TIMON OF THE WILDERNESS
Jean awoke the next morning much refreshed after the good night's rest.
She slept upon a liberal supply of blankets which Kitty had prepared
for her upon the floor. This was a treat after camp-life, and when she
opened her eyes the Indian woman was cooking breakfast. It was not yet
daylight, but the room was quite bright from the dancing flames of the
fire-place. It felt nice to lie there with a roof above her and no
weary journey ahead for that day, at least. She recalled the events of
the previous day, and wondered how the injured man had passed the
night. She had fallen asleep thinking about him, and the mystery of
his life. Whoever he was, she was thankful that he had known her
parents, and that for their sake he was willing to send food to the
Loyalists. The Indians were to start that morning, so she must be
ready to assist them in selecting the supplies.
About a quarter of an hour later Sam entered the room. He did not
knock, for such etiquette was not in his simple code of Indian manners.
He merely looked to see what his wife was cooking, and then turned
toward Jean.
"Beeg chief want see babby," he announced.
"How is he this morning, Sam?"
"No good. Bad."
Fearing that the man was much worse, Jean hurried into the other room,
and went at once to the couch.
"Good morning," she brightly accosted. "How are you feeling now?"
"None too good," was the reply. "I didn't sleep a wink last night."
"Your side hurt you, I suppose."
"Perhaps so. But never mind about that now. I want you to help Sam
pack up the outfit. Don't let him take too much, and see that he
doesn't get any of that rum. It's in a keg near the molasses.
"You will have some breakfast, will you not?" Jean asked.
"I suppose so. There's a box yonder," and he pointed to the opposite
side of the room. "You'll find some bread and cold meat. You might
bring me a cup of strong tea; perhaps it will steady my nerves. Hand
me my pipe and tobacco; they're on that flat stone projecting from the
fire-place."
About the middle of the forenoon the relief party drew away from the
house on their arduous journey to the A-jem-sek. It had taken Sam some
time to repair the broken toboggan he had found in a shed near by.
When this had been loaded with supplies, Sam threw the rope across his
shoulders and started forward, with Kitty following. It would be a
hard trip, Jean was well aware, so she told the Indians how grateful
she was, and that no doubt King George would hear of their good deed.
Her words pleased the simple-minded natives, and they undertook the
difficult task in the best of spirits.
"Don't forget to tell the Loyalists about the moose," Jean reminded as
she stood watching them from the back door.
"Injun no forget," Sam replied. "White man come bimeby. Sam, mebbe."
The girl watched her faithful friends until they had disappeared from
view. All at once she seemed inexpressibly lonely as she stood there.
While the Indians were with her she felt secure. But now she was alone
with the mysterious invalid in the next room. She might have gone,
too, but the man had asked her to stay until the natives returned, and
she could not very well refuse his request. Anyway, she would be of
more use here than out on the trail. She wondered what was the cause
of the feeling of depression that had so suddenly swept upon her, and
which was contrary to her buoyant nature. All at once the great silent
forest appeared to her like some sinister monster, holding a lurking
enemy within its brooding depths. She chided herself for her
foolishness, but for all that, she could not entirely banish the
strange feeling.
Going into the adjoining room, she found the invalid asleep. Not
wishing to disturb him, she sat down by the table and picked up the
book lying open there. It was a copy of Shakespeare's works,
well-bound, and showing signs of much use. She turned to the front
blank pages, hoping to see a name inscribed there. But nothing could
she find. She examined two other books, one a copy of Virgil's
"Aeneid," and the second "The Tatler," but no clue could she obtain as
to the identity of the owner. In one of them, however, she did find
where a name had been scratched out, as with a knife.
Taking up again the copy of Shakespeare's works, she glanced at the
play where the book was lying open. It was "Timon of Athens," and the
page upon which her eyes rested contained Timon's terrible curse
outside the walls of Athens. She read it through, and then let the
book drop upon her lap, wondering why any one in his right mind could
so curse his fellow beings. She glanced toward the man upon the cot.
Had he been reading those words ere he laid the book aside? she mused.
