THE TRAPPER'S CONFESSION
Old Captain Wigmore returned to his lonely but well-furnished and
well-painted house, ate a reflective breakfast, smoked a cigar, and then
set out to find Jim Harley. Wigmore lived with a servant or companion--a
very old, grizzled, silent fellow, who did not seem to be "all there."
It was from this old chap, Timothy Fletcher by name, that the people of
the settlement had learned to give Wigmore the title of captain. As to
what kind of a captain he had been, opinions differed.
Wigmore found Harley in the farm-yard helping a teamster get away with a
wagonload of pork, flour, and oats for his lumber camp on Harley Brook,
five miles away. As soon as man and load were gone, the captain
addressed the lumber operator.
"James," said he, slowly and with dignity, "I feel that you owe me an
explanation of your strange behavior of last night."
Harley sighed. "I can't explain it to you, captain," he said. "It has to
do with--with a purely family matter; but I beg your pardon for anything
amiss that I may have said to you in my excitement."
"Granted, James! Granted!" returned Wigmore, with a fine gesture of the
left hand. "But I am sorry, of course, that you--but it does not matter;
I am old, more or less of a stranger, and of no importance. You
explained your agitation to young Marsh, I understand?"
"Yes, I felt that I owed it to him."
"Very good, James. Of course I am anxious, and fairly itching with
curiosity--but my curiosity does not matter in the least. It struck me
as a most remarkable thing, though."
"I was foolish," said the other; "but should it happen that--that it
turns out to be serious--to really mean anything--may I confide in you,
captain? May I ask your advice?"
"Please do so, my dear boy," replied Wigmore cordially. "I shall be only
too happy to do anything for you--or for any member of your family. But
now I'll not keep you from your work any longer, James. If I may, I'll
just step over to the house and pay my respects to the ladies. I have a
new book in my pocket that they may be interested in."
"They'll be glad to see you, captain," said Jim sincerely. "They always
are."
So the captain went to the house and Mrs. Harley and Nell were glad to
see him, in spite of the fact that it was rather a busy time of day for
them to receive a caller. But the captain could be very entertaining
when he took the trouble to try--and he always took the required amount
of trouble when he met the Harley women. Now he produced the new book
from his pocket, and laid it on the table. It was a volume of literary
essays; and Nell took it up eagerly. The captain talked a little of
books, lightly and gracefully, and a little of travel and big cities. He
had a pretty wit. Except for the gray in his beard and mustache and
neatly brushed, thick hair, he did not look to be more than middle-aged
while he talked. Though he always walked with a slight limp, now he
stood very straight. His bright, dark eyes turned to Nell when she
looked away from him. He remained for about twenty minutes, and then
went away, leaving a very pleasant impression in the minds of both young
women.
"What a catch he would be if he wasn't so old!" said Jim's wife,
laughing.
Nell shook her head seriously. "He is very entertaining," she replied,
"and has read a great deal and seen a great deal; but there is something
about his eyes that--well, that is not attractive."
"Most eccentric people have eyes like that," returned Mrs. Harley--who,
by the way, was not a native of the settlement--"and I do not think them
unattractive. Now there is poor Dick Goodine. His eyes are like that,
too--so bright and quick."
"But Dick's are honest--and Captain Wigmore's look sly."
"Oh! You _like_ Dick's eyes, Nell? Well, I think you might find eyes to
admire belonging to some one more worth while than Dick Goodine."
"Don't be silly, Kate, _please_!" cried Nell. "I am no more interested
in the eyes of the young men of this place than you are."
"What about David Marsh?"
"Poor David. He is not amusing; and, though he looks so simple, I must
say that I cannot understand him."
Jim Harley went to see Rayton, and found him bringing his horses in from
the fields just at the fall of the dusk. The Englishman had been doing
a last bit of fall plowing before the frost gripped the land in earnest.
He was muddy, but cheerful; and as hospitable as ever. Harley stayed to
supper--a very good supper of his host's own cooking. Then they lit
their pipes and went into the sitting room, where a fine fire was
crackling in the open stove. Harley told Rayton the same story that he
had told, the night before, to young Marsh.
"Good heavens! That is very tragic!" exclaimed the Englishman. "But I
must say that I think last night's incident was nothing but chance. The
card had become marked in some way, quite by accident--and there you
are."
They talked for an hour or two, and Rayton would not give way an inch in
his argument, that the affair of the previous night had been nothing but
blind chance. He was much more impressed by the other's story of the
past, and felt a new interest in Jim Harley.
"I wish I could look at it as you do," said Jim, as he was leaving for
home. "But it seems to be more than chance to me--it looks like that
same damnable hate that killed my father."
"But why should it descend upon young Marsh? Surely he is not--that is,
Miss Harley does not----"
"I don't know," replied Jim. "I don't think so--but I don't know. The
thing worries me, anyhow--worries me like the devil! I'll keep my eyes
open, you may bet on that; and I'd consider it mighty friendly of you to
do the same."
