Women are like grasshoppers--ye kin never tell which
way they're goin' to jump.--Old Cy Walker.
Levi was starting a fire, Ray washing potatoes, and Martin, in his
shirt-sleeves, using a towel vigorously near the canoes, when Angie and
Chip emerged that morning; and now while breakfast is under way, a
moment may be seized to explain who these people were and their mission
in this wilderness.
Many years before, in a distant village called Greenvale, two brothers,
David and Amzi Curtis, had quarrelled over an unfortunate division of
inherited land. The outcome was that Amzi, somewhat misanthropic over
the death of his wife, and of peculiar make-up, deserted his home and
little daughter Angeline, and vanished. For many years no one knew of
his whereabouts, and he was given up as dead.
In the meantime his child, cared for by a kindly woman known as Aunt
Comfort, had grown to womanhood. About this time a boyhood sweetheart of
Angeline's, named Martin Frisbie, who had been gathering wealth in a
distant city, invited a former schoolmate, now the village doctor in
Greenvale, to join him on an outing trip into the wilderness.
Here something of the history of a notorious outlaw named McGuire
became known to Martin, and more important than that, a queer old
hermit was discovered, dwelling in solitude on the shore of a small
lake. Who he was, and why this strange manner of life, Martin could not
learn, and not until later, when he returned to Greenvale to woo his
former sweetheart once more, did he even guess. Here, however, from a
description furnished by a village nondescript,--a sort of Natty Bumpo
and philosopher combined, known as Old Cy Walker, who had been Martin's
youthful companion,--he was led to believe that the queer hermit and
the long-missing Amzi were one and the same.
Another trip into this wilderness with Old Cy, taken to identify the
hermit, resulted in proving the correctness of the surmise. Then Martin
set about making this misanthropic recluse more comfortable in all ways
possible; and then, leaving Old Cy to keep him company, he returned to
Greenvale and Angie.
A marriage was the outcome of his return to his native village, and then,
with his nephew, Ray, and long-tried guide, Levi, as helpers on this
unique wedding trip, the hermit was visited.
It was hoped that meeting his child once more would result in inducing
him to abandon his wildwood existence and to return to civilization;
and it did--partially. He seemed happy to meet his daughter again,
consented to return with them when ready, and after a couple of weeks'
sojourn here, the canoes were packed and all set out for civilization and
Greenvale once more.
But "home, sweet home," albeit it was, as in this case, a lonely
log cabin in a vast wilderness, proved stronger than parental love or
aught else; and sometime during first night's camp on the way out,
this strange recluse stole away in his canoe and returned.
"It's natur," Old Cy observed when morning came, "an' home is the
hardest spot in the world to fergit. Amzi's lived in that old shack all
'lone for twenty years. He's got wonted to it like a dog to his kennel,
an' all the powers o' the univarse can't break up the feelin'."
It seemed an indisputable, if disappointing, fact, and Martin led his
party back to the hermit's home once more.
Another plan was now considered by Martin--to buy the township, or at
least a large tract enclosing this lake, build a more commodious log
cabin for the use of himself and his wife, and spend a portion of each
summer there. There were several reasons other than those of affection
for this decision.
This lake, perhaps half a mile in diameter, teemed with trout. The low
mountains enclosing it were thickly covered with fine spruce and fir,
groves of pine with some beech and birch grew in the valleys; deer,
moose, and feathered game abounded here, and best of all, no vandal
lumbermen ever encroached upon this region.
It was, all considered, a veritable sportsman's paradise. Most likely
a few thousand dollars would purchase it, and so, for these collective
reasons, Martin decided to buy it.
Old Cy was left to keep the hermit company; Martin, his wife, and Ray,
with Levi, started for civilization to obtain needed supplies, and had
been four days upon the way when this much-abused waif appeared on
the scene. The party were journeying in two canoes, one manned by Ray,
who had already learned to wield a paddle, which carried the tents and
luggage; while the other was occupied by Martin, his wife, and Levi. The
only available seat for the new arrival was in Ray's canoe, and when
breakfast was disposed of and the voyagers ready to start, she was given
a place therein.
The river at this point was broad and of slow current, only two days'
journey was needful to reach the settlement, and no cause for worry
appeared--but Levi felt otherwise.
"You'd best hug the futher shore," he observed to Ray quietly when
the boy pushed off, "an' don't git out o' sight o' us." "I ain't
sartin 'bout the outcome o' this matter," he said to Martin later. "I
know that half-breed, Bolduc, and he's a bad 'un. From the gal's
story he paid big money fer her. He don't know the meanin' o' law,
and if he follers down the tote road, as I callate he will, 'n' ketches
sight o' her, the first we'll know on't 'll be the crack o' a rifle.
