The Gladness
Six days went by. The weather had cleared as if by magic, a
brilliant sun shone every day in a cloudless sky, and summer had
returned again to cheer the northern land. But never a word had
come from across the waste of grey, heaving waters, to let the
anxious watchers at Seal Cove know whether the _Mary_ still lived,
or whether her crew had really gone to the bottom from the little
boat which Oily Dave and his mates had found floating keel upwards.
Mrs. Jenkin still preserved her attitude of determined
cheerfulness, and persisted in her belief that no harm had come to
the vessel or the men. But she was the only one who still hoped.
Mrs. Jones, the wife of Nick Jones, a woman shunned by her
neighbours, and of a disposition the reverse of friendly, had
already put on black. Her mourning garments were of ancient make,
for up-to-date mourning apparel was not regarded as one of the
necessaries of life, and so it was not stocked by the store at
Roaring Water Portage.
Mr. Selincourt said little, but it was easy to see how much he
feared, while Mary went about wearing such a look of bereavement
that the folk at Seal Cove were confirmed in their belief that some
sort of engagement really had existed between her and the young man
who managed the business of the fishing fleet.
Katherine, shielding herself behind this mistaken belief on the
part of other people, carried her sore heart bravely through those
days of hoping against hope and sick apprehension. The only two
people who even suspected her suffering were her brother Miles and
Mr. Selincourt; but neither gave any sign of understanding that
there might be any personal sorrow hidden under her sympathy for
Mrs. Jenkin and the unpleasant Mrs. Jones.
On the sixth day it became necessary for Katherine to do the long
portage with supplies for the Indian encampment, which had about
doubled in population during the last two or three weeks. There
was the usual bustle of getting off--the scampering of dogs back
along the portage path for fresh burdens, the shouting of Phil, and
all the cheerful accompaniments of busy toil and work willingly
done. But Katherine did her part with a mechanical precision,
forcing herself to this task and to that, yet feeling no zest or
pleasure in anything.
Although the days were so warm and sunny, the nights and early
mornings showed already a touch of frostiness, a chilly reminder of
the winter that was coming; and Katherine was glad to wear a coat
even while she was rowing, until the second portage had been
reached. Astor M'Kree met her himself this morning, his first
question being the one she most dreaded to hear.
"Any news of the _Mary_ yet, Miss Radford?"
"No," she answered sadly. "Mr. Selincourt's little flag was
hanging at half-mast when we started this morning."
"If she has gone down, it is the first boat I've built that has
cost a human life, that I know of," he said, "and it makes me feel
as if I should never have the courage to build another. I've got
one on the stocks, but I haven't touched her since this news came
up river."
"But disasters at sea will come, do what you will, and the best
boat ever built would go to pieces on those Akimiski rocks,"
Katherine said, trying to cheer him because he seemed so sad.
"It isn't clear to me why they were on Akimiski at all, when it was
the Twins they were making for," he replied, in a gloomy tone.
"Mr. Selincourt told me the other day that he believed it would be
better if I did my boatbuilding down below the portages; but I said
no. There is no difficulty in taking the boats down when the river
is in flood, though of course it would not be possible now; and
I've got the feeling that I like to take the first risk in them
myself. It is a queer sensation, I can tell you, to feel a boat
coming to life under your feet, and when I took the _Mary_ over the
falls it was just as if she jumped forward in sheer glee, when she
felt the swing and the rush of the water swirling round her sides."
Katherine nodded, but did not speak. There was a rugged eloquence
about the boatbuilder which always appealed to her, but this
morning it was almost more than she could bear.
"Perhaps I will come in and see Mrs. M'Kree as I come back, but I
must hurry now, for I am anxious to get my business done and turn
my face homeward as soon as I can," she said, after a little pause.
"Father did not seem quite so well yesterday, and Nellie thinks it
is the gloom of other people which has upset him."
"Very likely: poor man, he'd be bound to be sensitive in unexpected
places; afflicted people mostly are. I will tell my wife you may
be in later; and look here, could you spare Phil to go to Ochre
Lake swan-shooting this evening? My two lads and I are going, and
it is always fun for a boy. I've got an old duck rifle he can use,
and we'll send him down river in time to make himself useful
to-morrow morning."
One glance at Phil's face was sufficient to make Katherine decide
she could do quite well without him when she got back over the
second portage, and so it was arranged.