"I'll do it, then, Jim, though I must say I'm not much of a hand at
solving mysteries or catching sinners. But I'll keep my peepers open,
you may gamble on that."
Reginald Baynes Rayton returned to his warm chair by the fire, and fixed
his mind, with an effort, on the solving of the mystery. He liked Jim
Harley, so he'd get to the bottom of that card trick if it burst his
brain. Suddenly he slapped his hand on his knee.
"I have it!" he cried. "By George, I have it! It's that blithering
bounder, Nash. He's always up to some rotten joke or other; and he's
heard that story about the mother and grandmother somewhere, and so
marked that card to take a rise out of Jim. He hasn't enough sense to
know if a thing is sacred or not. He's one of those dashed fools who
enjoy jumping in where angels fear to tread. That's it. By George, it
didn't take me long to work out that puzzle! But I'll just keep it to
myself for a while--to make sure, you know."
So he put the incident of the previous night out of his mind, and
thought of Harley's story, and of Harley's sister, instead. He knew
Nell, of course, but had not talked with her more than half a dozen
times. He admired her greatly; and now, since hearing this story of her
parents and her grandmother, he felt an extraordinary stirring of
tenderness toward her. He sighed, lit another pipe, and went up to bed.
He wanted to be up in the morning at even an earlier hour than usual,
for he had planned a long day in the woods. He had arranged with a lad
on the next farm to tend the stock for him during the day.
Rayton gave the animals their morning feed and breakfasted himself by
lantern light. Then, with the pockets of his shooting coat stored with
sandwiches and a flask of whisky and water, and with his grown spaniel,
Turk, wriggling about his feet, he set out for the big timber that
crowded right up to his back pastures from the hundreds of square miles
of wilderness beyond. A heavy frost had gripped the earth during the
night. The buckwheat stubble was crisp with it.
Dawn was spreading over the southeastern sky as he came to the edge of
the forest. He halted there, called Turk to heel, and filled and
started his pipe. His equipment was remarkable, and it would bother
some people to say what game he intended to go after with a dog and a
rifle. But Rayton knew what he was about. He wanted to bag a few brace
of ruffled grouse; but he did not want to miss any good chance that
might offer at moose, caribou, or deer. And he could not carry both
shot-gun and rifle. The dog was well trained and could be depended upon
not to trail, rush, or startle any big game. So it was Rayton's method
to let Turk flush the birds from the ground into the trees, from which
he would then shoot them with the rifle. He always fired at the head. Of
course, he missed the mark frequently, in which case the bird flew away
uninjured, as it is almost impossible to catch sight of a flying bird in
the high and thick covers of that country, this was a good and
sportsmanlike plan; and then he always had his rifle with him in case he
came across something bigger than grouse.
Rayton carried a compass, and was not above consulting it now and again.
Men have been lost in less formidable wildernesses than that--and have
never been found. By noon he had five grouse attached to his belt--each
minus its head--and had failed to get a clean shot at a bull moose. He
had crossed two small streams, and was now close to the Teakettle. He
sat down on a fallen hemlock, and brought a bone for Turk, and half the
sandwiches from his pocket. Suddenly the spaniel jumped to his feet with
a low, inquiring yap. Rayton turned and beheld Dick Goodine.
"Hello, Goodine, you're just in time," he cried cheerfully.
At that, Turk lay down again and gnawed at the bone.
"Good day, Mr. Rayton," replied the trapper.
He carried a rifle under his arm, and an axe and small pack on his
shoulder. He advanced, laid his axe and pack on the ground, and shook
hands with the Englishman. He was a handsome man, younger than the
farmer by a year or two, perhaps, and not so tall by a couple of inches.
His eyes were large and dark, and just now had a somewhat sullen light
in their depths. His face was swarthy and clean-shaven. He leaned his
rifle against an upheaved root, and sat down on the log beside Rayton.
"Any luck?" he asked.
"No," replied the Englishman, "How about you?"
"I've shot my three head already. I'm just cruisin' now, keepin' an eye
open for b'ar and fixin' up a few dead falls. Plenty of signs of fur
this year."
"Glad to hear it; but you don't look as gay as usual for all that. But
help yourself, Dick. Help yourself, and here's the flask."
Goodine removed his wide felt hat, smiling reflectively. "Thank'e," he
said, and took up a sandwich. Half of it was gone--and he ate
slowly--before he spoke again. "Well, I don't feel gay," he said.
"What's the trouble?"
"Oh, I have my troubles--like most of us, I guess. But just for the
moment it's Davy Marsh is kinder stickin' in my crop."
The other started, almost upsetting the flask which stood on the log
beside him.
"What's the matter with Davy?" he asked.