What connection had that curse with him? Did he hate his fellow men as
Timon did of old? Perhaps he, too, had been wronged, and had fled to
this lonely place. She recalled what he had said about those starving
Loyalists. Surely there must be some good reason for his intense
bitterness.
As she thus sat there gazing dreamily into the fire, the man on the cot
stirred, uttered a slight moan, opened his eyes and looked at the girl.
"Ah, so you've been keeping watch, have you?" he asked. "Pretty lonely
job, isn't it?"
"Not at all," Jean brightly replied, laying aside the book and rising
to her feet. "I have been looking at your books. My, what a reader
you must be! But why do you read such stuff as that?"
"What stuff? I hope you don't call Shakespeare's works 'stuff.'"
"Oh, I am merely referring to Timon's curse. It is terrible. But,
there, I don't want to talk about it. Let me make you a cup of tea.
That will do you more good than any book."
"Make it good and strong," the man reminded. "And while you are about
it you might as well bring me a noggin of rum. I haven't had any since
yesterday morning."
The invalid drank the tea first, and pronounced it excellent. He let
the rum remain by his side while he filled and lighted his pipe.
"Did you have a good sleep?" Jean asked as she again sat down by the
table. "I hope you feel better."
"I had a fairly good sleep, Miss, although the pain in my side is no
better. However, I am used to suffering. So you don't care for
Shakespeare, eh?"
"I didn't say that," Jean defended. "But I don't like reading those
terrible passages about curses and such like."
"But I like them, Miss. They just suit me, and I feed on them."
"How can you? It is more than I can understand."
"You would, though, if you had been treated as I have been. I am
Timon, and his sufferings were no greater than mine. His so-called
friends were false to him, and so were mine. He cursed them, and I
have made his curses mine. I am really Timon."
"Suppose I call you 'Timon,' then," Jean suggested with a smile. "I
don't know what else to call you, for I do not know your name. 'Mr.
Timon' sounds very well, does it not?"
"Yes, you may call me anything you like. I suppose Timon is as good as
any other name. And it suits me, too."
"You must have had a hard life," Jean replied, not knowing what else to
say. "It has evidently made you very bitter against your fellow men."
"Hard is not a strong enough word, Miss. You see that copy of the
'Aeneid'? Well, I read as much of that as I do Shakespeare. I like to
follow the history of Old Aeneas. Many of his troubles were mine, and
truly has Virgil sung of them. He was an exile by fate, and so am I.
He had many wanderings, and so have I. He was treated with base
ingratitude, and so was I. Yes, Timon and Aeneas are my brothers in
tribulation. Like them I hate and curse my enemies."
"But this is a Christian age," Jean reminded. "We are taught by our
Great Master to love our enemies, to bless and curse not."
"What! love King George, that crazy fool? Love a thing that brought on
the war? Love a creature with the brains of a mouse? Nonsense. I
don't believe the Lord ever meant us to love such a being."
Jean little expected that her quiet rebuke would cause such an
outburst. She had always held the King in the highest esteem, as one
who ruled by divine authority. To hear him now reviled, was more than
she could endure.
"You have no right to talk about our good King in such a manner," she
stoutly defended. "He is a great King, and thousands have died for him
in the terrible war."
"A great King! A great King!" the man sneered. "And how great is he?
He is so great that he objected to painting St. Paul's Cathedral as
being too much like the Roman Catholic custom. He is so great that he
doesn't like Shakespeare, but he laughs to split his sides at farces
and pantomimes, where clowns swallow carrots and strings of sausages.
He is so great that he spends much of his time learning the exact
number of buttons, tags and laces, and the cut of all the cocked-hats,
pigtails, and gaiters in his army. Oh, yes, he is so great that he is
always meddling in other people's affairs. He pokes his red face into
every cottage for miles around. Imagine the King of England going
about in his old wig, shovel-hat, and Windsor uniform, hob-nobbing with
pig-boys, and old women making apple dumplings, and hurrahing with lazy
louts early in the morning! That is the great King of England! How
proud you must be of such a creature."
