UNFOLDING
When morning dawned the horrors of the night lessened, and although
weary from want of sleep Martin was not so much depressed. This was due
principally to the fact that Nance was somewhat improved. The change had
come very quietly, and toward morning she had opened her eyes and had
spoken to the bowed man crouching in the chair before the fire. Martin
had bounded to her side, and when he saw the new expression in her eyes
he knew that the turn for the better had come, and that with care she
would recover.
There was complete silence in the cabin all through the day, for Nance,
who had sunk into a natural sleep, must not be disturbed. Quabee, and
often Taku, kept a patient and faithful watch by the child, while Martin
slept on the couch to the left of the fire-place.
Thus through the days and weeks which followed this season of anxiety
Nance rapidly improved. Martin was ever with her, played with her, told
her stories, and did all in his power to atone for his past neglect. The
story he was called upon to tell more than any other was about Beryl.
Nance was never weary of hearing about her, and it was the one which
Martin was never tired of relating. A mere general and vague idea of
what her heroine was like would not satisfy the child. She had to know
the colour of her eyes, hair, what kind of dresses she wore, and how she
looked when she sang, in fact so many things that Martin's memory was
severely put to the test.
To Nance Beryl was more than human. The child's vivid imagination
wrought a marvellous transformation, and invested her heroine with
qualities little short of divine. As the months passed and Nance's mind
steadily developed this silent adoration instead of diminishing
increased. Beryl was her standard of perfection in everything. She must
have her hair arranged just like Beryl's, and she endeavoured to teach
Quabee to make her dresses like those of her heroine. The Indian woman
would often gaze in amazement as Nance talked about Beryl. She could not
see with the eyes of the child, nor enter into her bright and wonderful
world of fancy.
The greatest thing of all to Nance was that Beryl could sing. She,
accordingly, must do the same. She had a sweet voice herself, and a true
ear, and picked up tunes almost intuitively. Able to sing himself,
Martin taught her all the songs and hymns he could remember. Then when
she became old enough he gave her lessons upon the violin. It was a
great day for the child when she was allowed to take the instrument into
her own hands. She had often looked upon it with deep longing, and would
sit for any length of time watching Martin drawing the bow so skilfully
across the strings, and producing such marvellous music.
Since Nance's illness Martin's mind had been much concerned as to the
child's future. He had brought her into the wilderness, and was it right
that she should grow up in ignorance? He began to realise his
responsibility more and more. Some day, no doubt, she would go out into
the world of civilisation, and should she go as a young savage? No, such
should not be the case. He would teach her here in the little cabin. It
would be the schoolhouse, he the teacher, and Nance the pupil. He would
instruct her year after year, develop her mind, and lead her into many
fields of knowledge. Although far away from the great centres of
education she should have learning which should not make her ashamed if
ever she should leave her forest home.
With his mind thus made up Martin at once outlined a course of studies
for Nance. The instruction was very simple at first. Martin was a good
teacher, the child an apt scholar, and so rapid progress was made. By
the time Nance was able to read there came the great necessity for
books. Martin had printed everything for her upon scraps of paper. But
this was a laborious and a never-ending task. He, therefore, sent an
order to the trading post, and after waiting for over a year the books
at last arrived. Martin had written for children's books suitable for a
little girl. This order the trader had forwarded to his company in
England, and the selection was accordingly made there.
It was a great event for Nance when the books arrived. It was a cold
night in midwinter when the Indians returned from their trip to the
post. There were other things as well in the various packages, but the
girl had no eyes for anything but the books. Martin, too, was much
interested. The sight of a book was to him like a sparkling spring of
water to a thirsty traveller. Although they were only books for
children, yet he unwrapped the parcel with feverish haste and examined
each volume. He and Nance were on the floor before the fire, and as the
thick paper wrapping gave way, and the books were exposed to view, the
maiden clapped her hands with delight.
"Oh, daddy, look at this!" and she picked up one of the treasures with a
bright picture on the cover.
"You will like that, Nance," Martin replied. "It's 'Alice in
Wonderland,' the story your mother used to tell you, and suppose we
begin upon it first."
Thus sitting upon Martin's knee, with her head resting against his
shoulder, Nance heard again that sweet, thrilling story of Alice's
marvellous adventures. Never before had she listened to a tale from a
real book, and often she would interrupt the reading that she might look
upon the funny, and, to her, wonderful pictures.
