Matter for Heartache
Three days had passed away, and life had dropped into its
accustomed monotony again. Mrs. Burton said there never was
anything to vary the sameness of existence at Roaring Water Portage
unless someone was in danger of his or her life, and really events
had a way of proving her to be right. When Katherine had rushed
off in such a hurry that day, to help Mary Selincourt out of her
fix, Mrs. Burton had left her sewing, and, taking her sister's work
in hand, had finished cleaning the shelves, then restored to them
the various canisters and boxes according to her own ideas of
neatness, instead of with any remembrance as to how they had been
arranged previously.
On reaching home that afternoon, wet, cold, weary, and with chill
foreboding in her heart, Katherine's first sensation was one of
lively gratitude to Nellie for having dispersed the confusion she
had left behind when she departed so hurriedly. But when a
customer came in a little later for a quarter of a pound of
mustard, and it took half an hour of hard searching to find it,
Katherine began to wonder whether after all it would not have been
easier to have been left to deal singlehanded with the confusion on
the floor, for at least she had known where to find things.
Then someone wanted corn-flour, which entailed a still longer
search; but the culminating point came when Mrs. M'Kree sent down
in hot haste for carbonate of soda and dried mint, to make some
remedy for an unexpected attack of dyspepsia. It took exactly one
hour and ten minutes by the clock to find the carbonate of soda,
followed by ten minutes' active search for the mint. After this
experience Katherine decided that tidiness might be too dearly
bought, and set to work to re-arrange matters after a more
practical pattern.
But all this took time, and, with her other work added on,
effectually prevented her having time for moping, which was of
course a very good thing. She had not seen Jervis since the slow
walk from the rocks to Seal Cove; but she knew that he had spent
the next day in bed with a bad chill and some fever. Mary was at
Seal Cove for two days, but had been brought up river on the
previous evening, and was now being looked after by Mrs. Burton,
who was never quite so happy as when she had some invalid to care
for.
Miles and Phil had gone over to Fort Garry that morning. Katherine
ought to have gone, but in view of the confusion which still
existed on the shelves it hardly seemed safe to leave Miles in
charge, because he had a habit, when he could not find the right
thing, of supplying something else which looked almost like it. So
when Katherine found him tying up an ounce of caustic soda, in
place of the tartaric acid which had been ordered, it seemed high
time to interfere, and she had sent him off with Phil to do her
work, while she remained at home sorting out the contents of the
shelves.
Mrs. Burton had been over the river to look after Mary, and had
come back again, leaving Hero as a sort of deputy nurse and
caretaker, in addition to the portage man who was on duty that day.
Mr. Selincourt had been down to Seal Cove, and had returned; then
Katherine, at work on her knees in the far corner of the store,
heard someone enter, and, coming out of her corner, found that one
of the portage men had brought her a note from Mary. It ran:--
"Dear Katherine,
Can you come over and spend an hour with
me this evening when the store is closed? I feel that
I want to see you more than anyone else in the world.
Please come.
MARY."
"Miss Selincourt said that a message would do for answer," said the
man who had brought the note.
Katherine hesitated about what that answer should be. In her heart
of hearts she knew very well that she did not want to go away that
evening. Jervis had not been up the river for three days, so he
would be almost sure to come that evening, and she wanted to be at
home when he came, to see for herself that he was none the worse
for the long immersion in the water, and the painful barefooted
walk to Seal Cove.
But the hesitancy did not last long, and, setting her face in
sterner lines than usual, Katherine told the man that she would
certainly pay Miss Selincourt a visit that evening when her work
was done.
If the work dragged a little after that, and the day lost something
of the zest which had marked it before, no one guessed it but
herself. She was bright and cheerful, teasing Miles, when he came
home, about some fancied indignity which he had received at the
hands of the Indians, and rallying Mrs. Burton on the awful
confusion wrought by her reforms in the store.
Not even to herself would Katherine admit how much she dreaded the
simple friendly visit she had promised to pay that evening. She
was afraid that she would see some look or sign of what she feared
most to know. Mary Selincourt was a reserved, self-controlled
girl, but it is her sort of nature which sometimes betrays itself
most completely in moments of emotional strain, and Katherine at
this time was very much like an ostrich, being disposed to believe
that the thing she could not see did not exist.