The wonder to me is he didn't ketch her 'fore she got to us. He could
track her faster'n she could run. I don't want to 'larm you folks,
but I shan't feel easy till we're out o' the woods."
It wasn't reassuring.
But no thought of this came to Ray, at least, and these two young
people, yielding to the magic of the morning, the rippled river that
bore them onward, the birds singing along the fir-clad banks, and all the
exhilaration of the wilderness, soon reached the care-free converse
of youthful friends.
"I never had nothin' but work 'n' cussin'," Chip responded, when
Ray asked if she never had any time she could call her own. "Tim
thinked I couldn't get tired, I guess. He'd roust me up fust of all
'n' larrup me if he caught me shirkin'. Once I had a little posey
bed back o' the pig-pen. I fixed it after dark an' mornin's when I
ketched the chance. He ketched me thar one mornin' a-weedin' it
'n' knocked me sprawlin' an' then stomped all over the posies.
That night I went out into the woods 'n' begged the spites to git him
killed somehow. 'Nother time I forgot to put up the bars, an' the cows
got into the taters. That night he tied me to a stump clus to the bars,
an' left me thar all night. I used to be more skeered o' my dad 'n
I was o' Tim, tho'. He'd look at me like he hated me, an' say,
'Shut up,' if I said a word, an' I 'most believed he'd kill me,
just fer nothin'. Once he said he'd take me out into the woods at
night 'n' bait a bear trap with me if he heerd I didn't mind Tim. I
told Old Tomah that, an' he said if he did, he'd shoot him; but Old
Tomah wasn't round only winters. I hated dad so I'd 'a' shot him
myself, I guess, if I cud 'a' got hold o' a gun when he wa'n't
watchin'."
"It's awful to have to feel that way toward your own father,"
interrupted Ray, "for he was your father."
"I s'pose 'twas," admitted Chip, candidly, "but I never felt
much different. I've seen him slap mother when she was on her knees
a-bawlin', an' the way he would cuss her was awful."
"But you had some friendship from this old Indian," queried Ray, who
began to realize what a pitiful life the girl had led; "he was good to
you, wasn't he?"
"He was, sartin," returned Chip, eagerly; "he used to tell me the
spites 'ud fix dad 'fore long, so he'd never show up agin, 'n'
when I got big 'nuff he'd sneak me off some night 'n' take me to
the settlement, whar I could arn a livin'. Old Tomah was the only
one who cared a cuss fer me. I used to bawl when he went away every
spring, an' beg him to take me 'long 'n' help him camp 'n' cook.
I'd 'a' done 'most anything fer Old Tomah. I didn't mind havin'
to work all the time fer Tim. I didn't mind wearin' clothes made
out o' old duds 'n' bein' cussed fer not workin' hard 'nuff.
What I did mind was not havin' nobody who cared whether I lived or
died, or said a good word to me. Sometimes I got so lonesome, I used
to go out in the woods nights when 'twas moonlight 'n' beg the spites
to help me. I used to think mother might be one on 'em 'n' she'd
keer fer me. I think she was, an' 'twas her as kept me goin' till I
found you folks's camp. I got awful skeered them nights I was runnin'
away, an' when 'twas so dark I couldn't see no more, an' I heerd
wildcats yowlin', I'd git on my knees 'n' beg mother to keep 'em
away. I think she did, an' allus shall."
Much more in connection with the wild, harsh life Chip had led for
eight years was now told by her. Old Tomah's superstition and belief
in hobgoblins were enlarged upon. Life at Tim's Place, with all its
filth, brutality, and nearly animal existence, was described in full;
for Chip's tongue, once loosened, ran on and on, while Ray, spellbound
by this description, was scarce conscious he was wielding a paddle.
Never before had he heard such a tale, so unusual and so pathetic.
Naturally of chivalrous and manly nature, it appealed to him as naught
else could. Then the girl herself, with her big, pleading eyes, her
queer belief in those woodsy, spectral forms she called spites, and her
free and easy confidence in him, and his sympathy also, surprised Ray.
Her speech was coarse and crude--the vernacular of Tim's Place. Now and
then a profane word crept in; yet it was absolute truth, and forceful
from its very simplicity.
But another influence, more potent than her wrongs, was now appealing
to Chip--her sense of joy at her rescue, and with it a positive faith
that the spites had been the means of her escape.
