"We Must be Friends!"
When her father decided not to go to Akimiski, Mary spent a long
morning in roaming about Seal Cove, visiting the various little
houses dotted near the fish shed, and making herself thoroughly
acquainted with the neighbourhood. But when her father got into
Stee Jenkin's boat, and was rowed across the river to survey the
land on the farther side, Mary had herself rowed up the river, with
the intention of spending the afternoon in arranging the little
brown house to suit her own fancy. The afternoon proved so warm
that she decided on leaving the arranging to the next day, and sat
down to write letters instead. Even this proved a task beyond her
powers, for she was more exhausted than she realized by the long
journey over river and trail, and the hot day was making the
fatigue felt.
One letter, short and scrappy, got itself written, and then
weariness had its way. Mary went into her little bedroom, and,
lying down, went fast asleep. It was three hours later when she
awoke, and, feeling fearfully ashamed of her laziness, she went out
to the little kitchen to light a fire for getting a cup of tea
ready for her father.
No matter how well-to-do in money and gear people may be, if they
leave the beaten tracks of civilization and immure themselves in
the wilderness they will have to learn to help themselves or else
suffer hardship. So Mary Selincourt, whose father's yearly income
was a good way advanced in a four-figured total, found herself
compelled to the necessity of lighting her own fire, or going
without the tea. There was plenty of kindling wood close to her
hand, so the task presented no especial difficulty, but she laughed
softly to herself as she watched the leaping flames, and thought
how astonished some of her aristocratic friends would be if they
could see her doing domestic work amid such humble surroundings.
When the kettle began to sing she went into the little sitting-room
to set the table for tea, and was enjoying the work as if it were
play and she a child again, when a sound of voices and footsteps
brought her in haste to the open door. Two of the boatmen were
coming up the path from the river leading a mud-coated figure whom
at first Mary did not recognise. But a second glance showed her
that it was really her father. With a cry of alarm she met him at
the door, full of concern for his uncomfortable plight, yet not for
a moment realizing how terrible his danger had been.
"Dear Father, where have you been?" she cried.
"Within a hand-grip of death," he answered, with a quaver of
breakdown in his voice, for it had shaken him fearfully, that long,
slow torture of being sucked into the green ooze of the muskeg.
"Don't talk about it!" she said hastily. "I will put your clean
things ready. There is happily a kettle on the boil; the men will
help you to bath, and when you are in bed I will bring you tea."
"Yes," he answered languidly, while she flew to get things ready,
and called one of the men to assist her in putting water into the
big tin pan which was the only bath the house afforded.
She was going to put the pan in the bedroom, when the man who was
helping stopped her with a suggestion. "You had better leave the
pan here in front of the fire, Miss; the poor gentleman is so
exhausted, you see, and the fire will be a comfort to him."
"I had not thought of that, but I am quite sure you are right," she
said; then got the water to a comfortable temperature, and left the
men to do their best.
They were prompt and speedy. In half an hour Mr. Selincourt was
lying in bed, spent and faint it is true, but as clean as soap and
water could make him. Mary hovered about him with a world of
tenderness in face and manner, but she would not let him talk,
would not even let him tell her how or where he had come so near to
finding his death on that sunny June afternoon. It was not until
he was asleep that she ventured to go back to the kitchen. The men
had removed all traces of their work by cleaning the splashed
floor, and were busy now in the open space behind the house washing
the mud-caked clothes which they had stripped from Mr. Selincourt,
for those men who go on portage work must have at least an
elementary knowledge of washing, or be content to go without clean
shirts most of their time.
Mary beckoned for one of them to come to her.
"What happened to my father?" she asked. "I would not let him tell
me, he is too thoroughly upset."
"We don't know, Miss," replied the man who had made the timely
suggestion about the bath. "We were down on the bank, getting the
boat ready that is to start for the south to-morrow, when a boat
rowed by a girl came up the river. She was dripping with
perspiration, and looked as if she had been rowing for a wager.
