UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE
Slowly, and with the pungent taste of raw brandy in his mouth, Hubert
Stane came to himself. The first thing he saw was Helen Yardely's white
face bending over him, and the first sound he heard was a cry of
sobbing gladness.
"Thank God! Thank God!"
He did not understand, and at her cry made an attempt to move. As he
did so, sharp pains assailed him, and forced a groan from his lips.
"Oh!" cried the girl. "You must lie still, Mr. Stane. I am afraid you
are rather badly hurt, indeed I thought you were killed. I am going to
do what I can for you, now that I know that you are not. Your leg is
broken, I think, and you have other injuries, but that is most serious,
and I must manage to set it, somehow."
"To set it----" he began, and broke off.
"Yes! I am afraid I shall not prove a very efficient surgeon; but I
will do my best. I hold the St. John's Ambulance medal, so you might be
worse off," she said, with a wan smile.
"Much," he agreed.
"Now that you are conscious I am going to leave you for a few minutes.
I must find something that will serve for splints."
Without more ado she departed, taking with her an ax, and presently
through the stillness of the forest there reached him the sound of
chopping. In spite of his pain he smiled to himself, then after
listening for awhile, he began to try and ascertain the extent of his
injuries for himself. There was a warm trickle on his face and he
guessed that there was a gash somewhere; his body seemed to be one
great sore, from which he deducted that he was badly bruised; whilst
his leg pained him intolerably. Lying as he was on the flat of his
back, he couldn't see the leg, and desiring to do so he made a great
effort and sat up. As he did so, he groaned heavily, and incontinently
fainted.
He was still unconscious when the girl returned, and after one quick
look of alarm she nodded to herself. "A faint," she whispered. "Perhaps
it is just as well."
With a knife she ripped the breeches leg right up the seam, then with
the aid of moss and a blanket, together with the rough splints she had
cut, she made a shift to set the broken leg. Twice during the operation
Stane opened his eyes, groaned heavily, and passed into unconsciousness
again.
Helen did not allow these manifestations of suffering to deflect her
from her task. She knew that her unskilled surgery was bound to pain
him severely, and she welcomed the lapses into unconsciousness, since
they made her task easier. At last she gave a sob of relief and stood
up to survey her handiwork. The splicing and the binding looked
terribly rough, but she was confident that the fractured ends of bone
were in position, and in any case she had done her best.
After that she busied herself with building a fire, and after heating
water, washed the wound on Stane's forehead, and carefully examined him
for other injuries. There were bruises in plenty, but so far as she
could discover no broken bones, and when she had satisfied herself on
that point, she turned to other tasks.
Cutting a quantity of young spruce-boughs she fashioned them into a bed
close beside where he lay, and filled all the interstices with springy
moss, laying over all a blanket. That done, she turned once more to
Stane, to find him with eyes wide open, watching her.
"I have set your leg," she said, in a matter-of-fact voice. "I've done
the best I could, though I am afraid it is rather a rough piece of
work."
He raised his head slightly, and glanced down at the bandaged limb,
then he smiled a trifle wanly.
"It has a most workmanlike look," he said in a faint voice.
"Now I want to get you on this bed. I ought to have done so before I
set your leg. I had forgotten that there was no one to help me lift you
on to it. But perhaps we shall be able to manage, though I am afraid it
will be a very painful ordeal for you. Still it must be done--we can't
have you lie upon the ground."
The ordeal was certainly a painful one, but by no means so difficult as
the girl had anticipated. Making a sling out of the pack ropes, Helen
held the injured leg clear of the ground, whilst Stane, using his arms
and his other leg, managed to lift himself backward on to his
improvised couch.
The strain of the effort tried him severely, and he lay for a long time
in an exhausted condition, with his eyes closed. This was no more than
Helen had expected, and she did not let the fact trouble her unduly.
Working methodically she erected the little tent in such a position
that it covered the injured man's bed; and then prepared a meal of such
things as their resources afforded, lacing the coffee she had made with
a little brandy.
Stane was too done up to eat much, but he swallowed a fair quantity of
coffee, whilst the girl forced herself to eat, having already realized
that the welfare of both of them for the time being depended upon her
and upon her strength. When the meal was ended, she found his pipe,
charged it for him, and procured him a light, and with a murmur of
thanks, Stane began to smoke.
From where he lay, through the open tent-fly, he could see a portion of
the windfall barrier which had been the cause of the disaster.
"I thought I was done for," he said as he looked towards the tangled
trunks. "I slipped and plunged right into a sort of crevasse, didn't
I?"
"Yes," answered Helen quietly. "It was a little time before I could
find you. There was a kind of den made by crossed trunks, and you had
slipped between them into it."
"How did you manage to get me out?" he asked, his eyes on the amazing
jumble of trunks and branches.
"Well," was the reply, given with a little laugh, "as I told you this
morning I am fairly strong. But it was a hard task for all that. I had
to cut away quite a number of interlacing branches, and hoist you out
of the crevasse with the pack ropes, then slide you down the deadfall
as best I could. It took me a full hour to get you clear of the trees
and safely to the ground, and all the time I was oppressed with the
thought that you were dead, or would die before I could do anything to
recover you. When I got you to the ground, I went through your pack and
found the brandy which I saw you place there this morning. The rest you
know."
