A CANOE COMES AND GOES
Lying on his back, his head pillowed on a rolled-up blanket, Hubert
Stane became aware that the sound of the girl's movements had ceased.
He wondered where she had gone to, for it seemed clear to him that she
had left the camp, and as the time passed without any sound indicating
her presence he began to feel alarmed. She was unused to the woods, it
would be easy for her to lose herself and if she did----
Before the thought was completed he heard the sound of a snapping
stick, and knew that she had returned. He smiled with relief and waited
for her appearance, but a few minutes passed before she entered the
tent, bearing in her hand a tin cup. He looked at her inquiringly.
"What have you there, Miss Yardely?"
"Balsam," was the reply, "for the cut upon your head. It is rather a
bad one, and balsam is good for healing."
"But where did you get it?"
"From I forget how many trees. There are quite a number of them
hereabouts."
"I didn't know you knew so much of wood lore," he said smilingly.
"I don't," she retorted, quickly. "I am very ignorant of the things
that really matter up here. I suppose that balsam would have been the
very first thing an Indian girl would have thought of, and would have
searched for and applied at once, but I only thought of it this
morning. You see one of my uncle's men had a little accident, and an
Indian went out to gather the gum. I happened to see him pricking the
blisters on the trees and gathering the gum in a dish and I inquired
why he was doing it. He explained to me, and this morning when I saw
the cut, it suddenly came to me that if I could find balsam in the
neighbourhood it would be helpful. And here it is, and now with your
permission I will apply it."
"I wonder I never thought of it myself," he answered with a smile. "It
is a very healing ungent. Apply to your heart's content, Miss Yardely."
Deftly, with gentle fingers, the girl applied the balsam and then bound
the wound with a strip of linen torn from a handkerchief. When the
operation was finished, still kneeling beside him, she leaned back on
her heels to survey the result.
"It looks quite professional," she said; "there isn't an Indian girl in
the North could have done it better."
"There isn't one who could have done it half as well," he answered with
a laugh.
"Are you sure?" she asked quickly. "How about Miskodeed?"
"Miskodeed?" he looked at her wonderingly.
"Yes, that beautiful Indian girl I saw you talking with up at Fort
Malsun."
Stane laughed easily. "I know nothing whatever about her capacity as a
healer," he said. "I have only spoken to her on two occasions, and on
neither of them did we discuss wounds or the healing of them."
"Then----" she began, and broke off in sudden confusion.
He looked at her in some surprise. There was a look on her face that he
could not understand, a look of mingled gladness and relief.
"Yes?" he asked inquiringly. "You were about to say--what?"
"I was about to say the girl was a comparative stranger to you!"
"Quite correct," he replied. "Though she proved herself a friend on the
night I was kidnapped, for I saw her running through the bushes towards
my tent, and she cried out to warn me, just as I was struck."
"If she knew that you were to be attacked she ought to have warned you
before," commented Helen severely.
"Perhaps she had only just made the discovery or possibly she had not
been able to find an opportunity."
"She ought to have made one," was the answer in uncompromising tones.
"Any proper-spirited girl would have done."
Stane did not pursue the argument, and a moment later his companion
asked: "Do you think her pretty?"
"That is hardly the word for Miskodeed," answered Stane. "'Pretty' has
an ineffective sort of sound, and doesn't describe her quality. She is
beautiful with the wild beauty of the wilds. I never saw an Indian girl
approaching her before."
Helen Yardely frowned at the frank enthusiasm with which he spoke.
"Wild? Yes," she said disparagingly. "That is the word. She is just a
savage, with, I suppose, a savage's mind. Her beauty is--well, the
beauty of the wilds as you say. It is barbaric. There are other forms
of beauty that----"
She broke off abruptly, and the blood ran rosily in her face. Stane saw
it and smiled.
"Yes," he answered gaily. "That is true. And I think that, however
beautiful Miskodeed may be, or others like her, their beauty cannot
compare with that of English women."
