HEART THRUSTS
That evening a little group gathered before the open fire, for the
nights were still cool. Martin was in better spirits, and talked freely
with the old prospector, to whom he had taken a great liking. Dad Seddon
was sitting close to Nance, gazing upon the bright flames as they licked
around the large chunks of wood and then curled up the chimney. The
sleep had much refreshed the old man, although he was still quite weak
from his hard experience since leaving Rapid City.
Tom was in fine fettle. The little circle pleased him greatly, and at
times he cast admiring glances toward Nance, who was busy with her
needle. He had been thinking deeply over what he had heard that day
about Martin, and he was anxious to know for certain if he were the same
man who had buried his Nell years ago. He had tried in vain to find some
resemblance between this long-bearded, rugged frontiersman and the trim
young man who had stood before him on that saddest day of his whole
life. "It cannot surely be the same," he thought, as he turned his eyes
occasionally toward Martin, who was puffing away at his pipe. "And yet,"
he mused, "years make a great difference in a man's appearance."
"How are ye feelin' now, Dad?" he suddenly asked, turning to the old
trapper.
"Better, Tom," was the brief quiet reply.
"That's good. A game of chess would put ye right on yer pins, eh?"
"Sure thing!" and Dad's eyes brightened at the mention of his favourite
game.
"Ah, I thought that would bring ye out of yer dumps," and Tom's hearty
laugh rang out. "But ye needn't think that I'm goin' to keep my nose
down over any chess-board to-night, not a bit of it."
"No?" and the old man looked his disappointment.
"How d'ye expect to git a board an' men out here?" Tom queried.
"Sure. I never thought of that," Dad sadly replied.
"Don't tease Mr. Seddon," Nance laughed. "Would you like to have a game
with me?" and she turned to the man at her side as she spoke.
"What! Can you play, Miss?" There was a pathetic eagerness in Dad's eyes
as he riveted them upon the young woman's face.
In reply Nance rose, and going to a shelf brought down a chess-board and
a small box containing the various pieces. Dad was delighted as he took
the latter in his hands and examined them with a critical eye.
"Did you make these?" he asked, turning to Martin.
"Yes," was the reply, "and many a fine game we've had with them during
the long winter evenings, though we haven't played much of late."
Nance had now drawn up a small table, and soon she and Dad were deeply
engaged in the royal game. Tom watched them with much satisfaction, and
gave vent to several chuckles of delight when he found that Nance was a
match for the trapper.
"Ha, that was a fine move!" he exclaimed, while Nance laughed with glee
as Dad scratched his head and endeavoured to extricate himself from the
clever trap into which his fair opponent had led him. "I'm glad that Dad
has met his equal at last," Tom continued, "fer he always beat me
without mercy. The first time I ever saw chess played," and he now
addressed his remarks to Martin, "was away back in Eastern Canada. Old
Parson Dowden, who was rector fer forty years of Glendale, the parish in
which I was born, didn't have an equal at the game as fer as I know.
Why, he'd go without his meals any time to play chess."
At these words, and especially at the mention of "Dowden" and
"Glendale," Martin gave a distinct start, took the pipe from his mouth
and looked keenly at Tom. But the latter seemed as though he did not
notice Martin's surprise. He bent over, lighted a splinter of wood at
the fire, and applied it to his pipe.
"Yes," he continued between puffs, "old Parson Dowden was a great man at
chess. I remember hearin' how he licked the parson from the next parish
in a wonderful game. But he was a young man, an' hadn't the experience
of Parson Dowden."
The fingers of Martin's right hand clutched the pipe with a firm grip.
His eyes, staring and big, were fixed upon the prospector's face.
Surprise, mingled with consternation, was depicted upon his countenance.
But Tom did not seem to notice anything unusual, and Nance was too
intent upon the game to heed anything else.
"I only saw that young parson from the adjoinin' parish but once," Tom
went on after a pause, in which he seemed to be meditating. "It was when
he buried my Nell. But, poor chap, I heard that he got into trouble, was
put out of the Church, an' so left the parish to parts unknown. 'Twas a
great blow to his friends an' relatives, so I understand."
Tom ceased his narration, casually blew a cloud of smoke into the air,
and shot one lightning glance toward Martin. Any doubt as to the
identity of the man before him was now removed. The strained, haggard
expression upon Martin's face plainly told of the agony within. He sat
very still, although he often looked anxiously and keenly into Tom's
face as if wondering how much he knew, and if he had any idea that the
man sitting before him was the same who had buried his Nell. But the
prospector's manner as he watched the game led him to believe that he
had not the slightest suspicion. Although this was somewhat of a relief
to Martin, yet he began to feel uneasy in Tom's presence. He longed to
hear more about his old parish, and he knew that Tom could supply him
with the information. Several times his lips moved ere he could
sufficiently control himself to speak.
"You've been away from Eastern Canada for some time, I suppose," he at
length remarked in an attempted off-handed manner.
"Yes, nigh on to twenty years," was the reply.
"Many changes must have taken place in your home parish during that
time."
"Yes, many," and Tom gazed thoughtfully into the fire. "I kept in touch
with it fer years, but I haven't heard any news fer a long time now. I
guess people have fergotten all about me an' my Nell. It's wonderful how
soon people will fergit except one thing."
"And what is that?" Martin queried.
"Oh, anything bad about a person. Now take the case of that young parson
from Glendale fer instance. I don't believe they've fergotten about it
yit, at least they hadn't the last time I heard from home."