"I saw him this mornin', yonder at his camp on the Teakettle," replied
the trapper. "We had an argyment about guidin', a month or two ago--only
a word or two--an' he holds it against me. He was loadin' his canoe, for
Dan's River, when I sighted him. I sung out to him, friendly as you
please--and he didn't much more than answer me. Well, I've always put up
with Davy, because he can't help his manners, I guess, so I kep' right
along and helped him trim his canoe and get away downstream. But he was
sulky as a b'ar with a bee in his ear all the time, and kep' lookin' at
me as if I was dangerous. He was darn uncivil--an' that's a thing I
can't stand. I've bin sorter chewin' on it, ever since."
"Cheer up, Dick," returned Rayton, and laughed heartily. "You mustn't
let Davy Marsh's bad manners hump you. Take a drink and forget it." He
offered the flask.
Goodine shook his head. "I guess not, thank'e all the same," he said. "I
know your liquor is good. I've drunk it before, and there's no man in
the country I'd sooner take a _smile_ with than you, Mr. Rayton; but I'm
leavin' the stuff alone, now."
"Right you are, Dick," replied the other, returning the flask to his
pocket without quenching his own thirst.
"You see," said the trapper, "it makes a beast of me. If I got a taste
of it, now, I'd go out to the settlement and get some more, and keep at
it till I was a regular beast. So I reckon I'll cut it out." He looked
keenly at the Englishman. "Last time I was cornered," he continued,
"_she_ saw me!"
"Ah!" exclaimed Rayton. "Who saw you?"
"Nell Harley--the whitest woman on top the earth! _She_ saw me when I
was more like a hog than a man. I was shamed. I'm sick with the shame of
it this very minute."
Rayton looked embarrassed.
"Oh! I'm a fool to be talkin'," continued the other bitterly; "but I
can't keep wrestlin' with myself all the time. She's treated me
right--but I know she don't care a damn for me. And why should she? Oh!
I ain't _quite_ a fool! But I want her to think well of me--I want to
show her that I'm as decent as most men 'round these parts, and decenter
than some. Yes, I want her to see that--and I _can_ be decent, if I try.
I'm poor--but that's no disgrace in this country, thank God! My old man
was a drunkard; but my mother is a good woman, and honest. She is
French, from up Quebec way. I reckon some folks 'round here think that's
something for me to be ashamed of."
"Think _what_ is something to be ashamed of?"
"Bein' half French."
"The devil!" exclaimed Rayton indignantly. "Then they show their
ignorance, Dick. French blood is glorious blood. I'm pure English
myself, but I say that and stick to it. What was your mother's name?"
"Julie Lemoyne was her maiden name."
"That was a great name in Quebec, in the old days," replied Rayton
enthusiastically; "and it may still be, for all I know. There have been
great soldiers by that name, and some famous scholars, too." He clipped
a hand on the trapper's knee. "So cheer up!" he cried. "Very likely you
are descended from soldiers and scholars. Take it for granted, anyway,
and act accordingly--and you'll be the equal of anybody in this
province. Never mind Davy's bad manners, but take them for a warning.
And if--if you care for some one you consider to be too good for you,
just show her, by your actions--and by your life--that it is an honor to
enjoy your regard and friendship."
Dick Goodine looked at the speaker with glowing eyes. "You've done me
good!" he cried. "I feel more like a man, already. You're a wonder, Mr.
Rayton--a livin' wonder. Shake on it! I'm your friend, by damn! from now
till hell freezes over."
"Thanks. And I'm your friend," said Rayton, shaking the proffered hand
vigorously. "And I hope you'll forgive me for preaching," he added.
"Forgive you? I'll bless you for it, more likely," returned Dick.
They were about to part--for the trapper meant to spend the night in the
woods and the farmer wanted to get home before dark--when Goodine turned
again, a daring and attractive figure with axe and pack on his right
shoulder and the rifle in his left hand. "But don't think that I'm even
expectin' to be good enough for her," he said. "I'll try to be decent,
God knows!--but I'll still be just a poor, ignorant bushwhacker. You are
more the kind she ought to marry."
"Me! What are you thinking of, Dick?" cried Rayton.
"That's all right," replied the trapper, and vanished in the underbrush.
Rayton tramped and scrambled along with his mind so busy with thoughts
of Dick Goodine, of Nell Harley, and of David Marsh that, when he
arrived at his own pasture fence shortly after sunset, he discovered
that he had not added so much as one bird to his bag.
"The devil!" he exclaimed. "That comes of woolgathering. But never mind,
Turk, we'll do better to-morrow."
When he reached the house he found Doctor Nash's buggy in front of the
door, and the doctor inside.
"I thought I'd drop in and have a talk over that queer business of a
couple of nights ago," said Nash.
This dealt a blow to Rayton's suspicion. "Drive 'round and we'll put the
nag under cover, and give her a feed," he said.