The Peace of Roaring River

CHAPTER VI

Deeper in the Wilderness

Within the shack Madge was now ready to start. Hugo’s big woolen cap was pulled down well over her ears and she again wore a coat much too large for her, a thing which, in other days long gone, might have made her laugh.

As she moved to the door she hesitated. Where was she going to? What object was there in moving there or anywhere else? The wild dream that had come upon her in the big city was dispelled and nothing on earth remained but the end that must come in some way or other. Of course she had no desire to remain in this shack, but neither had she any desire for anything else. What was the use of anything she might do? By this time she was stranded high and dry among breakers innumerable, with never the slightest outlook towards safety. The few dollars in her pockets offered no possibility of return. This man might give her enough to get back, if she asked him. It was the least he could do. But she would rather have torn out her tongue than ask him for money. And it would only be going back to that dreadful city in which she had suffered so much. No, it was unthinkable! Better by far for her to lie down somewhere in that great forest and die. And now she was about to see more strangers and remain over night in new surroundings. Where would she drift to after that?

She made a gesture of despair. Her down-hanging arms straightened rigidly at her side, with the fists clenched as when one seeks to be brave in the face of impending agony. Her head was thrown back and her eyes nearly closed. In that position she remained for a moment, her brain whirling, her head on fire with a burning pain. Then the tension relaxed a little and she cast another look about her, without seeing anything, after which she pushed the door open and stepped out upon the crunching snow.

Hugo rose at once, albeit somewhat stiffly, and spoke to the dog who stood up, with head turned to watch the proceedings.

“I don’t think I’d better take the trunk on this trip,” he explained. “It would make a rather heavy load for just one dog. We’ll take your bag, of course, and I can bring the trunk over to-morrow morning. It will be perfectly safe there by the road. We haven’t any thieves in this country, that I know of. Now will you please sit down there, in the middle. Maigan will pull you all right. I’ll get the blankets.”

“But–couldn’t I walk? You said it was only a mile. I–I think I could manage that,” ventured Madge, dully.

“I don’t think you could,” he answered. “I’m sure you’re quite played out. In some places the snow is bound to be soft. I could give you a pair of snowshoes but you wouldn’t know how to use them and they’d tire you to death. You’ve already had a pretty hard day, I know. Maigan won’t mind it in the least. He’d take the trunk, too, readily enough, but that would make slow going.”

She obeyed. What did she care? What difference could it make? He wrapped the blankets over her, after she had sat down on an old wolfskin he had covered the sled with. After this he took a long line attached to the toboggan and passed it over his right shoulder, pulling at the side of the dog, who toiled on briskly. When they reached the tote-road it seemed rougher than ever and the country wilder. To her right Madge could see the river that was nothing but a winding jumble of snow-capped rocks and grinding ice, with here and there patches of inky-looking water, where the ice-crust had split asunder. Also she dully noted places where the water seemed to froth up over the surface, boiling in great suds from which rose, straight up in the still air, a cloud of heavy gray vapor. The cold felt even more intense than earlier in the day. It impressed the girl as if some tremendous force were bearing down mightily upon the world and holding it in thrall. With the lowering of the sun the shadows had grown longer. After a time the slight sound of the man’s snowshoes over the crackling snow, of the scraping toboggan, of the panting dog, began to seem to Madge like some sort of desecration of a stillness in which man was nothing and only an eternal and vengeful power reigned supreme. In spite of the patches of sunlight filtering down through branches or glaring upon the river there was now something dismal in all this, and she began to feel the cold again, penetrating, relentless, evil in its might.

They had gone about half way when, on the top of a slight rise, both dog and man stopped for a moment’s rest. The latter looked quite exhausted. His face was set hard, in an expression she could not fathom.

“Really, I think I could walk,” said the girl again. “There–there’s no reason you should work so hard for me. And–and you look terribly tired.”

“Oh, no!” he disclaimed, hastily. “I–I could pull you all by myself if–well, it’s only a short distance away now, and Maigan is doing nearly all the work, anyway. I–I don’t think anything I can do for you can quite make up for all that you seem to have gone through.”