Mr. Selincourt was sitting in the stern, and there was a small boy
covered with mud too. The girl bade us take Mr. Selincourt and get
him to bed, and said that she would send down river for Mr.
Ferrars."
"How truly good of her!" cried Mary, with a mist of tears coming
into her eyes. "It must have been Miss Radford from the store over
the river. I was going to ask one of you to go to Seal Cove for
Mr. Ferrars, but if he has been already sent for he may soon be
here. So will you please go over to the store instead, give my
love to Miss Radford, and ask her to tell you what was wrong?"
The man dried his soapy hands by the simple process of rubbing them
on his trousers, and started on his errand, while Mary entered the
house again and peeped in at the open door of her father's room, to
make sure that he was still sleeping.
There was a good fire in the kitchen, and the kettle was boiling
again. Mary had not had her cup of tea yet, although she had made
one for her father. But she had forgotten all about that
--forgotten, indeed, that she had taken no food, except two
hard biscuits, since her early breakfast. It seemed such a long
time before the man came back. His comrade was still busy out at
the rear of the house, rubbing, pounding, and punching at the
mud-stained clothes to get them clean, and as he worked he whistled
softly over and over again two or three bars of "The Maple Leaf for
Ever". For years afterwards Mary never heard the song without
recalling that afternoon, with its keen anxiety, the glorious
sunshine, and the steamy, soapy atmosphere of the little kitchen.
From front door to back door she paced, always treading softly
through fear of disturbing the sleeper in the room beyond; then
paced from back door to front door again, and paused to wait for
the messenger whose coming was so delayed. Presently she heard the
sound of oars, then a boat grounded, and a moment later the man
came up the path, carefully carrying something in a basket which he
presented to Mary.
"It is a bottle of ginger posset which Mrs. Burton has sent over
for Mr. Selincourt. She says you must give him a teacupful as soon
as he wakes, and you ought to make him swallow it even if he
objects, as there is quinine in it, which may ward off swamp
fever," the man said, with the air of one repeating a lesson.
"Mrs. Burton is very kind," said Mary, as she took basket and
bottle. "But did you see Miss Radford, and why should there be
danger of swamp fever for my father?"
"Miss Radford had got a party of Indians in the store that were
taking all her time to manage," replied the man. "Indeed, I had to
chip in and help her a bit myself, for while she showed one lot
scarlet flannel and coloured calicoes, the other lot were trying to
help themselves to beans, tobacco, and that sort of thing. But by
the time I had punched the heads of three men, and slapped two
squaws in the face, they seemed to sort of understand that good
manners paid best, and acted according; then matters began to move
quicker."
Mary clasped her hands in an agony of impatience. Would the man
ever tell her, or would she be compelled to shake the information
out of him?
"Did Miss Radford tell you what had happened?" she asked, with an
emphatic stamp of her foot on the floor.
"Yes, Miss. Mr. Selincourt, not knowing, ventured out on a muskeg,
and was being slowly sucked in, when she and her brother came along
the back creek in their boat. It was a touch-and-go business then,
for she had no planks or hurdles, though luckily she had ropes; but
by sending her little brother, who weighs next to nothing at all,
to slip a noose of rope under Mr. Selincourt's shoulders, she was
able to haul on the rope, and so drag him out by sheer force of
arm. She sent her love to you, and hopes he will soon be better,"
the man said, with a little flourish of his hands. In point of
fact Katherine had done nothing of the kind, but it sounded better
so, he thought, and gave a consolatory touch to the whole.
Mary turned abruptly away. Her father's misadventure was so much
worse than she had expected that the horror of it broke down her
self-control completely; the solid ground seemed to crumble under
her feet, and if she had not sunk into the nearest chair she must
have fallen. Sitting crouched in a corner, with her hands pressed
tightly against her face, striving for the mastery over those
unruly emotions of hers, she failed to hear sounds of another
arrival, and did not even look up when Jervis Ferrars entered,
without any ceremony of knocking.
