It was the Indian woman herself that settled the matter of the interview
with Sergeant Starr. After a day’s pain more acute than usual she sent
for the missionary.
“I have something to tell you. Can you receive my confession and give me
absolution?” she asked him, acute anxiety shining in her dark eyes.
The missionary, being more man than missionary and having had large
experience of the soul with its burdens of sin and terror, answered
quietly, “Tell me your trouble. Do not fear. There is forgiveness for
you, and peace.”
“I have done a very wicked thing. I want absolution and the holy oil
before I—go away. And I want you to put it on paper for the police at
Edmonton. It is for Paul—it may hurt him. It is—for Paul,” she added,
clutching the missionary’s arm. “Nothing must hurt Paul.”
“Dear sister, tell me your sin, and if you wish you may tell the police
yourself. He is here.”
“Here? Here?” A momentary fear leaped into her eyes, then faded out.
“Ah, good! Let him come. Let him come, quick! And Paul. Quick! Quick!”
“He will come at once,” said the missionary, and hastened to bring the
sergeant. At the door he met Paul. “She has asked to see the sergeant,”
said Chambers.
“Wait,” said Paul, and went to her. He found her in a fever of eagerness
and impatience.
“Ah—Paul—” she panted, “now I know the blessed Mother hears my prayer.
Bring the man—the policeman to me—quick! I have a heavy load here,” she
struck her breast, “I wish to give it to him.”
“Why not tell the missionary, Onawata?” said Paul. “You need not tell
the policeman.”
“No, Paul. The policeman is best. Oh, I have prayed to get to Edmonton
to tell the police. Bring him, Paul. Bring him. I am strong, and I must
tell him. Go, Paul, quick.”
Without delay Paul did her bidding. And in a few minutes the three men
were at her bedside.
“You have found me,” said the Indian woman, smiling triumphantly at the
sergeant.
He gazed at her in amazement. Indian women of all types he had known,
good and bad. But this type was unknown to him. Indian she was, but the
soul looking through her dark eyes was the soul of a refined and gentle
woman, and her voice and speech suggested a lady of his own race.
“You need not fear,” he said gently.
“Fear?” she said, still smiling. “Oh, no, I have no fear of you. You
cannot hurt me. But I am glad you are here. I asked the priest to bring
you. He is a good man. He will listen and you will listen. I have
something to tell you. And Paul will listen too. It is for Paul I
speak.” Her breath began to come in gasps.
“Do not distress yourself; wait till tomorrow,” said the missionary.
“No! no! Now! now! You will put it down for the police.” Her eyes
carried her appeal to the missionary’s heart.
“I will put it down,” he said in a quiet voice, “if you will speak
quietly.”
“I will speak quietly and will speak only the truth.” She fumbled at her
bosom, drew forth a crucifix, kissed it, and in a voice calm and devoid
of all trace of emotion told her story.
“It was his fault that my man was killed,” she concluded. “I planned to
kill him. It was right that he should die, but for Paul I changed my
mind. That night it was not in my heart to kill. I went to his house to
get back from him money he had taken from my man, for Paul. Then I would
go away, with my children, back to my people. He tried to do me wrong in
his house. I struck him with my knife. The Chippewayan strikes but once.
Then I was afraid. I put fire to the house, that my trail might not be
found, and, like the storm wind, my pony carried me home. Before we
could go Paul found us and came with us. He would not let us go alone.
It was folly. Now I have brought him back before the light goes out of
my sky. For these long, long years we have been like the wild deer, or
the fox in the forests and mountains.” She paused, exhausted.
“Yes,” said the sergeant, “we could find no trace of you.”
“My father’s people would leave no trail of the daughter of their
chief,” she said proudly. “Now,” she continued, after she had rested a
few minutes, “I bring the son of my man back to his people. He is not
Indian, and he must not join himself to my people. I have kept him
clean. He will be great among his own people. This his father would
wish. I have brought him back. You will take him to his people.” She
turned her eyes upon the sergeant, waiting his answer.
