Anxious Waiting
The storm which overcame Sergeant North, and wound its mystic
winding-sheet over the land, enshrouded the little brush lean-to which
Constable Rolfe had erected for Marion Brisbane. It was merely a rough
makeshift affair, and yet it served its purpose. It was sheltered from
the fierce wind by the big trees, and through their great outstretched
branches the snow sifted gently down. A generous fire radiated its
warmth and cheer, and the leaping flames melted and dissolved the
falling flakes. Rolfe was kept busy much of the time searching for dry
wood, and piling it near to serve not only for the rest of the day but
during the long night. Having no axe, this was a difficult task, and
he was forced to break off dead branches to add to his supply. Marion
longed to be of some use, but the constable jokingly told her that a
woman’s place was at home looking after the affairs of the household.
“Suppose we have a turkey for dinner to-morrow,” he said, as he was
about to start forth again on one of his wood-hunting trips. “Just
phone your order to Vancouver, and have a big fat bird sent up. Our
cook can prepare it to-night, and have it ready for the oven early in
the morning.”
“I am afraid that our phone is out of order,” Marion laughingly
replied. “Suppose you call in on your way home and order the turkey.”
In this manner the two marooned travellers passed the weary hours. As
night shut down upon them, they sang hymns and old familiar songs.
Rolfe recited poetry and read inspiring selections from his worn and
stained pocket manual.
“What a pity it is,” he said, after he had finished several short
poems, “that the ones who wrote such verses cannot know of the great
help they are to us.”
“Perhaps they do know,” Marion replied, “especially the ones we call
‘dead.’ I like to think that the departed have full knowledge of what
is taking place on earth. Perhaps even now the writers of those verses
are rejoicing because of the help they are to us. Anyway, isn’t it
great to feel that we never really die, but that our deeds live after
us.”
“It certainly is,” Rolfe acknowledged. “Tennyson has well expressed it
in two lines when he says,
“‘Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.’
“Now, that is the idea. Tennyson was thinking of someone blowing a
bugle, and how the notes sounded far and wide. In a similar way his
words echo on and on, even to this desolate place.”
“Why don’t you write poetry, Mr. Rolfe?” Marion asked. “I am sure you
could do it well. Why not try?”
The constable’s face flushed, and he became much embarrassed. He rose
and placed several small sticks upon the fire. When this had been
accomplished, he turned to Marion.
“I have tried my hand at it,” he confessed, “although so far I have
accomplished very little. But when I am through with the Force, I hope
to give expression to the thoughts which arise within me. There is so
much to write about that it will take years to tell all I want to.
The sergeant thinks that it is all nonsense and waste of time. But he
doesn’t seem to understand. He is so very practical and matter-of-fact.”
The mention of the sergeant brought an anxious expression to Marion’s
face. He had seldom been out of her mind since she had bidden him
good-by, and watched him as he strode away. She knew what a difficult
journey lay ahead of him, and she feared that he could not accomplish
it on his miserable snow-shoes. Then when the storm swept down, her
fear increased. Rolfe, too, was alarmed, although he spoke hopefully.
“The sergeant is a wonderful trailsman,” he said. “Even if his
snow-shoes should give out, he can plow his way through. His endurance
is remarkable. Why, I have known him to cross a mountain range in a
howling blizzard, and come through almost as fresh as when he started.”
“But perhaps he will lose his way,” Marion suggested.
“Not a bit of it. You can’t lose him. He can follow a trail by
instinct. Say, he is a great man. I have been with him on terrible
journeys, and I wouldn’t be living to-day but for him. He carried me
several miles once when I played out. Don’t worry about him, Miss
Brisbane. He’ll get through, all right.”
Although these words cheered Marion to a certain degree, yet she could
not help feeling uneasy. As the storm increased, and the wind roared
overhead, and the trees swayed like great masts at sea, she thought
of the man she loved battling his way through the blinding snow and
the raging tempest. She also noted that as the evening wore on the
constable became unusually silent, at times, and his eyes expressed his
anxiety. She understood the meaning of this, and he could not deceive
her when occasionally he aroused himself and assumed an attitude of
cheerfulness and unconcern.