Stane looked at her with eyes that glowed with admiration. "You make it
a little thing," he said gratefully, "but I know what it means. You
have saved my life, Miss Yardely."
The girl flushed crimson, and then laughed a little to hide her
embarrassment. "Oh, as to that--we are quits, Mr. Stane."
"Not quite," he said quietly.
"What do you mean?" she asked quickly.
"Well," he answered, speaking slowly and considering every word, "I am
tied here for some time--for weeks certainly. I can't move and I can't
be moved. You----"
"I!" she interrupted sharply. "I shall remain here. I shall nurse you.
There is nothing else to be done. I could not go forward a mile in this
wilderness of trees without being lost; and I certainly couldn't find
my way back to the river--even if I wanted to."
"But your uncle and friends. They will be looking for you, they will
think you are lost."
"There's no help for that," she answered resolutely. "You will be able
to do nothing for yourself. As you said just now you are tied here for
weeks; and I am tied with you. There is simply nothing else for it. You
were at my service when I needed you, and I am at your service now that
you need me. I think that is all that need be said."
"Perhaps some wandering Indian may show up," he said meditatively.
"Then----"
"I shall refuse to leave you before you are well," replied Helen with a
little laugh. "You are my patient, Mr. Stane--the very first that I
have had the chance of practising on; and you don't suppose I am going
to surrender the privilege that fate has given me? No! If my uncle
himself showed up at this moment, I should refuse to leave you until I
saw how my amateur bone-setting turned out. So there! That is my
ultimatum, sir."
There was an almost merry note in her voice, but there was a note of
resolve also; and Stane's gratitude and admiration increased. He looked
at her with grateful eyes. Her face was rosy, her eyes were bright with
laughter, though they turned away in some confusion as they met his.
"You are a very noble----"
"Oh," she interrupted quickly, her face taking a deeper hue. "You do
not know me yet. You haven't seen me at my worst. You don't know how
catty I can feel sometimes. Wait until you do, and then you can deliver
judgment."
She ended with laughter, and rose from her seat as if to leave the
tent; seeing which Stane spoke quickly.
"Whatever the worst or best of you may be, I am happy to be in your
hands!"
"Just wait until I have shown my claws," she said over her shoulder, as
she passed outside.
Stane lay quite still with a very thoughtful look in his eyes. Outside
he could hear her moving about, singing softly to herself. He caught a
line or two, and his memory instantly supplied the rest.
"Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall we see
No enemy,
But winter and rough weather."
He smiled to himself, and a soft look came into his eyes. The girl was
making a jest of a situation that would have appalled multitudes of her
over-civilized sisters, and he marvelled at her courage. The glow in
his eyes grew brighter as he stared into vacancy. Some day-dream
softened the stern lines in his face, and for a few minutes the spell
of it held him. Then suddenly he frowned, and a little harsh laugh
broke from his lips.
"You fool!" he whispered to himself. "You fool!"
A moment later the girl entered the tent again. In her hand she carried
a rather decrepit hussif and a hank of strong linen thread. She held
them down for him to see.
"I am making free with your possessions, Mr. Stane, but there's no help
for it. I simply must repair these rags of mine."
He looked at her and noticed for the first time that her blouse was
badly torn. Half of one sleeve was ripped away, and there was a long
tear through which he caught the gleam of a white shoulder. Her skirt
he saw was in no better case. She caught his glance and laughed.
"I'm a perfect Cinderella! It will take me hours to sew up these
rents."
"Do you think it is worth while?" he asked with a faint smile. "I'm not
much of a tailor myself; and I should look at that job as wasted
effort."
"But what else can I do?" she demanded. "I can't get in a taxi and run
down to Bond Street on a shopping expedition."
"No," he answered slowly, "but you might look in the pack you carried
today. There's a habit there that is better suited to the woods than
the one you have."
"Oh!" she cried, her grey eyes alight with laughter, and a little flush
in her cheeks. "You brought it along then?"
"I put it in your pack, because I knew that two days of trail in the
forest would reduce your present costume to shreds."
She eyed the hussif distastefully. "I hate sewing," she said. "I think
I will leave the repairs till morning. There is no immediate hurry that
I know of."
"Not at all," he answered with a little smile, and divining that his
advice would be accepted he turned to a fresh subject. "Where are you
going to sleep? You ought not to have given me the tent."
She waved a hand airily. "Outside. There isn't much room here. Like
R. L. S. sleeping out with his donkey I shall discover a new pleasure
for myself."
A quick light leaped in Stane's eyes and a smile came on his wan face.
"What are you smiling at?" demanded the girl laughingly. But he did not
tell her how his mind had recalled the context of the passage she had
referred to, a passage which declared that to live out of doors with
the woman a man loves is of all lives the most complete and free. His
reply was a mere evasion.
"I am afraid you will find it an exaggerated pleasure, Miss Yardely."