“I will bring him back,” he said. “I give you my word.”
“Good! That is all. My work is done now,” she said with a little sigh.
“I have spoken true words.” Once more she kissed the crucifix.
“Listen,” said the sergeant. “The man you struck did not die. One of our
men pulled him from the burning house. He lives today.”
“Sleeman is alive?” exclaimed Paul.
“Alive?” said the Indian woman. “Wait, Paul. You will let me speak.” She
lay for some moments with eyes closed, then in a voice which shook with
emotion she cried, “Alive? Ah! ah! I _was_ glad he was dead, now I am
glad he is alive. The good Father told me it was not good to go—to
pass—with blood on the hands. The Holy Mother was praying for me! It is
good!” She turned her dark eyes upon Paul. “No, Paul. You remember your
word to your father. That is done.” She put her hand on his arm. “No!
no! That is not the way of your people. For me? Perhaps. For you? No! It
is not your law.” Again her eyes searched his pale set face.
“He would have wronged you, Onawata, my father’s wife. There is only one
thing for me—only one.”
“Paul, I have brought you back to your people. I have kept you clean.
You will be a great man among your people. You will promise me.” She
raised herself on her arm. “I go—perhaps I shall see your father, my
chief. I cannot go without your word. A-a-ah!” her voice rose in a
wailing cry. “To him, to you, I brought only sorrow and shame. Lay on me
no more, Paul. I have suffered much.” She fumbled under the pillow and
drew out and unwrapped a small parcel, carefully wrapped in deer skin.
“Take it, Paul. It is your mother’s good book. You will kiss it and say
you will not kill the man—for her, for her, Paul!” Her voice rose in a
cry, her hands reached trembling toward him.
The boy was terribly shaken with the struggle going on in his soul. He
knew the book well. He took and turned it over in his hands, opened it
at the fly-leaf, read in faded lettering the words written, he well
remembered when, “For my son Paul, from his mother. ‘Blessed are the
pure in heart, for they shall see God.’” The scene flooded his
memory—the Pine Croft living room, his mother’s face with its wondering,
tremulous smile as he told her how up through the tops of the pines,
between the little white clouds he could see God looking down at him. He
remembered how, as she was tucking him in that night, she brought him a
new Bible, with his name in it and her name and the beautiful words
about seeing God, and how she kissed the book and kissed him as she gave
it into his hands. Like a mountain torrent sweeping away a dam, the
surging tide of his emotion swept away his control. He dropped on his
knees by the bed, pressed the words to his lips, sobbing.
“Oh, Mother, Mother! dear, dear Mother! For your sake! Yes, yes! for
your sake!”
The men turned away and moved softly from the hut, leaving the two
alone. The Indian woman lay back, spent and done. She had fulfilled her
trust. She had brought back to his people, clean from lust and from
blood, the son of the man who was to her as God Himself. Next day the
sergeant went north on his quest, carrying a message to the Athabascan
chief from his daughter.
The passing of Onawata was all peace. An hour with the missionary, even
though he was not of her faith, brought her something of the peace that
passeth understanding. There was still her anxiety for the future of her
children, which she had settled in her own way. There only remained the
telling of it to them, and that she deferred till the very last.
They were together in the little hut after a day of quiet rest and
freedom from pain.
“Here, Tanna,” she called in her soft Chippewayan tongue. “Come hither,
little Singing Water, light of my eyes. Come in beside me.” She gathered
the child in her arms and held her close. “Peter, come too.” The boy
came and knelt by her bed, his dark face set as if cast in bronze. He
well knew what was before them all. His mother’s arm went round his
shoulders.