Rolfe, in fact, was playing a difficult part. He knew better than
Marion the serious situation in which they were placed. If anything
happened to the sergeant, it would go hard with them. They might fight
their way through when the storm abated. But the chance was only one in
a thousand, for now there would not be the least vestige of the trail
left, so what could they do on their wretched snow-shoes?
All through the long night Rolfe watched and kept the fire going.
Marion slept a little. She tried to keep awake, but weariness overcame
her. She would awake shivering with a fearful apprehension of impending
evil. She could not shake off this feeling, although she did not
mention it to her companion. The tired woe-begone expression upon the
constable’s face when he thought she was not noticing him smote her
heart. Then to see him smile so bravely when she spoke to him thrilled
her. She admired his courage, and the brave spirit he was maintaining
for her sake. It strengthened her, and made her determine that she
would show how a woman can suffer and be strong.
All unconsciously Marion was exerting a strong influence upon the
constable’s impressionable and poetic nature. Her beauty appealed
to him. The noble part he was performing in their present critical
situation he considered as nothing out of the ordinary. It was merely
what was expected of him as a member of the Force. In Marion Brisbane
he had at last found the type of womanhood which had been for years but
an ideal. Her brightness, courage, and sweet charm of face and manner
inspired him. It was good to be near her in time of need. His life had
been a rough one, but a great inner longing, and the energizing power
of a lofty ideal, had kept him clean and straight. He knew very little
of the society of women, so it was but natural that he should be deeply
affected by this beautiful comrade of the trail.
This feeling, however, Rolfe kept to himself. To him loyalty was as
vital as life. It flowed through every part of his being, and never
for an instant did he dream of betraying his sergeant’s trust in him.
So all the time he and Marion were together, neither by word or look
did he show that she was anything more to him than a friend for whose
welfare he was concerned.
Marion, too, did considerable thinking. Since leaving Kynox she had
been mentally comparing her two companions. She liked Rolfe for his
jovial manner, and poetic notions. He helped to pass the weary hours,
and to enliven the trail. But to her he seemed more like a boy on whom
the responsibilities of life pressed but lightly. She would at times
glance from him to the sergeant and note the difference between the
two--one gay, talkative, and dependent; the other reserved, quiet,
and self-reliant. She never associated Tom Rolfe with great deeds
of daring, but with John North it was different. To her he was the
very embodiment of a true hero. His lithe, powerful body, his strong,
clean-cut features, and steady gray eyes appealed to her. It almost
frightened her at times to think that she had won the love of such a
man, and that she loved him.
She thought of all this as she huddled there before the fire with the
tempest raging overhead. She pictured her lover out in the storm,
where, she did not know. And he was doing it for her sake, that she
might be saved. Upon himself he had taken the hardships and dangers of
the journey. That was always the way of a strong man. He had not asked
the constable to go, while he remained behind. Her heart thrilled at
the idea, and she longed to tell him how proud she was of him.
Slowly the weary hours dragged by, and when at length the dawn of a
new day dispelled the blackness of night, the storm slackened. The
wind gradually died down, and the snow ceased to fall. The constable
replenished the pile of wood while Marion prepared their meagre
breakfast. How tired they both were of moose meat, and yet there was
nothing else to keep life within their bodies.
“Meat! meat! meat!” Rolfe exclaimed, as he staggered in and threw down
an armful of dry sticks. “I shall write a poem about that some day, and
make the word rhyme with ‘beat’ and ‘feet.’ Why, I am inspired now,
listen to this:
“Meat! meat! meat!
It keeps me on my feet
When I would go dead beat,
And so I eat, eat, eat.”
Marion smiled as she handed the constable a piece of broiled steak.
“Perhaps this will inspire you to make another masterpiece,” she
bantered. “I am very thankful to be able to contribute something to the
work of a genius. Poets must eat, I suppose.”
“Right you are,” Rolfe replied. “They often wrote about eating. I
remember what Bobbie Burns said:
“Some hae meat and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat, and we can eat;
Sae let the Lord be thankit.”
“Yes, we hae meat,” he commented, looking somewhat ruefully upon his
piece of burned steak, “but I wonder if Bobbie would say ‘Let the Lord
be thankit,’ if he had nothing but this?”
“But you have an appetite,” Marion reminded. “Didn’t the poet say that
‘Some hae meat and canna eat’? You should be thankful for that. I am,
anyway, and I find this meat very good.”