"You think that?" she cried, and then laughed with sudden gaiety as she
rose to her feet. "But this is not a debating class, and I've work to
do--a house to build, a meal to cook--a hundred tasks appealing to an
amateur. I must go, Mr. Stane, and if you are a wise man you will
sleep."
She left the tent immediately, and as he lay there thinking over the
conversation, Stane caught the sound of her voice. She was singing
again. He gave a little smile at her sudden gaiety. Evidently she had
recovered from the mood of the early morning, and as he listened to the
song, his eyes glowed with admiration. She was, he told himself, in
unstinted praise, a girl of a thousand, accepting a rather desperate
situation with light heart; and facing the difficulties of it with a
courage altogether admirable. She was no helpless bread-and-butter miss
to fall into despair when jerked out of her accustomed groove. Thank
Heaven for that! As he looked down at his injured leg he shuddered to
think what would have been the situation if she had been, for he knew
that for the time being he was completely in her hands; and rejoiced
that they were hands so evidently capable.
Then he fell to thinking over the situation. They would be tied down
where they were for some weeks, and if care was not exercised the
problem of food would grow acute. He must warn her to ration the food
and to eke it out. His thought was interrupted by her appearance at the
tent door. She held in her hand a fishing line that he had purchased at
the Post and a packet of hooks.
"I go a-fishing," she cried gaily. "Wish me luck?"
"Good hunting!" he laughed back. "I hope there is fish in the stream."
"Herds! Flocks! Coveys! Schools! What you like. I saw them when I was
hunting for the balsam."
"That is fortunate," he said quietly. "You know, Miss Yardely, we may
have to depend on fin and feather for food. The stores I brought were
only meant to last until I could deliver you to your uncle. We shall
have to economize."
"I have thought of that," she said with a little nod. "I have been
carefully through the provisions. But we will make them last, never
fear! You don't know what a Diana I am." She smiled again, and
withdrew, and an hour later returned with a string of fish which she
exhibited with pride. "The water is full of them," she said. "And I've
discovered something. A little way from here the stream empties into a
small lake which simply swarms with wild fowl. There is no fear of us
starving!"
"Can you shoot?" he inquired.
"I have killed driven grouse in Scotland," she answered with a smile.
"But I suppose ammunition is valuable up here, and I'm going to try the
poacher's way."
"The poacher's way?"
"Yes. Snares! There is a roll of copper wire in your pack. I've watched
a warrener at home making rabbit snares, and as there's no particular
mystery about the art, and those birds are so unsophisticated, I shall
be sure to get some. You see if I don't. But first I must build my
house. The open sky is all very well, but it might come on to rain, and
then the roofless caravanserai would not be very comfortable. It is a
good thing we brought an ax along."
She turned away, and after perhaps half an hour he caught the sound of
an ax at work in the wood a little way from the tent. The sound reached
him intermittently for some time, and then ceased; and after a few
minutes there came a further sound of burdened steps, followed by that
of poles tossed on the ground close to the tent. Then the girl looked
in on him. Her face was flushed with her exertions, her forehead was
bedewed with a fine sweat, her hair was tumbled and awry, and he
noticed instantly that she had changed her torn blouse and skirt for
the clothing which his foresight had burdened her pack with. The grey
flannel shirt was a little open at the neck, revealing the beautiful
roundness of her throat, the sleeves of it were rolled up above the
elbows after the work-man-like fashion of a lumberman, and showed a
pair of forearms, white and strong. His eyes kindled as he looked on
her.
She was radiantly beautiful and strong, he thought to himself, a fit
mate for any man who loved strength and beauty in a woman, rather than
prettiness and softness, and his admiration found sudden vent in words.
"Miss Yardely, you are wonderful!"
The colour in her face deepened suddenly, and there was a quick
brightening in her grey eyes.
"You think so?" she cried laughing in some confusion.
