed the mighty river narrowed to a gorge with the dark outposts of Capes East and West looming vast, desolate, repellent before us.

And always there continued that darkness around, above, beneath us, till, farther down, we swept into the deeper shadow of Capes Trinity and Eternity. In passing them, the pall of some impending calamity fell upon my spirit. I could not emerge from it, try as I might.

Was anything about to happen to the man I loved, to him who was waiting there in the wilderness to entertain Death as his next guest? Should we four friends, who were making this journey, ever be together in the future?

The Doctor kept a watchful eye on me. When the steamer drew to the landing at Tadoussac, I saw him and Jamie remove their hats and stand so, bareheaded, till the boat moved away. Mrs. Macleod and I, watching them, said to each other that they were thinking of André and his voyage of seventeen years ago, when he set out from Tadoussac to see the "New Jerusalem" by that far western lake.

We were glad to take the Montreal express at Quebec which we saw under lowering skies and in a bitter northeast wind. Jamie had telegraphed to Cale from Roberval; he and little Pete were at the junction to meet us. His joy at our return was unmistakable, but his welcome was unique.

"Wal, Mis' Macleod, I guess 't is 'bout time fer you an' Marcia ter be gettin' back ter the manor. Angélique an' Pete have got tied up already—gone off honey-moonin' to Sorel. I could n't hinder it no longer. Marie 's took a notion to visit her 'feller', as they say here, in Three Rivers, an' me an' Pete is holdin' the fort."

How we laughed; we could not help it at Cale's plight. That laugh did us a world of good. Cale, after shaking hands with each of us, stowed us away in the big coach.

"I 'll come over again fer the traps, Doctor."

"All right, Cale. I can be of some use, even if I don't stay but one night at Lamoral. By the way, just leave these things of mine in the baggage-room; it will save taking them over. I have my handbag."

"We ain't got so much grub as we might have, but I guess we can make out to get along, Marcia," said Cale, anxiously.

"Oh, I 'll manage, Cale; don't worry. We 'll stop in the village for provisions, and it won't take me long to straighten things out."

"Of course you did n't think we were coming down on you like the Assyrians of old," said Jamie, taking his seat beside Cale.

"Why, no. I cal'lated you 'd be here likely enough in ten days. I guess Angélique and Pete would n't have got spliced quite so soon if they 'd thought you 'd come this week. They cal'lated ter be home by the time you got here."

We were glad to find something at which we could laugh without pretence. Cale's description of the wedding in the church, at which he was best man; of his inability to understand a word of the service; of Pete's embracing him instead of Angélique when it was all over, and of little Pete dissolving in tears on his return to empty Lamoral and wetting Cale's starched shirt front before he could be comforted, was something to be remembered.

"I must write this up for Ewart," said Jamie, that evening when we sat once again around a normal hearth.

"He will enjoy it; no one better," said the Doctor who was busy looking up New York sailings. "Look here, Boy, you say you want a week, at least, in New York?"

"Yes. I have never seen the place, and I don't want to go home without knowing something about it."

"Well, in that case, I will make a proposition to you. Suppose you sail from New York instead of Montreal? You can have a week there, sail on the sixteenth and be in London on time, provided you leave here to-morrow night."

"To-morrow night?" I echoed dismally.

"Yes, it will have to be to-morrow night—or leave out New York. Better decide to go, Mrs. Macleod, for then I can entertain you for two days before I leave for San Francisco and, in any case, put my house at your disposal."

Both Mrs. Macleod and Jamie hesitated; I felt they were considering me, not wishing to leave me alone in Lamoral.

"Don't think of me," I said. "The sooner this parting from you and Jamie is over the better it will be for me." I fear I spoke too decidedly.

"Marcia, my dear, I don't see how I can leave you here alone."

"I 'm used to being alone." I answered shortly to hide my emotion.

"Yes, better cut it short," Jamie said with a twitch of his upper lip. "We 'll accept your invitation, Doctor Rugvie—you 're always doing something for us; we 've come to expect it; I hope we shan't end by taking it for granted."

"Nothing would please me better than that, Boy. You are a bit over-tired, to-night; better go to bed now, and do all there is to be done in the morning. I must go then."

"What, can't you wait to go with us?" Jamie demanded.

"No; I must be in New York to-morrow evening. I will meet you at the station the next day."

"I believe I am a bit fagged—and I know mother is. That portage business is a strain on the best legs. But you were game, Marcia, no mistake."

"Help me to be 'game' now—and go to bed. I 'll follow just as soon as I set the bread to rise."

"It's too bad that I must leave you to this, Marcia," said Mrs. Macleod regretfully, as she kissed me good night—for the second time at Lamoral.

"Oh, I can do all there is to be done."

I returned her kiss. I was beginning to love this gentle, reticent Scotchwoman.

"I don't want any good night from you, Marcia," said Jamie gruffly. "Oh, I hate the whole business!" He flung out of the room, and I rose to follow him and Mrs. Macleod.

"Stay with me a little while, Marcia; you are not so tired as they are. Who knows whether I shall see you for a whole month or more?" The Doctor spoke earnestly.

"You expect to be gone so long?"

"Perhaps longer—it depends on what I find awaiting me. You permit another?" He reached for a cigar.

"Let me light it for you."