'Duke Radford spent most of his days sitting in the sunshine. He
talked cheerfully, withal a trifle incoherently, to all of his
friends and neighbours who came to gossip with him; but he was
always at his best when Mr. Selincourt or Jervis Ferrars was there
to talk to him, for they spoke of things right away from the
ordinary course of daily life, and his mind was clearest about the
matters which in other days had concerned him least. But neither
Mr. Selincourt nor Jervis Ferrars had been near for three days, and
the invalid plainly moped, missing the companionship that cheered
him most.
"I am so glad you are going over to sit with Mary to-night, because
that will probably mean that Mr. Selincourt will come here, and he
will be sure to cheer Father up," Mrs. Burton said, when Katherine
came in for a hurried cup of tea before finishing her work in the
store.
"He does look tired and sad to-day," Katherine answered wistfully.
She could bear her father's condition better when he was cheerful
and at ease, but when, as to-day, life seemed a burden to him, then
her heart ached at the sight of his suffering.
The last half-hour in the store that evening was harder than the
whole of the day which had gone before. The heat was intense, the
flies swarmed black in every direction, and, failing other food,
appeared anxious to make a meal from Katherine's face; while the
customers who thronged the store in unusual numbers seemed all to
require the articles most awkward and uncomfortable to serve.
There was a run on pickled pork, on brawn canned in Cincinnati, on
soap, molasses, and lard; while at least four customers demanded
rock brimstone, flour of sulphur, or some other variety of that
valuable but homely remedy common to every back-country store.
They were all disposed of at last, however, and then, bidding Miles
shut the door quickly before anyone else came, Katherine went away
to change her dress and get ready for her visit to Mary. Her best
frock went on to-night. She had so few frocks, and these few had
to be chosen with so much regard to utility, that there was a
uniformity about them which might well pall upon a girl who loved
pretty things. The best frock was a severely plain garment of
dark-blue woollen stuff, but it was relieved by a shirt of soft
white muslin, and, because a pretty girl always looks charming in a
plain frock, Katherine in her dark blue was simply bewitching.
Phil rowed her over the river, bragging all the way of the manner
in which he was beginning to handle the oars. And then, at
Katherine's suggestion, he waited to see if Mr. Selincourt would go
over and visit the store for an hour or so.
Katherine found Mary lying on a couch under the open window,
looking pale and worn, with a very tired expression. Mr.
Selincourt was reading to her, but when Katherine suggested the
waiting boat, and 'Duke Radford's loneliness, she at once declared
her father ought to go over and pay the invalid a visit.
"You have been shut up with a fractious convalescent nearly the
whole day, dear Daddy, and I am sure it will be a pleasant change
to go and chat with Mr. Radford, who is always serene," she said
urgently; and so, more to please her than himself, her father said
he would go.
"Come down and see me into the boat, Miss Katherine; it won't hurt
Mary to be alone, and I want to say thank you for coming to the
rescue so promptly the other day," he said.
"I don't want to be thanked, but I will show you the way to the
boat with pleasure, if you are afraid of getting lost _en route_,"
Katherine said with a laugh, but falling into his mood, because she
saw he wished to say something to her alone.
When they were beyond earshot of the open window, he said
anxiously: "Don't you think Mary looks very badly?"
"She looks fearfully tired," Katherine answered.
"Yes, that is it. And the tiredness comes from mental strain.
Poor Mary! It seems so hard for her to be happy, yet in all her
life she has never lacked anything she wanted save one, and even
that I am in hopes she will get yet, if only she has the patience
to wait for it."
Katherine's heart gave a painful bound. What was this one thing
that Mary Selincourt wanted but could not have--yet? But she could
not answer the question with any satisfaction to herself, and she
stood silently watching while Mr. Selincourt took his place in the
boat. Then she turned and went back up the path again: but her
feet dragged in spite of herself; it was as if some instinct told
her she was going to meet a heartache.
Mary welcomed her back with a smile, and, reaching out her arm,
dragged a comfortable chair nearer the couch. "Come and sit here,
you poor, tired Katherine. What a shame that you should have had
to toil all day, until your very feet ache with tiredness, while I
have lain here and sighed because the hours crept along so slowly!"
"But that is only because you could not use your foot; you don't
find time drag when you are able to get about," Katherine remarked,
setting her head back against the cushions with a sigh of content,
for the chair was of a restful pattern, and she was tired enough to
feel the cushions a welcome luxury.
