A WILDERNESS WAIF
The great Mackenzie River flowed with a strong and steady sweep on its
way to the Arctic Sea. Two boats floated upon its surface, bearing
northward, manned for the most part by half-breeds and Indians.
Employees were they in the service of the notable Fur Trading Company,
which for long years had ruled this wilderness land. For weeks these men
had been pushing their way along this stream, contending with rocks,
rapids, and portages. Their work was hard, but they did it with a
rollicking good humour, and took every difficulty as all in the day's
labour.
Martin Rutland worked as hard as the rest though he talked but little. A
spirit of elation grew within him as they advanced into the great silent
region. He rejoiced at the work, no matter how hard it might be. He had
little time for thought during the day, but at night in camp he would
sit somewhat apart and consider the new life which was now opening up to
him. He seldom joined in talk with his companions, and they did not
interfere with him in any way. This strange, silent, hard-working man
was a mystery to both half-breeds and Indians alike. It was only when he
brought forth his violin and began to play that they would gather
eagerly around him. Music has charms when produced by a master, and such
was Rutland. But never does it seem so entrancing as out in the open on
a calm evening beneath the branches of the tall, over-shadowing trees.
There is a mystic plaintiveness about the sound of a violin on such an
occasion. Rutland's music was generally in a minor key. It expressed his
inmost feelings, and often as he played the naturally superstitious
half-breed would glance apprehensively among the shadowy trees. It awed
them by its strange weirdness like wailing spirits, lost, wandering, and
seeking vainly for refuge and peace. At other times Rutland would play
bright airs and snatches of old songs, which delighted the hearts of his
companions and banished their feeling of fear.
Each day of progress brought to Rutland a greater feeling of exultation.
At last he was free from all influence of the Church which had cast him
out. Here in this barren region he could live like the natives, free
from care. He would seek some far-off band, and become one of them. He
had read much about the Indians, and their picturesque life had always
appealed to him most strongly. He would watch his opportunity, steal
away, and live and die in their midst, more of an outcast than they.
At times he thought about the Church to which he had once belonged, and
a contemptuous sneer always curled his lips when he thought of it. Lying
among the trees, he often wondered how he had ever endured the thraldom
of bygone days. He remembered how particular he had been about the
observance of the slightest rule. In the performance of his duties he
had followed the rubrics of the Prayer Book with the most punctilious
care. The slightest deviation from the rules laid down filled him with
much concern. Special days had been kept with great regularity, and the
command of his bishop was as his conscience. But now all was changed.
The solemn vows he had taken did not trouble him in the least, and the
Church was to him merely a name. Neither did the sin which had driven
him forth disturb him. The spirit of rebellion had reigned in his heart
during all the years of his wandering life. He believed that he had been
unjustly treated. He did not blame himself, but others. He thought of
his comrades in the Ministry, and a feeling of pity and superiority came
into his heart. He pictured them moving in their narrow, petty circle as
of old, and he asked himself what did it all amount to anyway. The spell
of the wilderness was now upon him, and he longed for the voyage to end.
He would abandon the boat when it had reached its most northerly
destination. Then, when his companions had started back, he would plunge
into regions beyond and become lost forever to the world of
civilization.
One evening after a hard day's work they came to a small Indian
encampment just below a dangerous rapid. They had much difficulty in
overcoming this turbulent piece of water, and very glad were they to
rest after their arduous exertions. They found the Indians in a state of
great excitement, the cause of which was soon apparent. That very day a
young fur-trader and his wife had been drowned in an attempt to shoot
the rapid in a canoe. Their little child, a girl of four years, had been
rescued by the natives, and taken to their encampment. The woman's body
was recovered, but of the man no trace could be found.
Rutland, with several of his companions, entered the lodge where the
body of the unfortunate woman was lying. As he drew back the deer-skin
robe which had been placed over her still form, he was surprised at the
young and beautiful face which was presented to view. He stood there for
some time after the rest of the men had taken a hurried look and
departed. He could not get the face of the dead woman out of his mind,
and he awoke in the deep of the night thinking that she was standing by
his side. In his dream he beheld her, and she was pointing with her
finger to something lying at his feet, which he saw to be a little
child.