“Little ones, your mother is going away,” she began, her voice coming
softly and evenly, like the flowing of quietly running water, “away to a
good country—ah! a good country!—where the warm sun is always shining,
no frost, no snow, no hunger, no pain, no sickness, no fear, no
fighting, no blood. Oh, it is a good country.” She lay quiet a few
moments, her dark face growing young and beautiful. The little girl’s
fingers crept over her face.
“Oh, Mammy, you are smiling. When will we go? I do not love the cold and
the hunger, and I want no more pain for you, Mammy dear.” The little one
spoke in her father’s tongue. Her mother had seen to that. “And, Mammy,
there will be no more dark. I know! I know!”
The mother drew the little one close to her with a low moaning cry and
again she lay silent, drinking slowly to the dregs that last bitter cup
that all mothers must drink. But having drunk, she set herself to her
last service for them.
“Not today will you come, Singing Water,” she said, her voice flowing
softly again. “I will go and later you will come, and Peter and Paul.
And now you will listen and remember, you and Peter, while the sun
shines and the winds blow you will not forget.”
“Yes, Mammy,” whispered the child.
“You and Peter will go back to my people.”
“No,” said Paul, speaking with sharp decision. “Where I go they will
go.”
“They are not your people, Paul.”
“They are my father’s children.”
An eager light came into the woman’s eyes.
“Paul! Paul!” she cried in English. “You do not know what you say. They
are of my blood. They will be a burden on you. They will spoil your
life. Your father, Paul, did not wish that, I know. Peter will be a
great chief. He will care for Tanna. I have planned this with my father.
They will drag you down as I dragged your father down. I—who would have
given him the blood from my heart! You must not do this.” Her voice was
eager and tremulous with pain. “I will not spoil your life too.”
“They are my father’s children. They are my brother and sister,” said
Paul, in a voice steady and strong. “Do you think I can leave Tanna to
go back to the blanket and the wigwam? Tanna! my little blind sister!”
His voice rang out in indignant scorn. “No, no, Mammy,” he added, using
Tanna’s form of address, rare with him, “say no more. It is settled.
They go with me.”
A look of great wonder dawned in the woman’s eyes—wonder and joy.
Raising herself she held out her hands to him.
“Paul!” she cried, her voice broken with sobs, the tears flowing down
her cheeks. “Your God hears! Now I know, I know! Oh, I feared to lay
this burden on you, but now I know He hears. I was afraid for Tanna, my
Tanna living in the dark. I feared for her. But now——”
Paul took her hands in his, leaned over and, for the first time in his
life, kissed her.
“Have no fear, Mammy,” he said softly. “I will keep her with me
always—always.”
The blood slowly came up into her dark face, touching it with rare
beauty. Passionately she kissed his hands.
“My chief!” she whispered. “You will do this!” She turned to the
children. “Peter! Tannawita!” she said, reverting to her own tongue,
“listen to me now.” Her voice was solemn, almost stern. “Give Paul your
hands, quick!” Wondering, the children put their hands in Paul’s. “You
are going with Paul, your brother. He is your chief, to obey, to love,
to serve with your lives, always.” She plucked the crucifix from her
breast. “The Holy Jesu, the Jesu of the Cross hears your promise.” She
pressed the crucifix to their lips, then to her own, and lay back, pale,
upon the pillow. When she had rested a little she opened her eyes.
“Paul,” she whispered, raising her arms toward him, while into her eyes
came a look of shy, adoring love. “You are a good man. God will always
go with you and them.” She drew him down and kissed him.
“Yes, Mammy, I know,” said Paul, kissing her in return.
In a few moments, exhausted but with a great peace in her heart, the
mother fell asleep, her children beside her and Paul watching by the
fire. An hour later the missionary came in, his wife following.
“She is asleep,” said Paul.
The missionary leaned over her. “Yes, she will rest quiet now,” he said,
gathering up the little girl in his arms. “Take the children with you,
Mother,” he added, giving the sleeping Tanna to his wife. “You go too,
Paul, I will watch now.”