"No, indeed, I can always make sure of interest and amusement when
I have two feet available for service, but I was not cut out for
the peaceful avocation of the couch invalid, and I just loathe
inaction. I would rather have had your day," Mary said with a sigh.
"Are you sure? To begin with, you don't know what sort of a day I
have had, and to continue, you have never had to work for your
living, and don't know how it feels," Katherine rejoined, thinking
of the stuffy heat of the store, the flies, the pickled pork, and
the molasses, which had all tried her patience so sorely in the
latter part of the day.
Mary's face took on an injured expression. "Do you think it is
quite kind of you to taunt me with never having tasted the sweets
of independence?" she asked.
"But you are independent of the necessity to toil," said Katherine.
"That is not true independence. Riches might take to themselves
wings, banks might break, investments fail, then where should I be?
I am only independent because fate has given me the use of money I
have never earned. But you are different; you can carve your own
destiny, and are master of yourself."
"Am I? Don't indulge in any such mistaken ideas, I beg of you,"
broke in Katherine, with a little grimace as in fancy she smelled
again the soap and the brimstone which had offended her so much in
the store. "I set out to be a school teacher, and came home from
Montreal with my head packed full of theories concerning how
teaching ought to be done, and how I meant to do it. The first
disappointment came when I found there were no children of school
age obtainable, except Miles and Phil; for it is very hard to
theorize upon one's own kith and kin, at least I found it so.
Night school, also, is not an easy practice-ground for new methods,
which was disappointment number two; and then came Father's
illness, which has settled once and for all the question of my
teaching, and has caged me up to the business of the store, whether
I would or no. So how can I carve my own destiny, pray?"
Mary clapped her hands. "Why, can't you see that is what you are
doing all the time? In spite of adverse circumstances you have
done your very utmost, and consequently your very best. You have
been brave, patient, cheerful, and always you have spent yourself
for others until----"
"Oh, spare me any more, and let us talk about something else!"
cried Katherine impatiently; her cheeks were getting hot, and her
memory was pointing to many a time when she had been neither brave,
nor patient, nor cheerful.
"Yes, of course we will talk of something else, and now you shall
have the reverse of the picture, for I want to talk about myself,"
Mary said, with a quick flush which made the heart of the other
turn chill and cold, with dread of what might be coming next.
"Self is a sorry subject for over-much meditation, don't you think?
And introspection is very bad for invalids," Katherine said
nervously.
"I'm not an invalid, not in that sense at least; I am only
incapacitated through having twisted my ankle. But I simply must
confide in somebody, or I don't know what will happen to me. I
can't open my heart to my daddy; he has had cares enough concerning
me already; while if I tried to tell Mrs. Burton she would be so
shocked that she would refuse to come and look after me any more;
then whatever would become of me until I can get about and look
after myself again?"
Katherine laughed, although her heart was heavy as lead. It was
plain she would have to be taken into confidence whether she would
or no. It was equally plain that she would have to face the
consequences afterwards, for she was not the sort of girl who would
be untrue to herself.
"So you have no scruples about shocking me? Or is it that you
think I am not easily shocked?"
"A little of both, I think," Mary replied with a sigh of relief.
"The fact is, you are so strong and brave that you inspire
confidence."
"Is that meant for a compliment, and do I have to feel grateful?"
asked Katherine.
"That is as you please. But tell someone I must, or I think the
miserable business will wear me out, for I cannot sleep.
Katherine, I was nearly suicide and murderer too on that awful
morning in the tide-hole."
"What nonsense! What will you be saying next?" cried Katherine
with forced cheerfulness; but the colour faded from her cheeks.
"I am not talking nonsense, but unvarnished truth. I might have
been saved easily enough, and Mr. Ferrars need have suffered no
inconvenience save a wetting, but for my own fault; for he was
there long before the water reached the place where I had fallen."
"But why----?" began Katherine, then stopped short, remembering
that she did not want to ask questions, nor to seek information.
"But why wasn't I saved before, were you going to say?" said Mary.
"Because I would not let myself be. The fact is, down at the
bottom I am a coward, just that and nothing more. My life has been
so sheltered and easy, too, that there has been nothing to stir
into activity any latent bravery that I might have had. Mr.