"I certainly do!" he answered fervently.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Well," he replied quickly, and not uttering what had been in her mind,
"you adapt yourself to difficult circumstances so easily. I don't know
another girl in the world who would so cheerfully do what you are
doing."
"Oh," she retorted gaily, "needs must when the devil drives! But was
that all you were thinking?"
She knew it was not, for she had seen the look in his eyes, and her
question was recklessly provocative and challenging. She knew it was
such as she had flung it at him; and Hubert Stane knew too. His face
flushed, his heart pounded wildly; and for a moment there was a surging
desire to tell her what he really had been thinking. The next moment he
put the temptation from him.
"No," he answered with an attempt at laughter, "but the rest is not for
publication."
There was a little tremor in his voice as he spoke which Helen Yardely
did not fail to notice. For a moment she stood there undecided. She was
conscious of an uplift of spirit for which there appeared no valid
reason, and she visioned opening out before her a way of life that a
week ago she had never even dreamed of. Three days in the solitude of
the wilderness with Hubert Stane had brought her closer to him than an
acquaintance of years could have done, and she was aware of wild
impulses in her heart. As she stood there she was half-inclined then
and there to challenge fate, and to force from him the words that he
withheld. Then, with a great effort, she checked the surging impulses,
and gave a tremulous laugh.
"That is too bad of you," she cried. "The unpublished thoughts are
always the most interesting ones.... But I must away to my
house-building or I shall have to spend another night under the stars."
She turned and walked abruptly away. In her eyes as she went was a
joyous light, and her heart was gay. As she swung the ax upon her
shoulder and moved towards the trees she broke into song, the words of
which reached Stane:
"It was a lover and his lass
With a hey, and a ho, and a hey nonino,
That o'er the green cornfield did pass
In the spring time, the only pretty ring time,
When birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding,
Sweet lovers love the Spring."
He lay there beating out the melody with his fingers. A musing look
came in his eyes that remained there when once more the sound of her ax
came through the forest stillness. Then it died away and his face grew
grim.
"It's nonsense, the merest madness!" he whispered to himself. "And even
if it were not--a man can't take advantage of such circumstances. It
would be too caddish for words----"
For a long time he lay there listening to the sound of her movements,
which told him when she was near and when further away, and presently
he heard her fixing the lean-to of her improvised hut. She worked
steadily, sometimes singing to herself, but she did not enter the tent
again until noon, when she came in to inquire if he were comfortable
and to say that a meal would be ready shortly.
"How does the hut go?" he asked.
"Oh, finely!" she cried with enthusiasm. "The framework is up, though
I've used all the pack-ropes over the job. I wish I had some nails. I'm
sure I could drive them straight."
"I'm sure you could," he replied laughingly.
"Girls are not nearly so incapable as they let men make them out to be.
I never built a house before, but I am sure this one of mine is going
to be a success. After we have eaten I am going to look for birch-bark
to make the covering, but there's one thing that is worrying me."
"What is that?" he asked.
"I am wondering how to fasten the bark together. I shall have to get it
in strips, I know, and the strips will have to be sewn together. I know
that, but the question is--how? If I had stout twine and a packing
needle it would be easy, but----"
"It is still easy," he interrupted. "You will have to get the roots of
the white spruce, and sew with that, as a cobbler sews, using a knife
for awl."
"Oh," she laughed, "I never thought of that, and it is so simple. I
shall manage all right now."
After the meal of fish and beans and coffee, she disappeared once more,
and later he heard her busy outside again. From the sounds he judged
that she had found the bark and the other materials that she needed,
and was busy sewing the covering for her tepee, and presently he heard
her fixing it. The operation seemed to take quite a long time and was
evidently troublesome, for once or twice sounds of vexation reached him
and once he heard her cry roundly: "Confound the thing!"
He laughed silently to himself at the heartiness of her expression,
then wished that he could go out and help her; but as he could not, and
as she did not come to him in her difficulty he refrained from asking
what the difficulty was, and from offering advice. Half an hour later
she stood in the tent doorway, flushed but triumphant.