A moment he stood in silence before her, not liking to disturb her,
nor even to be a witness of her breakdown, for he knew how proud
she was, and the humiliation it would be to her to be watched under
such conditions. Then, seeing the door of the bedroom half-open,
he passed silently and softly into the room, closing the door
behind him, and Mary was alone again. It might have been ten
minutes later before he reappeared, and then the anxious look had
left his face; he still looked concerned, but that was chiefly on
Mary's account.
"Miss Selincourt, I am fearfully disappointed in you," he announced
gravely, and Mary's head came up with a jerk.
"I--I did not know that you had come," she faltered.
"All the more reason why you should have been brave and courageous,
until there was someone on whom to shift the responsibility," he
said quietly.
Mary reddened, and her tears disappeared as if by magic. "Is it
possible that you do not know the terrible danger my father has
been in?" she asked frigidly.
"Yes, I know. But in a wild country like this one must always be
expected to face a certain amount of risk; and it is never worth
while to weep over the might-have-beens, or how could one be happy
at all?" he said lightly.
"I know it was foolish, but the horror of it broke me down; and
then I was wondering whatever I should do if Father were to be ill,
so far away from doctors, nurses, and comforts of any sort," she
replied, with a shiver.
"I don't think he will be ill. He is sleeping as peacefully as an
infant, his pulse is steady, and his heart quiet. He may be a
little languid when he wakes, in which case we will keep him in bed
for a day or two. Remember, I am three parts a doctor, and you can
be wholly a nurse."
"I have had no experience," she faltered.
"That is only gained by practice," he answered. Then, looking at
the partly-set meal on the table, he asked: "What have you had to
eat to-day?"
"Not much," she answered in a dreary tone. "There were cold fish
and coffee for breakfast. I had two biscuits for luncheon, but
that was all."
"You are within seeing distance of starving, I should say, and that
is why your courage has turned to water," he said; and, going out
to the kitchen, he roused the fire again, refilled the kettle,
which had boiled itself dry, and when it boiled again made her a
good cup of tea, at the same time insisting on her making a solid
meal.
"Oh, I feel pounds better now!" she exclaimed, when he came back
from another visit to Mr. Selincourt, who still lay peacefully
sleeping.
"Let it be a warning to you in future not to neglect yourself at
critical moments," he replied; then asked: "What would you like me
to do for you? Shall I stay with Mr. Selincourt to-night? I do
not think he needs watching in the least, but if this will be a
comfort to you, I will remain with pleasure."
"It is very kind of you, and I accept thankfully," she said, with
such bounding relief at her heart that the whole of her outlook
changed at once. It was the responsibility she dreaded so much,
and when that was lifted from her shoulders she could be happy
again. "Can you remain now, or must you go back to Seal Cove
first?" she asked.
"I will stay now if you like, only I must trouble you to let me
send one of your boatmen down to Seal Cove, with a letter of
instruction for any of the boats which may arrive in with a cargo
before I can be there to have the shed opened," he said.
"One of the men shall go, certainly. But while you are writing
your letter may I take the boat and go over to the store to say
'Thank you' to Miss Radford and her brother for their goodness to
my father? I would not have left him if you had not been here, but
now I can go easily enough, and I do want them to know how really
grateful I am."
"Go, by all means. I will take care of Mr. Selincourt and write my
letter at the same time," Jervis answered, taking a fountain pen
and a notebook from his pocket, and beginning to write forthwith.
Mary walked out of the house and down to the river just as she was,
for the sun had gone down sufficiently to render a hat unnecessary.
The two men were busy with their boat still, but one of them left
his work and put Mary across the river in one of the other boats
which lay drawn up on the bank.
The Indians, who had been crowding the store half an hour before,
were encamped on the bank now, a little lower down, and were busy
cooking fish for their supper. There were no other customers
visible either inside the store or out. Now that the fishing was
in full swing the fishermen had little time for lounging about the
store; so, although the work of delivering goods was greater, there
were compensating circumstances in not having the store always
crowded up with men and lads, who had come more for the sake of
talking than buying.