The Indian women had taken good care of the rescued child, and she awoke
from a sound sleep none the worse for her cold plunge into the river the
day before. Opening her eyes, she expected to see the loved faces of her
parents looking down fondly upon her. Her bright, happy expression
changed to one of terror when she saw instead the dusky native women
bending over her. Wildly she called for her mother, but alas! for the
first time in her young life her mother did not respond with loving
words, nor hurry to her side.
Rutland, hearing the cry of terror, hastened to the lodge and entered.
Why he did so he could not tell. He did not stop to analyse his
feelings, but acted merely upon the impulse of the moment. It was
sufficient for him to know that the little one was in distress and
needed assistance. A large Indian woman was holding the child in her
arms when Rutland appeared. Several squaws were gathered around trying
to soothe her. But the more they talked in the native tongue the more
terrified the child became. Rutland stood for an instant just within the
entrance of the lodge. He saw the little girl, her face distorted with
fear, struggling madly to free herself, and pleading vainly for her
mother. Not for years had Rutland's heart been so stirred. He stepped
quickly forward and reached out his hands to the child. The latter saw
him and, intuitively realising that here was one who could be trusted,
endeavoured to go to him, while a sob of relief escaped her lips.
Rutland caught her in his arms, folded her to his breast, and began to
calm her with words of comfort.
"Hush, hush, little one," he soothed, as he stroked her silken hair.
"You are safe with me, so don't cry any more."
"Mamma, mamma. I want my mamma," wailed the child.
Rutland knew not how to reply. He was little accustomed to the ways of
children, so all he could do was to hold her close to his breast and
tell her that she was safe. Ere long his words had the desired effect,
and soon she remained quietly in his arms looking up into his face with
big, wondering eyes. Passing forth from the lodge, Rutland sat down upon
the trunk of a fallen tree just outside the door. He placed the child
upon his knee, and began to talk to her. He pointed out to her a
squirrel sitting upon the branch of a jack-pine not far off. The child's
eyes grew bright, her face beamed with pleasure, and she clapped her
hands with delight. In a few moments they were the firmest of friends,
and soon they started off in search of the chattering squirrel. It was a
balmy morning, with not a ripple upon the surface of the river. A new
feeling of peace stole into Rutland's heart as he walked by the side of
the child with her soft hand in his. She was a beautiful little maid,
with wavy brown hair, rosy cheeks, and clear, dark eyes. Her plaid dress
was neatly made, and her shoes were of a light-tan colour. At her throat
was a small silver clasp-pin, with the one word "Nance" engraven upon
it, which Rutland believed must be her name.
After they had strolled about for a while they returned to the lodge,
where the Indian women were preparing breakfast.
"You stay here, little one," Rutland said. "These women will give you
something to eat. I must go away now, but I shall come back soon."
"No, no," the child cried, clinging close to him. "I don't want to stay.
I want my mamma. Take me to my mamma. Where is my mamma?"
"She can't come to you now," Rutland replied. "But I promise you that I
shall come back soon."
After much persuasion the child was induced to remain, but she watched
her protector anxiously, with tears in her eyes, as he left her.
Rutland hurried at once toward the forest along an Indian trail, which
led to a hill not far from the river. Here was a native burying ground
where a new grave had been dug that morning. His companions were already
assembled, and by the time Rutland arrived they had the body of the
young woman lowered into the ground. This task was performed in deep
silence, for the presence of death stilled the tongues of these usually
garrulous men. No coffin had they in which to place the body. Instead, a
grey blanket was used as a shroud, and this had been carefully wrapped
around the stiffened form.
As Rutland stood by the grave and looked down upon all that remained of
Nance's mother he thought of the dream which had come to him in the
night, and he saw again the woman pointing silently to the child at his
feet. Between him and the men standing by his side there was a great
gulf fixed. They were rude and unlettered, while he was an educated man,
capable of seeing things not always revealed to others. They saw only
the shrouded form lying in the grave. He saw much more. He beheld a
little home, which had been rudely shattered by the sudden death of
husband and wife. He pictured loved ones far away waiting anxiously for
news from the great northland, and then the sorrow when at last the
tidings reached them, if ever they did, of the precious toll the
wilderness had taken. He thought, too, of the little child so terribly
bereaved, upon whom so much love and care had been bestowed. What would
become of her? he asked himself.