"Then it will be strictly for one night only," she said. "Tomorrow I
shall build a shack of boughs and bark like one I watched an Indian
building, down on the Peace river. It will be exhilarating to be
architect and builder and tenant all in one! But for tonight it is
'God's green caravanserai' for me, and I hope there won't be any
trespassers, wolves or bears and such-like beasts."
"There may be mice!" laughed Stane.
"Mice!" A look of mock-horror came on her face. "I'm mortally afraid of
mice!"
"And Meeko may pay you a visit."
"The Lord have mercy on me! Who is Meeko?"
"Meeko is the red squirrel. He abounds in these woods and his Indian
name means the mischief-maker."
"I adore squirrels," laughed Helen.
"Upweekis will be away just now, so he won't disturb you with his
screeching."
"And who may Upweekis be?"
"The lynx! He will have gone to the burned lands after the rabbits for
the summer-hunting."
"Anything else on the forest visiting-list?" asked the girl merrily.
"Kookooskoss, the owl may hail you."
"Pooh! Who's afraid of owls?"
She laughed again, and then grew suddenly grave. "But we are talking
too much," she said quickly. "There is a little-too-bright colour in
your face. I think you had better try to sleep. I shall be just outside
the tent, and if there is anything you need you must call me. Good
night, Mr. Stane. In spite of the forest folk, I expect I shall sleep
like a top."
"Good night, Miss Yardely."
The girl went outside, and after sitting for quite a long time looking
in the fire, retired to the couch of spruce which she had prepared for
herself, and almost instantly fell asleep.
Four hours afterwards she awakened suddenly and looked around her. A
rosy glow through the trees proclaimed the dawn. The forest was
wonderfully still, and there seemed no reason whatever for the sudden
awakening. Then a stream of meaningless babble came through the canvas
wall of the tent. She sat up instantly, and listened. Plainly, the
patient was delirious, and the sound of his delirious babble must have
broken through her sleep. Three minutes later she was inside the tent,
her brow puckered with anxiety.
Stane lay there with flushed face, and wide-open eyes that glittered
with a feverish light. He took absolutely no notice of her entrance and
it was clear that for the present he was beyond all recognition of her.
She looked at him in dismay. For the moment he was quiet, but whilst
she still stood wondering what she should do, the delirium broke out
again, a mere babble of words without meaning, some English, some
Indian, in which she found only two that for her had any significance.
One was Gerald Ainley's name, and the other the name of the beautiful
Indian girl whom she had seen talking with the sick man down at Fort
Malsun--Miskodeed.
Her face flushed as she recognized it, and a little look of resentment
came in her eyes. She remembered what Ainley had hinted at about Stane
and Miskodeed, and what others had plainly thought; and as she stood
there it seemed almost an offence to her that the name should be
mentioned to her even in the unconsciousness of delirium. Then she gave
a hard little laugh at herself, and going outside once more, presently
returned with water and with a couple of handkerchiefs taken from the
sick man's pack.
She poured a few drops between his lips, and then after laving his
face, she laid one of the wet handkerchiefs on his brow, renewing it,
from time to time, in order to cool his head. After a little time the
babble ceased, the restlessness passed away, and his eyes closed in
natural slumber. Seated on the ground, she still watched him, her face
the index of troublesome thoughts; but after a little time, she began
to nod, her chin dropped to her chest, and she fell into a profound
sleep.
"Miss Yardely! Miss Yardely!"
Stane's voice awakened her two hours and a half later. She looked round
in some bewilderment, and as her eyes saw his tired, white face, she
started up.
"I am afraid I must have fallen asleep," she began hurriedly. "I----"
"Have you been watching me all night?" he asked in a rather weak voice.
"No, not all night," she protested. "I awoke outside a little time ago,
and heard you talking deliriously. I came in the tent to do what I
could, and then seated myself to watch. I must have been very tired
or----"
"Please, please, Miss Yardely. You must not reproach yourself. I cannot
allow it! I blame myself for giving you so much trouble."
"How do you feel?" asked Helen, changing the subject.
"Rather groggy," he replied with a poor attempt at gaiety.
She stretched a hand and took his. The palm was moist.
"Ah," she said. "You feel weak no doubt, but the fever has left you. I
will go and attend to the fire and prepare breakfast."
She turned a little abruptly and left the tent, and Stane looked after
her with frowning eyes. Something had gone wrong. There was an air of
aloofness and austerity about her that had not been there yesterday,
and she had spoken in formal terms that had nothing of the camaraderie
which had characterized their acquaintance until now. He could not
understand it; in no way could he account for it; and he lay there
puzzling over the matter and listening to the sound of her movements
outside. Never for a single moment did it enter his mind that the
daughter of civilization was jealous of that daughter of the wilds
whose name he had uttered in the unconsciousness of delirious hours.
Nor did it enter the mind of Helen herself. As she recalled the name
she had heard on his lips in the night, whilst she busied herself with
unaccustomed tasks, the feeling of resentment that was strong within
her, to her appeared a natural feeling due to a sense of outraged
_convenances_ when in reality it had its origin in the strongest and
deepest of primal passions.