THE CEASELESS THROB
After the Christmas excitement life settled down to a quiet monotony in
the little cabin at the mouth of the Quaska River. Nance played day
after day with her doll and other toys, and never seemed to grow weary
of them. Martin visited his traps each day, and during the long evenings
remained at home. There was no work he could do upon the interior of the
building, so he had very little to occupy his time. Nance always went to
bed early, after she had several stories told to her. Silence then
brooded over the place, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the
sound of the violin, upon which Martin would play when the mood was upon
him. There was nothing else for him to do but sit and smoke, alone with
his own thoughts.
For a while he was contented with this quietness and solitude. But
Martin was a man, not a beast of the pen, and he possessed something
besides a mere body. There was a power within him which refused to be
still. It was ever active, like the ceaseless throb of the engine
concealed within the ship. He had known other things. He knew what it
was to study, to think, and to aspire. His training had made him so, and
he could not endure a life of inactivity.
For the first time since entering the wilderness an insatiable longing
came upon him for books, or reading matter of some kind. He thought of
his well-filled shelves in his old parish. What a pride he had taken in
his library, and what joy had always been his when he could be alone for
a while with his favourite authors. But now he had nothing, not even a
scrap of a newspaper. He looked around the barren room, and a tremor
shook his body as he realised what little chance there was of ever
having those rude walls adorned with books. And what an opportunity for
reading, he mused, by the bright light of the open fire.
He was thinking thus one evening when the door softly opened and Taku
and Quabee glided into the room, and squatted upon the floor to his
left. Martin was pleased that they had come, as he was beginning to be
quite fond of these two well-behaved natives. The only difficulty he had
was in talking with them. He did not understand their language, while
their knowledge of the English tongue was most meagre. Otherwise they
would have proven most congenial company.
By their manner he knew that they had come for some special purpose, for
they were unusually silent, and sat for a time without saying a word.
Martin offered Taku a plug of tobacco, which the latter took, filled his
pipe, and then handed it over to his wife. Soon large volumes of smoke
were filling the room, while expressions of satisfaction rested upon the
faces of the visitors.
"Good!" Taku ejaculated, looking at Martin. "Fine squaw, eh?" and he
motioned towards Quabee.
Martin nodded.
"You teach 'um all sam' white man, eh?" Taku continued.
"What's that?" Martin inquired. "Me no savvey."
"You mak' 'um spik all sam' white man?"
"Oh, I see. You want to speak white man's tongue? you want to talk as I
do?"
"Ah, ah, all sam'."
"Maybe so," was the slow reply. "I'll think it over. You come in the
morning."
"You mak' Injun sling, eh?"
"Do what?"
"Sling, all sam' dis," and Taku began to hum the air of a tune he had
learned.
"Where did you hear that?" Martin asked somewhat sharply.
"At post. White squaw mak' beeg box sling all sam' dis," and the Indian
tapped upon the floor with his fingers, imitating some one playing an
organ.
"And did she sing, too?" Martin questioned.
"Ah, ah."
"And you savvey it, eh?"
"Ah, ah. Me sling all sam' white squaw. Me no savvey talk," and he shook
his head in a disconsolate manner.
"You want to savvey the words, do you?"
"Ah, ah."
"Well, then, I shall think about it. You come to me in the morning.
Savvey?"
"Ah, ah. Me savvey."
When the Indians had departed Martin sat for a long time in deep
meditation. An uneasy feeling possessed him. He knew very well now that
the hunters who had gone to the post for supplies had come in contact
with the missionaries there, and had attended service. They would go
back again, and each time they would hear and learn more about the
teaching of the Church. Soon they would hold service among themselves,
and sing the hymns as well.
Presently an idea flashed into his mind, which somewhat startled him. It
was not unlikely that the missionary, knowing of these Indians, would
visit them from time to time and hold service among them. Again the
bishop's warning came to him. He was surely learning now how true were
those words. He paced rapidly up and down the room. What should he do?
Must he leave this place, and the cabin upon which he had expended so
much labour, and depart? If he did so where could he go from the
influence of the Church?
A sudden thought stabbed his mind, which caused him to pause in the
middle of the room. Why had not the idea come to him before? he asked
himself. He crossed at once to the chair he had recently left, and sat
down. He wished to think it all out very carefully. The Church had cast
him off, and he had fled from its influence. He had been always on the
defensive. Why not change his position and assume the aggressive? The
Church was nothing to him now except the great disturber of his peace of
mind. Although he was only one, yet why should he not show that he could
retaliate? Why run away like a cur? Would it not be better for him to
use his influence and oppose the onward march of the Church into the
valley of the Quaska? He would teach the Indians the English language,
and when they could understand him intelligently he would speak to them
about the Church, and it would not be to its advantage, either.
The conclusion Martin arrived at this night did not trouble him in the
least. He believed that he was justified in the course he was about to
pursue. He wondered why he had not done this before. More than once the
idea came to his mind that he would like to go back to the ways of
civilisation and expose the Church. He knew many things about it which
were not generally known, for he had been within the inner circle. He
had seen much sham, hypocrisy, and even downright sin in the fold. He
could tell of the strife, and division which often existed; of the
incessant struggle for high positions; of the jealousy and envy which
were so common. Oh, yes, he would unfold a tale which would startle the
world. He thought of all these things as he lay that night in his bunk.