Ferrars could not reach me, or it is probable he would have pulled
me from the ledge where I was lying by sheer force. As it was, he
waited in the water for a long time, until the tide rose high
enough for him to reach me. It was almost high enough; I realized
that in another moment I should be dragged into the water, whether
I would or no, and I just felt that I could not bear it: so I
sprang up with a wild impulse to rush somewhere, anywhere--but I
had forgotten my twisted ankle, the pain from which was so intense
that I reeled, lost my balance, and was into the water all in a
moment."
"Anyone might have felt like that, and acted just the same under
the circumstances," said Katherine, pitifully. This confession was
so utterly different from anything she had expected to hear that
her heart grew lighter in spite of herself.
Mary laughed in a dreary, mirthless fashion. "Do you know it is a
bitter humiliation to me to owe my life to Jervis Ferrars?" she
said brusquely.
"Why?" demanded Katherine, the question dragged from her in spite
of herself.
A wave of hot colour surged over Mary's face; it was not often she
blushed, but now she was crimson. "I don't think I can tell you
that," she replied unsteadily. "In any case it is immaterial to
the story, except that he once asked me a boon I would not grant;
and for that I have been sorry ever since, which shows the
contrary-mindedness of women, don't you think?"
Katherine nodded; speak she could not. This was worse than
anything she had expected. Mrs. Burton had suggested that Mary was
in love with Jervis, but here was Mary herself plainly intimating
that Jervis had once asked for her love, but that she had refused
him, only to regret her refusal ever since.
"He is such a good fellow," went on Mary, with a yearning note in
her voice which stabbed Katherine like actual pain. "When Father
asked him about the affair in the tidehole, he never once said
anything about my fearful panic, which so nearly cost him his life;
and the very fact of his reticence has made me feel the meanest
creature on the face of the earth. I can scarcely look my father
in the face, and when he pities me for having been in such sore
straits I feel like sinking through the couch from very shame."
"Why don't you tell Mr. Selincourt then?" asked Katherine bluntly.
"He would understand how panic had unnerved you, and certainly he
would not judge you harshly."
"I can't tell him; I am not brave enough. I told you I was a
coward, and so I am, especially in matters of that sort. It is an
awful thing to me to lose anyone's good opinion. My pride, I
suppose; but really I can't help it," Mary answered with a shrug.
"Yet you have told me," said Katherine, forcing a smile. "Were you
not afraid of losing my good opinion, or was it that you did not
care?"
"I was just desperate; I had to own up to someone, and so, from
love of contrast I suppose, I turned to you, who are always brave,"
Mary said.
Katherine shook her head: "You make a great mistake; I am a
horrible coward underneath. I think all girls are; it is one of
the weaknesses of our nature which neither training nor hardship
will overcome."
"Do you expect me to believe you when you talk like that?" asked
Mary. "What about that time when you got on to the ice to get
Jervis Ferrars out of Oily Dave's flooded house? Do you think a
girl who was a coward could have done that?"
"I could not have done it if I had stayed to think about it,"
replied Katherine, a soft flush stealing into her cheeks. "But
there was no time to think about oneself, the thing had to be done
quickly, so it was easy enough. If I had set out from home that
morning, knowing what was in front of me, I could not possibly have
faced it, of that I am quite sure."
"In other words, what it really amounts to is this: we are all
cowards by nature, but it is possible, by cultivating the grace of
self-sacrifice, so to forget ourselves in our care for others that
we can rise above our natural cowardice, and become as brave or
braver than men," said Mary.
"It sounds like a sermon put that way," Katherine replied with a
laugh. "Why don't you take to writing books, if you can express
yourself so much to the point?"
"Because, before writing books successfully, one must have lived,
not merely existed, as I have done," Mary answered a little sadly.
Then she said in a different tone; "You have done me a lot of good,
and I shall sleep to-night like a top--the first real rest I have
had since that miserable morning on the rocks."
"I shall sleep too, I hope, for I have a big day's work to-morrow,"
Katherine said, rising to go.
"Give me a kiss, dear, just to show me that you don't despise me
for being a coward, or rather for remaining a coward," Mary said,
drawing Katherine's head down.
There was a wild desire in Katherine's heart to push off those
caressing hands, and rush away in all haste: but she did not yield
to it, realizing that this also was a time for self-forgetting; so,
stooping, she kissed Mary on both cheeks.