Both Marion and Rolfe were feeling more cheerful now. This little round
of levity did much to dispel the clouds of despair which overshadowed
them during the night. The passing of the storm also had its effect,
so they looked hopefully forward to a speedy relief from their trying
situation. But as the morning wore away and the afternoon was partly
sped, and the sergeant had not come, the feeling of deep concern again
oppressed them. They tried to be cheerful, and not to betray their
anxiety to each other. But their hearts were troubled, for they both
strongly felt that something had happened to the one who alone could
bring them the needed help. Rolfe had just replenished the fire for the
hundredth time during the day, and was on the point of going after more
wood for the night, when a cry of joy from Marion caused him to look
quickly around. At first he could hardly believe his eyes, for there
was Hugo, the trapper, coming toward them among the trees with great
strides. A toboggan trailed behind, containing a bundle, and a pair of
snow-shoes. His beard was thickly coated with frost, and he had the
appearance of Santa Claus on his mission of goodwill.
After her cry of joy Marion was too much overcome to utter another word
until Hugo had thrown the rope from off his shoulders, and stepped
from his snow-shoes. She then sprang to his side, and impulsively
threw her arms around his huge body, much to Rolfe’s surprise. Tears
of thankfulness were streaming down her cheeks as she looked into her
father’s face.
“Thank God, you have come!” she at length murmured. “But have you met
Sergeant North? Is he safe?”
It was well for Marion’s peace of mind that she did not notice the
expression which leaped into Hugo’s eyes as she asked that question.
She wondered, though, why her father somewhat roughly unclasped her
arms and moved closer to the fire. She mistook his meaning, thinking
that he was the bearer of bad news which he was loath to impart. Her
face turned very white.
“Has anything happened to him?” she asked in a voice that was almost a
whisper. “Surely he is not dead.”
“No, he is not dead,” Hugo replied, without looking at her. “At least,
he wasn’t the last time I saw him. But he was in a bad way when I
stumbled across him in that storm. But never mind about him now. How
are you two making out? Plenty of grub, eh?”
“Just what you see there,” Rolfe replied, pointing to the last of the
moose meat hanging from the limb of a tree. “We’ve had nothing but meat
diet for days.”
“Well, you might be worse off, young man,” Hugo reminded, looking
keenly at the constable. “But I’ve something here which will be a
change. It’s all I could scrape together, but I guess it will last
until we get out of this. We must not stay long, for the sergeant, in
whom you are so much interested, is waiting our coming several miles
away.”
This was good news to Marion and Rolfe. They asked several more
questions, but receiving no satisfactory reply, they desisted. Hugo had
brought some tea, and when this had been prepared in a small tin can
which he always carried with him, they were greatly refreshed. He had
also a supply of “sourdough” bread, and a tin of jam. To the ones who
had been living for days upon meat these proved great delicacies.
“Why, this is regular hotel fare,” Rolfe remarked, as he helped himself
to a second large slice of bread. “We only need the napkins and a few
other accessories to make it the real thing.”
Marion smiled, but Hugo seemed to take no notice of the young man’s
remarks. In fact, he had not heard him. His mind was upon more
important matters. He was tired, as well, for he had been on the
march through most of the storm, and long before dawn that day. He
did not tell of the terrible struggle he had made to reach his cabin
far beyond the valley, of his brief rest there while he packed up his
meagre supply of food, and his starting forth again before the storm
had spent its fury. It was not his way to tell of such things. He had
accomplished his purpose, and that gave him all the satisfaction he
needed.
But he was greatly disappointed. He had done it all for Marion’s sake,
and upon his arrival at the camp in the forest her first question was
about the sergeant. She had come to him from that world which he never
expected to see again. She had brought a new inspiration into his life.
She had changed him until he hardly knew himself. And yet for all
that she was not his. She belonged to another, a member of the Force
from which he had been fleeing for years. And yet he knew it was his
own fault. He had left her and her mother to face the reproach of the
world, and like a coward had fled to the wilderness. But Marion had
followed him! She had found him! Surely there must be love in her heart
for her wayward father.
All this swept through his mind during the short time he rested at
the camping-place. There were other things as well which caused him
considerable uneasiness, all of which, however, he wisely kept to
himself.