"Oh, you don't think so?" came involuntarily from Martin's lips, which
Tom was not slow to notice.
"No, not a bit of it. I understand that what he did almost ruined the
Church there, and the man who followed him had a tough time of it."
"Oh!"
"Yes, numbers of people lost all faith in parsons, while others, though
they did not exactly leave the Church, looked with suspicion upon the
new man, as if wonderin' what capers he'd cut up."
"You don't say so!"
"But there were some who took the trouble harder than all the rest," Tom
continued. "The young parson's fall broke his parents' hearts, an' they
both died the next year."
"My God!"
This unusual exclamation caused Nance to look up, startled, from the
game. But Martin did not notice her. He was standing erect now, with
clenched hands, looking straight before him. Quickly recovering himself,
he sat down again.
"It's nothing," he said. "I was overcome at the story of that wretch who
killed his parents. Go on, please."
And once more Tom stabbed to the quick.
"I heard that there was a young woman, I jist fergit her name, who took
on very hard. It nearly broke her heart at what the parson did. She was
a fine singer, too, so I understand. She was sick fer a long time. When
she got well she left Glendale, an' I heard later that she became a
trained nurse. She was very beautiful. I know that, fer I saw her once
myself. She was very much in love with the young parson, so I heard, an'
she had her weddin' dress all made. They were to have been married the
next summer. It was all very sad."
Tom knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and sat watching the dying embers
before him. Martin remained in his chair with his head bent forward, the
very embodiment of despair. Occasionally Tom glanced toward him, and his
heart smote him with compunction for having caused the man such agony of
soul.
Nance wondered more than usual at the expression upon her father's face
as she stooped to give him the customary good-night kiss. She noticed
that he took both of her hands in his and held them longer than was his
wont. She knew that something was troubling his mind, and her heart was
very heavy as she went to her room.
During the following days Martin's mind was much disturbed. The news he
had heard about his parents caused him intense remorse. He thought of
them by day, and would often start up in the dead of night thinking that
they were standing by his side. He pictured over and over again their
sorrow as they sat alone at night in the old farmhouse, mourning over
their wayward son. He recalled the last time he had seen them and how
proudly they had looked into his face. Never before did he fully realise
what his sin had meant to them. But now it all swept upon him with a
maddening intensity. Often a lump would rise in his throat, and tears
roll down his cheeks as that night when he had last seen his parents
rose before him. Once out on the hills he had buried his face in his
hands and sobbed like a child. Only the trees, flowers, and birds
witnessed his grief, and they would not divulge the secret.
Although Martin was fond of the old prospector, yet he felt somewhat
uneasy in his presence. Several times he found Tom watching him with a
wondering expression in his eyes. He was, accordingly, glad when Tom
left with Dad for the diggings up the Quaska. But he knew that he would
return in a few days, and his peace of mind would once more be
disturbed.
One beautiful evening Martin and Nance were seated at the supper table.
The ice had run out of the lake and the river over a week ago. The air
was balmy, and the days long and fine. Nance had been unusually quiet of
late. She was wondering when Dick would return, and if he would be
really the same as when he went away. She had thought over and over
again every word he had uttered. The chair on which he had sat the last
night he was in the cabin she had carefully kept in the same place. "It
will be there for him when he comes back," she had whispered to herself.
Hers was the supreme joy of pure first love, and her heart was light and
happy. Dick Russell's strong, manly form rose before her. She saw the
twinkle in his light-blue eyes, the frank open face, and the erect poise
of his head. To her he was a hero, a knight such as she had read about
in a book upon the shelf. She was thinking of him as she now sat at the
head of the table on this fine evening.
"It will soon be time for us to be packing up, Nance."
The words startled her, and she lifted her eyes quickly to Martin's
face.
"Yes," the latter continued, "we must be over to the Mackenzie in time
to catch the steamer on its return from the North."
"Oh!" It was all that Nance could utter, but it caused Martin to study
her face very carefully.
"Don't you want to go, little one?" he asked, not unkindly.
"Do you really want to go, daddy?" she returned.
"We can't stay here, Nance, that's certain. I could not live with such a
crowd swarming around us. There would no longer be any charm for me
here."
"But there would be no quietness outside, daddy."
"That's different, quite different."
Nance lowered her eyes and toyed for some time with her cup. Martin
watched her anxiously. He knew as well as if she had told him why she
did not wish to leave the country now. But he must get her away forever
from the influence of the young usurper, who would undoubtedly return.
Although Nance was very quiet, a great struggle, nevertheless, was
taking place within her breast. She wished to stay, to see Dick again.
But her duty must be to Martin first. He it was who had done so much for
her, and her love for him was deep and sincere. How could she see him
stay if his heart was set upon leaving the place? Rising from the table,
she threw her arms about Martin's neck.
"Daddy," and her face came close to his as she spoke, "I will go with
you whenever the time comes. You are all I have in the world who really
loves me, so why should I care to remain here?"
Martin caught her hand in his, drew down her face, and kissed her. Tears
came into his eyes, and when he tried to speak he found it difficult to
form the words. He rose abruptly to his feet, and dashed his hand across
his eyes.
"There, there, little one," and a smile such as Nance had never seen
illumined his face. "I know you love me, and it makes me happy. It will
be hard for you to leave, but----"
At that instant a hoarse, raucous sound fell upon their ears with a
startling intensity. They looked at each other, and then hurried to the
door, opened it, and stepped outside.