"I know they did it," she said time and again, "an' I know mother was
one on 'em. I wished I cud do suthin' to show 'em how thankful I am
'n' how happy I am now." And Ray, astonished that so keen-witted and
courageous a girl should have such a fantastic belief, made no comment.
A more serious subject was under discussion in the other canoe, meantime,
as to the future disposition of Chip herself.
"I feel it my duty to take care of her," Angie said, after relating
her conversation with Chip and that morning's incident. "She is a
homeless, outcast waif, needing education and everything else to
Christianize her. We must bring her to the settlement, but to turn
her adrift might mean leaving her to a life of vice, even if she
escapes her brutal father and this worse half-breed. Then, again, I am
not sure that her parentage will bear inspection. She has told me
something about her earlier life, and about her mother, who evidently
loved her. One course only seems plain to me,--to take care of and
educate this unfortunate."
"I am willing, my dear," responded Martin, who, like all new husbands,
was ready to concede anything, "only I suggest that you go a little
slow. You can't tell yet what this girl will develop into. She has had
the worst possible parentage, without doubt. Her life at Tim's Place,
and contact with lumbermen or worse, has been no benefit. She is grossly
ignorant, and may be ill-tempered, and once given to understand that
you have practically adopted her, you can't--or won't--have the heart
to turn her off. Now we are to return to the lake and remain a month, as
you know, and in the meantime, what will you do with this girl?"
This was reducing Angie's philanthropic impulses to a focus, as it were,
and it set her thinking. Something more of this discussion followed,
and finally Angie announced her decision.
"We must take the girl back with us," she said, "and begin her
reformation at the camp. If she shows any aptitude and willingness to
obey, we will take her to Greenvale. If not, you must arrange to get
her into some institution."
"And suppose the half-breed finds where she is, what then?" inquired
Martin.
"What do you say, Levi?" he added, turning to his guide, "you know
this fellow; what will he be apt to do?"
"I s'pose you know what a panther'll do, robbed of her cub," Levi
answered, "an' how a bull moose acts in runnin' time, mebbe. Wal,
this Pete is worse'n both on 'em biled into one, I callate. If you're
goin' ter take the gal back, you've got to keep her shady, or some day
you'll find her missin'. Besides, Pete, ez I told ye, don't know the
meanin' o' law and is handy with a gun."
But Martin did not quite share Levi's fears, and so Angie's decision
was agreed to. Levi's advice to "keep shady" was accepted, however,
and all through that summer's somewhat thrilling experiences it was the
rule of conduct.
When noon came, Levi led the way into a lagoon; in a secluded spot at its
head dinner was cooked, and when the sun was well down and a tributary
stream was reached, he turned into it, and halted not for the night camp
until a full half-mile separated them from the river.
A certain vague sense of impending danger began to impress both Martin
and his wife, and the woods seemed to hold a one-eyed, malicious villain
who might appear at any moment. A danger which we know actually exists,
we can avoid or meet squarely; but one merely imaginary becomes irksome
and really more annoying.
No hint of this was dropped by the three older ones, and when the tents
were pitched, long before twilight, and Martin and Ray had captured a
goodly string of trout and the camp-fire was alight, this wildwood life
seemed absolutely perfect, to the young folks at least.
Chip also showed one of the best features of her training. She wanted to
help everybody and do everything, and Levi, who always did the cooking,
was importuned to let her help. Strong as a young Amazon, she fetched
and carried like a man, and the one thing that gladdened her most was
permission to work.
When supper was over came the lounging beside the cheerful fire, and as
the shadows thickened, forth came Ray's banjo once more, and with it the
light of admiration in Chip's eyes.
All that day he had been her charming companion; his open, manly face,
his bright brown eyes, had been ever before her. His well-bred ways, so
unlike all the men at Tim's Place, had impressed her as those of a youth
of eighteen will a maid of sixteen; and now, with his voice appealing
to the best in her, he seemed like Pan of old, once more wooing a nymph
with his pipes.
No knowledge of this was hers, no consciousness of why she was happy came
to her. She knew what spites were; but the god Pan and Apollo with his
harp were unknown forms.
Neither did she realize that born in her soul that day, on the broad
shining river, was a magic impulse woven out of heart throbs, and
destined to mete out to her more sorrow than all else in her life
combined.
She had entered the wondrous vale of love whose paths are flower-strewn,
whose shores are rippled with laughter, and whose borders, alas! are ever
hid in the midst of tears.