Not once did there come to him a realisation of his own misdeeds, but
only those of others.
Early in the morning Taku and Quabee came to the cabin, bringing with
them so many other Indians that the room could hardly hold them all.
Martin looked upon them with something akin to despair, although he
determined to do the best he could to instruct them. He chose the
simplest words at first, using the common articles with which they were
familiar as illustrations. The natives were most anxious to learn, and
repeated the words over and over again with remarkable patience. Time
was nothing to them, and in fact they would have remained all day if
Martin had been willing to instruct them. But a lesson of two hours was
all that he could endure, especially as the atmosphere in the room had
become almost unbearable. When he stopped, and signified that there
would be no more teaching that day his scholars made no movement to
depart. They remained squatted upon the floor with an expression of
expectation upon their faces, which Martin could not understand.
At length Taku rose slowly to his feet, and stood before the white man.
"Injun wait," he began. "Injun lak' sling all sam' white squaw," and he
jerked his thumb toward the east.
These words were received with much approval by the assembled natives.
Martin well understood what they meant, and his heart beat rapidly. What
should he do? Should he teach these Indians to sing the hymns of the
Church which had cast him out, or should he poison their minds by
telling them that such things were all nonsense? The Indians were
observing him closely, and it seemed as if they were watching the
struggle which was going on in his mind. Their eyes appeared to reproach
him, and for relief he lifted the violin from its case, and began to
tune up the instrument.
While he thus stood in the valley of decision Martin glanced towards
Nance, sitting quietly by Quabee's side. Her sweet innocent face was
turned towards him, and her bright eyes were following his every
movement. He glanced towards the expectant natives. They were Nance's
companions, and would be for years to come. Suppose he denied them their
request now, and turned their minds against religious teaching, what
would be the outcome? What had he to offer them instead? By influencing
them for good it would be a benefit to Nance as well.
His hands trembled as he continued to thrum upon the strings. How could
he turn against the Church? He thought of his parents, and remembered
what noble lives they had led, and the peace and comfort they had
received through that very Church which he was now on the verge of
opposing. Then his mind flashed to Beryl. Beryl! What a vision rose
before him. How could he deny the Church of which she was such a devoted
member? What did all the sham and pretence amount to in comparison with
her! A Church which could produce such characters as his parents and
Beryl, how could he fight against it?
By this time the Indians were becoming restless. They were talking among
themselves, and although Martin could not understand what they were
saying, it was not hard for him to detect a distinct note of anger. This
brought him to himself, and put an end to his indecision. He thought of
the Bishop's words, and a scornful laugh broke from his lips, as he rose
from the stool on which he had been sitting, and laid the violin upon
the table. What a fool he had been, he told himself, for having wavered
even for an instant. Why should he teach these natives the hymns of the
Church? If he began now there would be no end. They would come every
day, demanding more. No, it should not be. It was far better not to
begin, no matter how angry the Indians might be.
When the natives understood that the white man would not play for them,
and that the instructions for the day were ended, they departed surly
and dejected. But Martin did not care what they said or thought. He had
made up his mind to oppose the Church, and he was not to be turned aside
any more. Twice, at least, during the past year he had been weak, and
had given way, but it must never happen again.
That night after the simple supper was over, the few dishes washed and
put away, Nance climbed upon Martin's knee.
"Tell me about the beautiful flower, please," she pleaded, laying her
head contentedly against his shoulder.
"What flower, dear? Heart's Ease?"
"No, not that one now. The other one, you know, which could sing so
lovely."
"Oh!" Martin caught his breath. He was surprised that Nance should make
such a request when he had been thinking so much about Beryl all through
the day.
"Why do you wish to hear about her, little one?" he asked after a pause.
"'Cause I like her. I think about her so much, and how pretty she must
be."
"Yes, she is pretty, Nance, and so very, very good."
"What's her name, daddy?"
"Beryl."
"Oh, isn't that a funny name for a flower!"
"It is. But you see this flower is a woman."
"A woman!" Nance sat up straight, and looked full into Martin's face.
"I'm so glad. It's much nicer than being just a flower. You called her
that in play, didn't you?"
"Yes, Nance, just in play."
"And is she a really real woman?"
"A real woman, Nance; the most beautiful I ever saw."
"More beautiful than my own mamma?"
Martin started at this unexpected question. A picture rose before him of
the white face of a dead woman, lying in the Indian lodge on the bank of
the great river beyond the mountains. How could he answer the child?
"I never knew your dear mamma, little one," he at length replied. "I
never talked to her. But I know Beryl, and have heard her sing."
"Does she love little girls?"
"Yes. She loves everything that is good and beautiful."
"Does she love you, daddy?"
"I--I am not sure," Martin stammered, while a flush came into his face.
"I am not beautiful, neither am I good."
"Yes, you are," and Nance twined her little arms around his neck. "You
are so beautiful and good that anybody would love you. I do, anyway."
Martin could say no more. A lump rose in his throat, and a strange
feeling took possession of him. The simplicity and innocent prattle of
this child were unnerving him. He told her that it was getting late, and
that she must go to bed. As he bent over her and gave her the usual
good-night kiss she looked up earnestly into his face.
"When I am a big woman," she said, "I want to be just like Beryl. Do you
think I will, daddy?"
"I trust so," was the quiet reply. "But go to sleep now, and we'll talk
about it to-morrow."