The journey that day was got through sooner than usual, owing
chiefly to Phil's tendency to "hustle" in order to be back in good
time for the swan-shooting. He helped Katherine over the second
portage, and tumbled bundles of pelts and packages of dried fish
into the boat. Then, uttering a wild whoop of delight, he turned
head over heels in the dried grass on the bank, and started back
along the portage path to the boatbuilder's house at a run.
Being in good time, Katherine did not trouble to row herself down
river, but, pushing the boat out in midstream, let it drift on the
current. It was a great luxury to be alone--to let her face take
on the saddest expression it could assume, to let her hands drop
idly on her lap, while for a brief space she let her grief have
sway. She was thinking of the day when Jervis had come over the
portage to meet her, and she had been so late that he was obliged
to go back before she came. What had he come to say to her that
day?
This was the question which had ceaselessly tortured Katherine
through the days and nights since Oily Dave had brought the bad
news about the _Mary_. Her heart whispered that he might have come
that day to ask her to marry him, but she was not sure. If she
could have been certain of this, then it seemed to her the worst of
her suffering would have been removed, because then she would have
had some shadow of a right to mourn for him.
But there was the portage looming in sight, and she could hear the
water rushing round the bend in the river and over the falls. Then
she turned round in the boat, and, taking up the oars, prepared to
row in to the boathouse.
A figure, partly hidden by the cottonwood and the alders, stepped
forward at this moment and prepared to moor the boat for her.
Was it instinct that made her turn her head then, or was she merely
looking to see how much farther she had to row in? A frightened
cry escaped her at what she saw, and the colour ebbed from her
face, leaving it ghastly white.
"Katherine, did you take me for a ghost?" asked the voice of Jervis
Ferrars.
"I think so," she said faintly, then sent the boat with a jerk
against the mooring post, where he tied it up for her.
"Did you really think we had gone down, or had you the cheerful
faith of Mrs. Jenkin?"
"I--I am afraid that I had no faith at all," she said with an
effort, and never guessed how complete was her self-betrayal.
He looked at her keenly, was apparently satisfied with what he saw,
then said cheerfully: "Will you row me up to Astor M'Kree's, or,
rather, permit me to row you? I want to go and assure him that the
_Mary_ is quite safe, and the soundest boat that ever sailed the
Bay. Shall we leave this luggage here, or row it up river for the
sake of having a load?"
"Rowing is quite sufficient exercise without having an unnecessary
load," replied Katherine, with a shake of her head, as she handed
him the bundles to place on the bank. She was trembling so that
she could hardly trust herself to speak, and was horribly afraid of
breaking down like a schoolgirl, and crying from sheer joyfulness.
When the bundles were all out, Jervis got in, took the oars, and
sent the boat's head round for up river again, then pulled steadily
for a few minutes without speaking.
A boat is an awkward place for a person afflicted with
self-consciousness. Katherine would have been thankful for some
shelter in which to hide her face just then, but, having none, she
rushed into nervous speech instead.
"Were you in danger? Was the _Mary_ wrecked?" she asked, miserably
conscious of the unsteadiness of her voice, yet feeling altogether
too nervous to remain silent.
"No," he said. "We have had a very easy and prosperous time,
though, unfortunately, we lost one of our boats on the way out--the
boat picked up by Oily Dave, which has made all the trouble. We
fell in with a lot of white porpoises; so the take has been a
valuable one, and the men came home very well pleased with the
venture: though Nick Jones felt his spirits rather dashed by
meeting his wife tricked out in mourning attire, and flying a
pennon of widowhood from the back of her bonnet."
Katherine laughed: she could imagine the tragic figure Mrs. Jones
must have looked, and the effect the sight would have on the
susceptible nerves of a Bay fisherman. Then she said hurriedly: "I
shall have great faith in Mrs. Jenkin's judgment after this,
although I have wondered how she could be so persistently hopeful
in the face of such evidence as we had."
"And you yourself--how did you feel about it? Would it have made
any difference to you if I had gone under, dear?" he asked, with a
caressing note in his tone that she had never heard there before.
For answer she jerked her head round, staring at the tops of the
pine trees, with the blue sky behind them, but seeing nothing and
heeding nothing save the world of happiness which had suddenly
opened before her astonished eyes.
It seemed a long time before any sound broke the silence save the
regular splash of the oars, then Jervis said quietly: "Are you
quite sure that you are not afraid to marry a poor man, Katherine?"
She looked at him with only a glance, then asked, a trifle
unsteadily: "What do you mean?"