Mary walked up the steep bank and across the open space to the
store door with a sense of the strangest unreality all about her.
It was herself who walked and moved, yet all the time she seemed to
stand aside and let another self think and feel and act. A
composite odour of groceries, bacon, tobacco, and cheap clothes met
her as she entered the rough, homely shed, which was a typical
emporium of the backwoods; but she had no time to analyse the
odours, being at once attracted by Katherine, who stood at a tall
desk by the window, entering items in a ledger. At the same time
Katherine glanced up and saw the visitor entering the door. She
flushed at the sight, and became suddenly nervous, acutely
conscious, too, of her poor, shabby clothes, old-fashioned and ill
cut, as contrasted with the picturesque house gown in which Mary
was garbed, a soft grey woollen, which, though simple enough to
have been worn upon any occasion, yet suggested London or Paris in
every line.
"You are Miss Radford, I think," said Mary in that quiet, cultured
voice which somehow matched, or at least harmonized, with her gown,
"and I have come to say 'Thank you' for your goodness to my dear
father."
"Oh, but really it was not I who saved him, but Phil! I should
have been too heavy to walk three steps across that muskeg without
sticking fast," Katherine answered, with a low, nervous laugh.
But Mary was not to be put off in this fashion, and she went on,
her voice fluttering a little because of the emotion she was
keeping down with a resolute hand: "I know it was your brother who
went out on the swamp and put the rope round my father, but I also
know that it was really you who planned the rescue and pulled my
father out. I cannot speak of it all as I would wish, and words
are too faint and poor to express all I feel; but from my heart I
am grateful, and all my life I shall be in your debt."
A sob came up in Katherine's throat, and her heart fluttered
wildly, for she was thinking of that dark secret from the past
which her father had told her about, and she was wondering if the
work of to-day would in any sense help to wipe off that old score
of wrongdoing which stood to her father's account.
"It is only one's duty to help those who are in difficulties," she
said, when she could manage her voice, and still that curious
fluttering in her throat. "I hope Mr. Selincourt is not much the
worse for his accident. I was afraid that he was terribly shaken.
He must have suffered such fearful agony of mind during the time he
was being sucked down."
"He is sleeping now, peacefully as an infant. Mr. Ferrars, who is
with him, says that his pulse is steady and his heart quiet, so it
really looks as if the after effects may not be very bad," Mary
answered. Then she said impulsively: "I was on the hill last night
when you were waiting for the dogs to help you to make the portage.
My heart went out to you then, and I wondered should we ever be
friends; but to-day has settled that question so far as I am
concerned, and now we must be friends."
Katherine crimsoned right up to the roots of her hair. A year ago
how happy such words would have made her! And how glad she would
have been of the friendship of Mary Selincourt! But now all the
pleasure in such intercourse was checked and clouded, because she
was perforce obliged to sail under false colours.
The rosy flush faded from cheeks, neck, and brow, and her face was
white and weary as she answered coldly: "It is very kind of you to
talk of friendship, but I fancy there is too much difference in our
lives to admit of much intercourse. I have to work very hard just
now, and I have little or no leisure."
Mary winced as if Katherine had struck her a blow. She was not
used to having her offers of friendship flouted in this fashion;
but she was too much indebted to this girl in the shabby frock to
even dream of resenting the treatment of which poor Katherine was
already secretly ashamed.
"I know that you have to work very hard," Mary said gently. "But
if you knew how much I honour you for your unselfish courage, I
think you would not refuse to let me see as much of you as your
work will allow."
Katherine had to come down from her poor little pedestal then, but
she made her descent gracefully enough. "If you care to see me at
my work, we may even find time for friendship," she said, smiling
bravely, although her face was still very pale; "but work and I are
such close comrades that only Sunday finds us apart."
"Then I will have you and your work all the week, and you without
your work on Sundays," laughed Mary, afterwards saying good night
and going back across the river to her father again.