He was roused from his reverie by the sound of shovels striking hard
upon gravel. He looked quickly up and saw that the men were making ready
to fill in the grave. For an instant only he hesitated and then
straightening himself up he raised his right hand.
"Wait a moment," he commanded. "It is not right that we should lay this
woman here without one word of prayer. Who will say it?"
At once every hat was doffed, and the men looked at one another.
"You go ahead, pard," said one at length. "You know best what to say."
Yes, Rutland knew very well what to say--the exact words--but why should
he utter them? He had put everything connected with his Church away from
him forever. He paused in an effort to think of something else. Twice he
started, but each time floundered and stopped. He could not back down,
for the men were watching him. He must say something over the body of
Nance's mother. At length, pulling himself together, he repeated the
words he had used so often in other days.
"Forasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take to
himself the soul of our dear sister here departed, we therefore commit
her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust."
Here he paused, stooped, and seizing a handful of gravel sprinkled it
three times upon the body. This done, he continued the prayer to the
end. Then he stepped back and remained perfectly silent, watching the
men as they rapidly filled in and rounded up the grave. In fact, he
stood there until his companions had gone back to the river. Then he
looked cautiously around to be sure that he was alone. Seeing no one in
sight, he picked up two sticks lying upon the ground and fastened them
together into the form of a cross, with a piece of a raw moose-hide
thong he had in his pocket. This he placed at the head of the newly-made
grave, thrusting it well down into the loose earth.
Rutland could not account for what he had done. If any one had told him
when he awoke that morning that he would repeat that prayer and erect
this rude cross, he would have scoffed at the idea. "I did it all for
the child's sake," he said to himself, as an excuse for his temporary
weakness. At once there flashed into his mind the words of the aged
bishop. "Do you think that you can free yourself from the influence of
the Church? I tell you that you are mistaken; it is impossible."
Rutland's hands clenched hard as the memory of the past swept upon him.
He reached down and laid his hand upon the cross he had just erected. He
would tear it out and break it into a dozen pieces. But as he touched
that symbol of redemption his outstretched arm dropped by his side, and
his head drooped low. Though an outcast, and determined to have nothing
more to do with his Church, he knew now that its influence was upon him
still. It was harder than he had imagined to uproot the teaching which
had been implanted in his heart and mind in early days, and carefully
nourished throughout the years. But he would succeed. Never again would
he allow such weakness to possess him. He would prove the bishop's words
to be false.
When Rutland returned to the encampment he found that his companions
were almost ready to depart. Nance saw him approaching, and with a cry
of delight ran to meet him. He caught her in his arms, and his heart
thrilled with joy at her confidence. Here was the one person in the
whole world to greet him and look up to him for protection. He carried
her to where several Indian women were squatting upon the ground.
"You stay here, little one," and he gently untwined her arms from around
his neck as he spoke. "Be a good girl, and I shall come back to you some
day."
For a few brief heart beats the child lifted her head, looked
searchingly into his eyes, and then with a piteous wail of despair clung
to him closer than ever.
"Don't leave me. Don't leave me," she sobbed. "Take me with you. Take me
to my papa and mamma. I won't stay here. I won't."
Rutland did not know what to do. He seated himself upon a stump and
placed Nance on his knee. He tried to reason with her, telling her how
happy she would be with the Indian women, and how they would care for
her. But his words were of no avail. The more he talked, the closer she
clung to him, and begged him not to leave her.
A shout from the river warned Rutland that his companions were ready to
depart. Quickly rising to his feet, he unloosened the child's arms,
handed her to an old squaw, and moved rapidly away. At once wild shrieks
of despair and terror filled the air. He endeavoured not to listen, and
tried to steel his heart. But it was no use. He stopped and looked back.
He saw the child where he had left her, her little hands stretched out
appealingly toward him. The sight was more than he could endure.
Hesitating no longer, he rushed back, seized her in his arms, bore her
swiftly to the river, and placed her gently in one of the boats. In a
few minutes they were speeding northward, and with them went Nance, the
little waif of the wilderness.