They laid the Indian woman under a clump of spruce trees near to the
lake shore, the little crucifix on her breast, and on her face, made
beautiful with the beauty of youth, a great peace.
Before a month had passed a tall eagle-faced Chippewayan warrior,
splendid in his chief’s dress and decked in the colors for the dead, and
with him six tall Chippewayan braves, came stalking into the Post.
Gravely he greeted Paul.
“Wah-na-ta-hi-ta comes for his dead,” he announced.
“She lies under the spruce trees there,” said Paul. “She gave me much
love for you. She was at peace when she went away.” And then, bringing
him in to the hut, he told him the story of his daughter’s passing. The
old chief listened with face unmoved.
“I would see this man who gave her peace,” he said gravely.
To the missionary the old chief brought rich gifts in furs and curiously
wrought garments, refusing all gifts in return. It was not seemly that
his dead should be in debt for any service done. Then the missionary,
reading the grief and haughty pride in the piercing dark eyes, told him
of his daughter’s last days, of her peace, her hope, and her willingness
to go. And as he told the story the stern lines in the bronze face grew
soft, the piercing eyes grew kind.
“Good man!” he said in English, offering his hand. “Good heart!”
touching the missionary on the breast. “The Great Spirit will remember.”
And in token of his gratitude he and his six men deigned to break bread
at the missionary’s table and to accept gifts at the missionary’s hands.
After two days he made ready to go. Peter and Singing Water he was for
taking with him.
“She gave them to me,” he said in his own speech, which Paul knew as
well as he. “The little one will be in my heart and keep it warm. The
boy will be my son. He will be chief of my people when my camp fire is
cold.”
“No!” said Paul gently, but looking straight into the fierce old eyes.
“They are my father’s children, my brother and my sister. Their mother
put their hands in mine. They will tell you.”
Peter and Tanna were called.
“She gave me to him. I put my hands in his. I kissed the Holy Cross. He
is my chief,” said Peter simply.
“And you, Singing Water?” inquired the chief, his voice soft and tender.
The little blind girl moved quickly to the old chief’s side, passed her
fingers over the hard bronze face.
“I love my mother’s father,” she said gently, “and my mother’s people.
You were all so good, so good to me. But—but——” here the tears ran down
from the beautiful sightless eyes, “my mother gave me to Paul. I—I—oh! I
must go with Paul.”
The chief stood staring toward the spruce trees, his face fixed in every
line.
“It is good,” he said. “I shall go back to my people with my dead—alone!
My heart is cold. Soon the light in my eyes will become night and in my
ears will be no song of the Singing Water.” Then, with a sudden and
stern solemnity, he turned to Paul. “They have given their hands to you.
You are their chief. The chief hunts, fights, lives, dies for his
people. Will you?” He thrust his eagle face into Paul’s, his fierce old
eyes piercing to the young man’s very soul.
Not for an instant did Paul flinch or falter, but, giving glance for
glance, and yet with a grave and gentle courtesy, made answer, “I have
promised.”
For some moments the eyes of each held the other’s, then sweeping in one
all-embracing gesture earth and sky, the old chief intoned as in a
solemn ritual, “The sun, the sky, the earth, these have heard. These
will remember. The eyes of the Great Spirit are never shut. They will
follow the trail through the forests, over the mountains and down the
valleys, while the winds blow and the rivers run.”
For a moment he held Paul’s hand in his, then gave both hands to the boy
Peter, kissing him on both cheeks. For a long time he stood, obviously
striving to get hold of himself, then, in a voice that in spite of his
iron control faltered and broke, he said, “Come, Singing Water.”
With a cry the child sprang toward him. Lifting her in his arms he
kissed her eyes, her forehead, her lips, while she clung sobbing. Then
giving her to Paul he turned away. With stately grace he waved farewell
to the group at the missionary’s door, and, followed by his six tall
Chippewayans, he set his face toward his own North land, with never a
look behind, taking his dead with him.