He looked at her, very gravely, as he sat down upon a fallen log, close at hand, after clearing off some snow with a sweep of his mitt. There was something very sad, she thought, an expression of pain upon his face which she noted and which led her into a very natural error. She was compelled to consider these things as evidences of regret, of a conscience that was beginning to irk him badly. Her head bent down till she was staring into her lap; she felt that tears were once more dangerously near.

No thought came to her of appealing to this man, of suing for pity and charity, but she began to speak, the words coming from a full heart that gave her pain were spoken in low tones, nearly as if she had been talking to herself.

“I–I’m thinking of the boys who were stoning the frog,” she began, haltingly. “You remember. It was fun for them but death to the frog. I–I think a good many things work that way in the world, don’t–don’t you, Mr. Ennis? You–you don’t really look like–like a very bad man. If–if you had a sister or mother you’d–you’d probably be kind to them. What–what do you think of it yourself, honestly? A–a girl, who’s a fool, of course, but after all just a girl, is dying of loneliness and misery in a big city. She–she can’t stand it any more, not–not for another day. And then she finds that paper and like–like an utter fool she answers that advertisement. It–it looked like a bare chance of–of being able to keep body and soul together, and–and remain honest and decent, which–which is a hard enough thing for a girl to do, in–in some places. And then the man answers back. She–I never expected he would, but he did, and he offered all sorts of wonderful things that–that looked like heaven itself to–to a hungry failure of a girl to whom life had become too heavy a burden to bear. And–and so she answers that letter and–and tries to tell the truth about herself, and says that–that she is prepared to carry out her part of the bargain if–if the man has spoken truly of himself–if–if he can respect her–treat her like a woman who–who is ready to do her best to–to deserve a little kindness and consideration. And he tells her again to come–to come as soon as possible, and–and there was nothing to detain her for a moment. The city had been too cruel–too utterly cruel. And then she comes here and finds that–that it was all lies–wicked lies–I’m sorry, it’s the only word I can use.”

Hugo was staring at her, open-mouthed, but before he could utter a word she began again:

“The man had never meant it, of course–he wasn’t awaiting her at all, as he had promised–and when she finally comes to him he speaks coldly, cynically, denying his words, pretending he knows nothing. It–it’s a rather clumsy way of getting out of it, seems to me. Anyway he saw that his joke had been carried too far. It–it hasn’t proved such a very good one, has it? It–it has turned out to be pretty poor fun. I–I dare say I deserve it all. It–it was awful folly on my part, I see it now, and–and I’m ashamed, dreadfully ashamed–I feel the redness mounting to–to the very roots of my hair–and it overwhelms me. Don’t–don’t you feel something of–of the same sort, or–or do you still think the joke was a good one?”

She had grown rather excited and it was quite true that a deep blush was now mantling her face. In her halting speech–in the words that had come slowly at first, and then had flowed more rapidly, there had been wounded pride beside the deep resentment and the pain.

“Do–do you really believe such a thing?” answered the man, wincing again. “You speak of something that is an abomination, that would stink in a decent man’s nostrils. And–and you speak of shame! Do you think such a word could express all that a man would be overwhelmed with if he had done such a thing? Great Heavens! Miss Nelson, a man having once committed such a crime would be humiliated for the rest of his life, it seems to me. It would be an unpardonable sin for which there could be no forgiveness, none surely on the part of the woman, and none that the man could ever grant himself. It–it surely isn’t possible that any such thing has occurred, that any man could so lower himself beneath all the dirt that his feet have ever trodden.”

He spoke strongly, his face now also high in color, his voice tremulous and indignant, his hard right fist clenched till the arm vibrated with the strain.

Madge looked at him again. For a moment his tone had been convincing and she had nearly believed that he spoke the truth. But the evidence against him was too strong.

“That–that big Stefan, your friend, the man who says that you saved his life, knew that I was coming,” she faltered, her voice shaking while her body felt limp with the infinite discouragement that had returned to her in full. “He brought you my message, at least he told me so. What–what is the use of my saying anything more? I–I think we might as well be going on, if–if you and your dog are rested. He–he looks like a decent fellow, Maigan does. There are things a dog wouldn’t do, I’m sure.”