I performed the little service for him, which he loved to accept from me, and then sat down in Jamie's corner of the sofa.

The Doctor puffed vigorously for a while. Then he spoke, suddenly looking at me:

"After all, it is Ewart that makes Lamoral, is n't it, Marcia?"

"Yes," I replied promptly. I was so glad to speak his name here in his own home. I was hoping his friend would feel inclined to talk of him.

"I have never had an opportunity to realize this before; it is the first time I have been here without him."

"I remember Jamie said, the night before you came last November, that I should n't know the house after Mr. Ewart took possession."

The Doctor turned to me, smiling almost wistfully, r so it seemed to me.

"His presence makes the difference between the house and the home. Is n't that what Jamie meant?"

"Yes, I am sure it is. Mr. Ewart himself calls the old manor 'home' now." I smiled at my thoughts. Had he not said, "My home is henceforth where you are"?

"And I, for my part, am thankful to hear him use that word. Marcia, Ewart has been, in a way, a homeless man."

"I thought so from the little he has said."

"He was orphaned early in life. Has he ever spoken to you of his wife?" The question was put casually, but I knew intentionally.

"Only once."

"And once only to me, his friend—several years ago. He has suffered. I have known no detail, but whatever it was, it went deep."

I was willing to follow his lead a little further and, although I realized the ice was thin, I ventured.

"I wonder if you have ever heard any gossip—"

"Gossip? What gossip?" The Doctor's words were abrupt, his tone resentful.

"Something Jamie heard here in the village, and because he did not believe it, he told me, when I first came, that if I ever heard it I should not believe it either—"

"About Ewart?" He ceased to puff at his cigar.

"Yes; about his having been married and divorced, and that he has a child living, a boy whom he is educating in England."

"That's all fool-talk about the boy." The Doctor spoke testily. "I don't mind telling you that he was married, as of course you know, and lost his wife. I don't mind telling you that he was divorced from her; I suppose that is a matter of public record somewhere. I don't know who she was—or what she was; he is loyal to that memory. But there is no boy in the case."

He tossed his cigar into the fire and began tapping the floor rapidly with the tip of his boot.

"I inferred, of course, from a remark he made to me then, that there was a child mixed up in the affair—"

"All this must be the foundation for the rumors, then?" I said.

"Yes; but if Ewart has a child, and I am convinced he has—"

"You are?" I asked in amazement, thereby proving to the Doctor that I had never given credence to this part of the report.

He nodded emphatically, looking away from me into the fire. "If he has a child, I know it to be a girl—no boy."

"I had n't thought of that."

"I see you have n't," he said dryly; then, clearing his throat, he turned squarely to me, speaking deliberately, as if hoping every word would carry conviction.

"Marcia, if Ewart has a child, as I am convinced he has, it is a daughter,—" with a quick turn of his head he faced me, speaking distinctly but rapidly,—"and that daughter is you."

It was said, the unheard-of. He had used his knife when I was off my guard. I was powerless to shrink from it, to protest against its use. All I could do was to bear.

I heard one of the dogs whine somewhere about the house. I know I counted the vagrant sparks flying up the chimney. I heard the kitchen clock striking. I counted—ten. I remembered that I had forgotten to wind it, and must do so when I made the bread. I moistened my lips; they were suddenly parched. Then I spoke.

"Why have you told me this?" I failed, curiously, to hear my own voice, and repeated the question.

"Marcia, it had to be said—it was my duty."

"Why?"

"Why?" He turned to me with something like anger flashing in his eyes. "Because I don't choose to have you make a wreck of your life, as I told you only the other day—"

"But if I choose—" I did not know what I was saying. I was merely articulating, but could not tell him so.

"If you choose! Good God—don't you see your situation? Marcia, dear girl, come to yourself—you are not yourself."

Without another word he rose quickly, and went out. I heard him go into the kitchen. He came back with a third of a glass of water.

"Take this, Marcia."

I obeyed. The bitter taste is even now, at times, on my tongue. Soon I was able to hear my own voice.

"Thank you." I felt his finger on my wrist.

"You are better now?"

"Yes." I passed my hand across my eyes to clear my sight. I heard a heavy long-drawn sigh from the man standing in front of me.

"Does he know?" was my first rational question.

"Ewart know? Marcia, Marcia—think what you are saying! Ewart is a gentleman—the soul of honor—"

"No, of course, he does n't. I did n't think.— Why have n't you told him instead of me?"

"Why? I tell you because you are a woman; because it is your right to withdraw from a situation that is untenable; you must be the first to know."

"I see; I am beginning to understand."

"Marcia, this is a confession. I blame myself for much of this. I am guilty of procrastinating in a matter of duty. Listen, my dear girl; you remember that night in February when you met me at the junction?"

"Oh, yes, I remember—I wish I could forget." I felt suddenly so tired.

"I heard all this in Ewart's voice when he bade me look out for you. I saw all this in your face when you greeted him on his return. I did not know then of your connection with Cale, with that sad affair of twenty-seven years ago; but, from the moment I knew your birthday, from that night when Cale's story fitted its key to mine, from the moment I learned the truth from Delia Beaseley about you, from the moment I examined those papers in my possession, I should have spoken; should have written you at least; should have warned—but I waited to make more sure."

"Are you sure?"

I put that question as a drowning man catches at a floating reed.

"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."