"I am proud of him," Jean retorted, "and you should not misrepresent
him. The people love him for his pure and simple manner of living. He
goes among them that he might know how they live, for he wants to help
them all he can. They call him 'Farmer George,' so I have heard my
father say, and I am sure that is an honour for any King."
"Queer honour, I should say, Miss. And he won great honour in his
fight with America, didn't he? He was going to teach the colonies a
lesson, and whip them into line. I'd like to have seen his old red
face when the news of the defeat of his forces reached him. He's
getting his punishment now, and he'll get more before he's through. He
ruined me, an honest man. But he's getting his turn. I've heard that
he goes out of his mind at times, and that his sons are turning out
bad. Yes, yes, he's finding out now what it is to suffer. Oh, he'll
learn, and I'm glad."
To these bitter words Jean made no reply. She realised that the less
she said the better it would be. To oppose this man would only inflame
his anger. She knew that his excitement increased his suffering, for
at times during his tirades he had placed his hand to his injured side
and gasped for breath. As she gazed into the fire she knew that the
man was watching her, although she did not look in his direction. For
a few minutes a deep silence pervaded the room, and when the man again
spoke it was in a much milder tone.
"You must have had a hard time of it," he said. "I can well imagine
how greatly worried your father must be."
"I fear he is about heart-broken," Jean replied. "He has been failing
of late, and I am afraid this blow will go hard with him. I was his
only comfort."
"It was a great trial for him to leave his old home, I suppose."
"In a way it was. But he was very brave through it all. He did what
he could to encourage others, and many were helped by his cheerful
manner. He told them that it was a great privilege to suffer in a
noble cause, and that it was an honour to be loyal pioneers in a
strange land."
No sooner had Jean uttered these words than she wished them unsaid.
But the man appeared not to have heard them.
"Tell me about your old home," he requested. "Also about the war, and
your coming to this country. It will help to pass the time."
Jean was only too glad to do this, so quietly and simply she told about
her old happy home in Connecticut, her mother's death, the war, and all
that it meant to them, of their arrival at Portland Point, the voyage
up the river, and the settlement in the wilderness. Of Dane Norwood
she did not speak, for it was not her nature to reveal to a stranger
the deep things of the heart. Neither did she mention the rangers and
their march with the men of the settlement against the rebels. A
natural caution restrained her from speaking of this to one who so
hated the Loyalists and King George.
When she had finished she waited for the man to make some remarks.
When, however, he did not speak, she rose, went into the other room,
and busied herself in preparing dinner. It was a simple repast, but it
satisfied the invalid, and he showed his pleasure by a faint smile, the
first that the girl had seen upon his face.
"It is good of you to stay here and wait upon me," he said, "especially
after what I said about the Loyalists and King George. I owe my life
to you, Miss, and I am not ashamed to acknowledge it."
"It was Sam who saved you, Mr. Timon," Jean smilingly replied.
"Ah, yes, in actually shooting the moose. But for you, though, Sam
would not have been on hand at the right minute. It was you who
suggested going to the mast-cutters on behalf of those Loyalists."
"The real credit, then, should be given to the ones who plotted to
carry me away from home. But for them I would not be here now."
"And my body would be lying out there in the snow, gored, torn and
trampled. Wonderful, indeed, is the chain of events."
"It is wonderful," Jean agreed. "I have been thinking so much about it
ever since Sam rescued me that night from Seth Lupin. I was in
absolute despair, but just when help was needed most it seemed as if
God reached out His hand and saved me. The words of that beautiful
hymn, 'The Lord's My Shepherd,' have been often in my mind. I sang it
one night to Sam and Kitty, and they were greatly pleased."
"Will you sing it to me?" the man asked. "It has been many years since
I have heard any singing, except rough camp songs."
Although surprised at this request, as well as the sudden change in the
man's manner, Jean did as she was requested. In a clear, sweet voice
she sang the first verse,
The Lord's my shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
She was about to begin the next verse when a step was heard outside,
and then a heavy knock sounded upon the door.