“Miss Nelson, as God is my judge, I’m guiltless in this matter,” the man’s voice rang out.

“Go on, Maigan, mush on!” he called, and leaned forward on the rope, passed over one shoulder. Her last words had brought a moment of anger and indignation. Save for the few words he had uttered he felt it useless to protest his innocence, and the notion of her insanity returned to him, strongly. But those were strange things she had said about Stefan and that message. As soon as possible he would go over to Carcajou and interview his friend the Swede. The girl’s disordered mind must have distorted something that he said. He began to wonder whether there was any truth at all about her story, whether she really came from New York, whether she was not some poor creature escaped from some place for the care of the insane. But then how had she got hold of his name and how had she ever heard of Roaring River? The more he puzzled over these problems the more tangled they appeared to be.

“I dare say I’ll find out about it soon enough,” he told himself, impatiently, for the pain he suffered began to grow worse with every step, and an unaccountable weariness had come over him. That thing on his shoulder must be a mere scratch, he tried to persuade himself, in spite of the sharp pangs it gave him. Manlike he grew more obstinate as his strength began to fail, and pulled harder, with the sweat now running down his clammy forehead and freezing on his face.

Maigan, also, was bending hard to his task, and they went along steadily and rapidly. The toboggan was crackling and slithering over the snow upon which the dark indigo shadows were throwing uncanny designs. The track was smooth and level now and the dog could manage very well alone, so that Hugo pulled no longer. Once, as he chanced to stumble, the girl thought she heard a groan from him. She began to wish that she had been able to believe him, but it was utterly impossible, although she suddenly found it in her heart to pity him, to extenuate the abomination of his conduct. Why that last sacrilegious lie he had uttered? The man was suffering; it looked as if the iron were entering his soul. Oh! the pity of it! If he had only acknowledged his offence and begged her pardon she might perhaps have forgiven. A moment later, however, the grim outlook before her presented itself again. There were two things for her to choose from; one was that fitly named Roaring River along whose bank the road wound its snaky trail and the other consisted in the cheap little pistol in her bag. Well, there might be comfort after all in this wild land, upon the scented fallen needles of the pines or under that pure white ice. Her features, which for a moment had become stony and hard, now softened again. It was best to endeavor to harbor no more thoughts of contempt and hatred when one’s own soul might soon be suing for forgiveness.

They topped another rise of ground beyond which there was a hollow, a tiny valley nestled among great firs and poplars and birches. In the middle of it Madge saw another and much larger shack. It might really have been called a house, but for its being made of logs. A film of smoke was rising straight up in the still air, from a chimney built of rough stones, and some dogs began to bark loudly. A woman came out, with a child hanging to her skirts, and shaded her eyes with her hand while she scolded the animals, who slunk away slowly.

“Bonjour,” she called out, cheerfully. “Ah! It is Monsieur Hugo! How you do, sare? Glad for see you! Come along quick. It ees cole again, terrible cole.”

For a second she stared at the young woman on the toboggan, but her civility came at once uppermost and she smiled pleasantly, and rushed up to help Madge arise, brushing off some of the snow that had fallen on her from the trees.

“Come inside quick. I have it good hot in de house. You all perished wid dat cole, Mees. Now you get varm again and I make tea tout de suite.”

She had seized Madge’s hands in her own big and capable ones, with the never-failing hospitality and friendliness of the wilderness, and led her indoors at once. Hugo let Maigan loose, with a word of warning, for the other dogs had begun to circle about him jealously, and growled a little, probably for the sake of form, for they took good care to keep out of reach of his long fangs. They had tried him once before and knew that he was their master. Hugo, thankful that the journey was ended, took up the girl’s bag and followed her into the house, after he had taken off his snowshoes, a job he accomplished with some difficulty.

“Mrs. Papineau,” he began, “this young lady came over to my place, a couple of hours ago, and–and there’s been some–some mistake. She thought there was a village here, I believe. She only expects to remain with you till to-morrow, I think, and till then I will be ever so grateful if you will make her as comfortable as possible. I’m afraid she’s dreadfully tired and cold. I expect to return in the morning to take her back to Carcajou, unless–unless she would prefer to rest a day or two here.”