"Finished," she cried, "and Sir Christopher Wren was never more proud
than I am."
"I should like to see your castle," laughed Stane.
"You shall, sir," she cried gaily. "You shall. I will lift the canvas
of the tent that you may feast your eyes on my handiwork."
A moment later she was busy rolling up the canvas at one side of the
tent, and presently he found himself looking out on a very fair
imitation of an Indian hunting tepee. He gave the work his ungrudging
admiration.
"It is a very creditable piece of work, Miss Yardely."
"Yes," she responded lightly, "and I'm not going to pretend that I'm
not proud of it. I am, and having done that, I don't think Robinson
Crusoe was so very wonderful after all! I think that I could have
managed as well as he did on his desert island. But here's a fanfare on
my own trumpet! And I've work yet to do, and I must do it before my
doll's house goes completely to my head."
She dropped the canvas of the tent, fastened it into its place, and
then proceeded to arrange a bed of young spruce boughs for herself.
That done to her satisfaction, she prepared the last meal of the day
and then in the stillness of the bright Northland evening, she went off
towards the lake she had discovered in the morning, with the intention
of setting the snare that she had spoken of.
But she did not do so that night, for before she came in sight of it
she was aware of an alarmed clamour of the water-fowl, and wondering
what was the cause of it, she made her approach with caution. The
stream, which she had followed fell over a small cliff to the shore of
the lake and as she reached the head of the fall she became aware of
two men beaching a canoe. Instantly she slipped behind a tree, and from
this point of vantage looked again. The men had lifted the canoe clear
of the water and were now standing upright with their faces to her not
twenty-five yards from the place of her concealment. On this second
glance she recognized them instantly. One of the men was Gerald Ainley
and the other was the Indian, Joe.
For a moment she stood there without moving, then very cautiously she
drew back into the wood behind her, and gradually worked her way to a
place along the lakeside where the undergrowth was very thick, and
where she could watch without fear of discovery. She was less than a
quarter of a mile away from the place where the two had landed, and as
she watched them making camp, the smell of their fire was blown across
to her. Neither of the two travellers showed any disposition to leave
the lakeside, and she watched them for quite a long time, a look of
deep perplexity on her face.
They were friends! She had no doubt that they were looking for herself.
They represented ease and safety, and a quick return to the amenities
of civilization, but she had no desire to discover herself to them. She
thought of the injured man lying in the tent a mile away. It was
possible that the coming of these two, if she made her presence known,
might prove to be beneficial for him. She weighed that side of the
matter very carefully, and her eyes turned to the canoe in which the
men travelled. It was, she recognized, too small to carry four people,
one of whom would have to lie at length in it; and she knew
instinctively that Ainley would propose to leave the Indian behind to
look after Stane whilst he took her back to her uncle. And she was
conscious of a surprising aversion to any such course; aware that she
was satisfied with things as they were. She crouched there for quite a
long time, then a whimsical smile came on her face, and without a
regret she crept quietly away through the forest, leaving the two
searchers unaware of her presence.
When she reached the encampment she looked into the hut and found that
Stane was fast asleep. She smiled to herself, and instead of
replenishing the failing fire, carefully extinguished it with earth,
that neither the glare nor the smoke of it might reach the two
searchers and so lead to the discovery of the camp. Then, having done
all she could to ensure Stane and herself remaining undisturbed in
their wilderness seclusion, she looked in the tent again, smiled once
more, and dropping the fly of the tent, went to her own tepee. Though
she lay long awake, she was up betimes next morning, and after one
glance into the tent to assure herself that her patient was yet
sleeping, she moved off in the direction of the lake. When she came in
sight of it she looked towards the foot of the waterfall for Ainley's
camp. It was no longer there, but a mile and a half away she descried
the canoe making down the lake. As she did so, she laughed with sudden
relief and gladness, and hurried back to the camp to light the fire and
prepare breakfast.