That night after Nance was asleep Martin sat for a long time before the
fire. The book he was reading was not new to him, but it had been years
since he had first read "Little Women." It fascinated him now more than
ever. He could enter into the ways of children, and in every incident
Nance always rose up before him. How pure and innocent were the little
folk mentioned in the book, and what a confiding trust they had in their
elders.
After a while he laid the volume aside and began to muse upon what he
had just been reading. Suppose that the children should have found out
that the older ones, surrounding them with such love and care, were very
wicked, and had committed evil deeds in the past. What a fearful and
heart-breaking revelation it would have been to them. Then he thought of
Nance. What if she in some way should learn that he himself was a bad
man! What would she think? He knew that she looked upon him as her hero,
and if she should find out the truth about his past life what a terrible
grief it would bring to her.
Martin sat straight up in his chair as these thoughts swept upon him.
Nance must never know. She must always think of him as a man true and
pure. Neither must he give her any cause to believe otherwise.
Martin was not at all satisfied with himself. He longed to be worthy of
Nance's trust. What would he not give to be able to look into her clear,
confiding eyes, and to feel that he was just what she considered him to
be. This was what gave him so much concern now. He wanted the child to
believe in him, and at the same time he wished to be worthy of that
belief.
A new life was now opened up to Nance. She was growing fast, not only in
body, but in mind as well. The books had admitted her into a world of
wonder of which she had never before dreamed. They were only a few to be
sure, but she knew them almost by heart. Her music, too, gave her much
delight, and Martin was astonished at the rapid progress she made. The
next year more books arrived, with some sheet-music as well, and thus
Nance's mind was fed upon new delights. Then, one Christmas morning,
when she opened her eyes, she found at the foot of the Christmas tree a
fine new violin--her very own. She did not know how much the instrument
had cost, nor the effort which had been made to obtain it. Her cup of
joy was now overflowing. Martin, too, was happy as he watched Nance. Her
eyes sparkled with animation, and her face beamed with happiness as she
drew the bow deftly across the strings.
That she was developing into a beautiful maiden he was well aware. She
was growing fast, with a figure lithe and graceful. Her dark eyes
reflected as in a clear spring the various moods of her nature. They
twinkled with fun, and danced with delight. Often they grew sad and
thoughtful, and at times they were soft with the light of love. Hers was
an affectionate nature, which was revealed more and more as the years
passed. To her Martin was all in all, and as her mind expanded she saw
the difference between him and the Indians. The latter were very dear to
her, especially Quabee. But the native women could not understand the
deep longings hidden within her bosom. She knew that Martin could, and
to him she talked.
Nance often wondered what the great world was like beyond the mountains,
about which she had read so much in the books. Why were she and Martin
living away in the wilderness among the Indians? she asked herself many
a time. Martin often noticed the far-away expression in her eyes, and
partly surmised the cause. It gave him considerable uneasiness. He was
afraid lest Nance should become dissatisfied and wish to go to the
places of which he had so often told her. He had expected this, and had
even looked forward to the day when they would leave their forest home.
But now when the time seemed to be drawing near he shrank more and more
from the idea.
Although Nance had just entered her teens when these thoughts came to
Martin, yet he realised that every year would make the life more
unbearable to her. She was longing for some white girl to play with. The
Indian children, notwithstanding the teaching they had received from
Martin, did not suit her as companions. She seldom cared to play with
them, preferring to be by herself or with Martin.
During the summer Nance lived mostly in the open. When not roaming along
the river gathering wild flowers, which grew in such abundance, she was
out upon the lake with Martin. What life could be more congenial than
that spent in God's Great Open. Yet in the maiden's heart there was a
longing for other things. She wished to know more of the world beyond
the mountains, and to mingle with the people of whom she had heard so
much from Martin and read about in the books. She often pictured to
herself what it would be like, how she should act, and what people would
think of her. At such times she always thought of Beryl, and tried to
imagine what she would do and say. Such an influence was by no means
without its effect, and Martin often marvelled how Nance acquired such a
quiet and graceful manner, never having seen a white woman, except her
mother, whom she did not even remember. He did not know that the silent
daily worship of an ideal woman was working the transformation.
Everything he had told her about Beryl had been thought over so
continually that the very character of the woman of beauty, refinement
and nobleness had become indelibly impressed upon the maiden's plastic
nature.
Thus, while Nance was living in her enchanted world of fancy, Martin was
brooding deeply over more serious things. Of his burden, which grew all
the heavier as the years passed, he could in no way lighten it by
speaking of it to Nance. He had to bear it alone, no matter how crushing
it might become.