“Ver ’appy to see de lady,” declared Mrs. Papineau, heartily. “Tak’ off you coat, Monsieur Hugo, an’ sit here by de fire. Hey! Baptiste, you bring more big piece of birch. Colette, put kettle on for bile water qvick. Tak’ dis seat, lady. I pull off dem blanket. You no need dem more. Turriple cole now. Las’ night we ’ear de wolfs ’untin’ along dem ’ardwood ridges, back of de river; it ees always sign of big cole. And de river she crack awful, and de trees dey split like guns shoot. Glad you come an’ get varm, Mees.”

Madge looked about her, after she had smiled at the woman in thanks. For the second time that day she had entered a home of kindly and well-disposed people that seemed to be built of an altogether different clay from that which composed the folk of the big city. In Stefan’s home the atmosphere had been gentle, one of earnest, quiet toil, with the simple accompaniment of a kindly religious belief according to the Lutheran persuasion. In the dwelling she had now entered, of fervent French Canadians, she noted the vivid chromo of a departed pope facing the still gaudier representation of the British Royal family, if the printed legend could be believed. They were shown in all the colors of the rainbow, as were also some saints whose glaring portraits hung on either side of the door, surmounted by dried palms reminiscent of Easter festivals. There seemed to be any number of children, from an infant lying in a homemade cradle of boards, one of which displayed an advertisement of soap, to a bashful youth who looked at Hugo as if he worshipped him and a freckled, gawky and friendly-faced girl of fifteen who stood around, evidently delighted to see people and anxious to be civil to them.

And this welcome she had received seemed to be characteristic of all these folks living in the back of beyond. Everywhere she had met friendliness; people had seemed actually eager to help; they smiled as if life had been a thing of joy in which the good things must be distributed far and near and enjoyed by all. They seemed ready to share their possessions with strangers that chanced within their gates. It was a spirit intensely restful, consoling, bringing peace to one’s heart. It gave the girl a brief vision of something that was heavenly. She felt that she could so easily have made her home in this amazing region that opened its arms and actually welcomed new faces. But the thought came to her that she had only been vouchsafed a fleeting glance at it and to gaze, as Moses did of old, upon a Promised Land she could never really enter.

“It is no need for to h’ask, Monsieur Hugo,” Madge heard the woman saying. “Ve do h’all ve can, sure! It ees a gladness to see de yong lady an’ heem pretty face, all red vid de cole. Come by de fire, mees. Celestine ’ere she pull aff your beeg Dutch stockin’. Dey no belong you, sure. Colette, push heem chair near for de lady. Hippolyte, put couple steeks now on ze fire. Mees, I ’ope you mak’ yourself to home now. Monsieur Hugo, you stop for to h’eat a bite vid us. Ve haf’ in de shed still one big quarter from de orignal, de beeg mose vat my man he shoot two veeks ago. Und dere pleanty patates, pleanty pork, all you vant.”

“No, thank you ever so much, I–I think I’d better be going. It will be dark pretty soon. I know perfectly well that you will take excellent care of Miss Nelson and so I think I’ll say good-by now.”

Some of the children trooped around him, disappointed, and Mrs. Papineau came nearer, eying him curiously. Suddenly her keen eyes caught something and she pointed with a finger.

“Vat de mattaire vid you h’arm?” she asked, excitedly. “’Ow you get ’urted?”

“Oh! That! That’s nothing,” he answered, drawing back. “’Tisn’t worth bothering about. Good-night!”

“You no be one beeg fool, Monsieur Hugo!” she ordered him, masterfully. “Now you sit down an’ let me look heem arm right avay quick. Ven de cole strike heem he get bad sure, dat h’arm.”

In spite of his objections she laid violent hands on him, insisting on pulling off his coat, whereupon a dark patch had spread. She also drew off the heavy sweater he wore underneath it, which was stained even more deeply. When she sought to roll up the sleeve of his flannel shirt it would not go up high enough, but the remedy was close at hand, in the form of a pair of scissors, and she swiftly ripped up a seam. On the outer part of the shoulder she revealed a rather large and jagged wound that was all smeared with blood, which still oozed from it slowly.