A Cry in the Wilderness

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."