"Well, you might have looked higher, of course. I have told you
how miserably poor my people and I have been. Thanks to Mr.
Selincourt, things are easier with me now; but there is a streak of
modesty in me somewhere, and I have been afraid to ask for what I
wanted," he said, with a certain wistfulness of intonation which
brought Katherine's glance round again.
"You need not have been afraid," she said softly.
"Because why?" he asked, in the tone of one who meant to be
answered.
Katherine looked at the tops of the pine trees again, but, finding
no help there, let her gaze drop to the dancing water, and finally
faltered in a very low voice: "Because love is better than money,
or that sort of thing."
He bent forward until he could look into her downcast face, then
said earnestly: "You mean, then, it makes no difference to you what
my worldly position may chance to be?"
"Of course not; why should it?" she asked, her glance meeting his
now in surprise at his earnestness.
Their progress up river was rather slow after that, and it was
something over an hour later before they reached the second
portage. Astor M'Kree had started for the swan-shooting by that
time, and there was only his delighted wife to scream with joyful
relief at the news, that the _Mary_ was riding safely at anchor in
the river.
"Poor Astor! He has been that down he could scarcely take his
food," said Mrs. M'Kree, wiping away the tears which sheer
happiness had brought into her eyes.
"Get an extra big supper ready for him, then, for I expect you will
find his appetite has come back with a bounce," said Jervis,
laughing. "You can tell him from me to get on with that new boat
as fast as he can, and we will name it the _Katherine_."
"Are you joking?" asked Mrs. M'Kree, who had suddenly become very
serious, as she looked from Jervis to Katherine, whose face was a
study in blushes.
"No, I am quite in earnest," he answered. "But we must go now, for
we dumped a lot of fish out on the portage path, and I should not
be surprised if half the dogs in the neighbourhood are there,
sampling it, when we get back."
"I hope not, or my trouble in bringing it over the long portage
will all have been thrown away," said Katherine, who could not help
smiling at the bewilderment on the face of Mrs. M'Kree.
There was no need to row going down the river; they just sat side
by side and let the boat drift on the current, while they talked of
the present and the future. Katherine remembered her other journey
down, earlier in the afternoon, and the bitter, black misery which
had kept her company then.
[Illustration: Drifting down the river.]
"What a difference things make in one's outlook!" she exclaimed.
"What things?" he demanded.
"I was thinking of when I let the boat drift down this afternoon,"
she said. "The pine trees looked so gloomy then, and those great,
black spruces yonder on the bank made me think of the decorations
on funeral hearses years and years ago, the sort of thing one sees
only in pictures; but now----"
"What do they let you think of now?" he asked, holding her hand in
a tighter clasp, as the boat swept slowly past the funereal spruces.
"Oh! they make me think of the ornamental grounds in Montreal, or
of the Swiss mountains which I see in visions when I dream I am
'doing Europe', as the Yankees say," and she laughed happily at her
wild flights of fancy.
"Would you like to do Europe--after we are married?" he asked, a
gravity coming into his tone that she could not understand.
"Why worry about the impossible?" she said gently. "Books are
cheap, if travel is not, and we will do our European travel sitting
by a winter fire."
"It might be possible some day; one never knows quite how things
may turn out," he said gravely. Then he asked: "Did anyone tell
you that I came up river to see you that afternoon before we sailed
for the Twins?"
"Yes," she answered, flushing as she remembered how much his visit
and its purpose had been in her mind during those days of keen
anxiety.
"I came then to ask you the question I asked just now," he said
slowly. "It has been in my heart to ask it ever since that day you
helped me across the ice, saving my life at the risk of your own.
But I had my mother to support then, in part, and the burden on me
was too heavy for me to dare to put my personal happiness first.
There was a letter for me in Mr. Selincourt's belated mail,
however, that changed my outlook pretty considerably, and left me
free to do as I liked; so I came to you directly."
"Do you mean----?" began Katherine, then stopped in some confusion.
"Do I mean that I have only myself to keep now, were you going to
ask?" he said, laughing as he shifted his seat and took up the oars
to bring the boat in to the mooring post under the boathouse;
"because that is just what I do mean. I have only myself to keep
until I have the privilege of keeping you; and there will be no
more portage work for you then, I promise you."
Katherine sprang ashore, whistled for the dogs, then turned to him
with a saucy air. "Don't be too positive about the portage work;
fishermen do not exactly come under the heading of the leisured
classes, and I may be glad to earn an honest dollar where I can."