REVELATION
The new mission room proved a great boon to the miners at Quaska. When
it was first opened very few visited the place, and the missionary felt
somewhat discouraged. But Tom told him not to worry, as they would be
sure to come later.
"Jist wait, pard," he said, "until the nights git long an' cold, then
ye'll see 'em come, an' mighty glad they'll be to have a spot to drop
into instid of sittin' in their lonely shacks."
"But perhaps they'll go to the saloons instead," Dick replied. "Won't
they feel more at home there?"
"Not a bit of it. Some will go, to be sure. But all can't go, an' all
won't want to go. Jist ye wait, an' see."
In due time Tom's words came true, and every night saw the mission room
filled with men. Some came at first rather doubtfully, thinking,
perhaps, that they were to get a sermon before they left. But when they
found the room warm, bright, and filled with such genial company they
were delighted. All they were asked to do was to obey certain rules
which Dick had posted up in several places. Tom was the presiding
genius, even though the missionary was present, and always made every
man thoroughly at home by his hearty greeting.
"Ye're as welcome as the night is long," he would exclaim to each
newcomer. "This is Liberty Hall, with only a few exceptions," and he
would nod toward the rules. "Ye're not to use any cuss words, ye mustn't
fight nor gamble, nor come here with a reekin' whiskey breath."
Only once did a bumptious young miner attempt to ignore such
instructions. His stay was brief, for as many men as could lay hands
upon him hustled him out of the building, with the warning not to return
until he could behave in a proper manner.
Dick was not only pleased at the success of the mission room, but he was
very thankful to see how the men attended service every Sunday evening.
But there was one thing lacking. More reading matter was needed, and
though he had placed his few books at the disposal of the men, they
still craved for more. The papers and magazines he had expected from the
Mission down river, for some reason, did not arrive. He spoke about it
to Nance the morning after the storm.
"The room would be complete if we only had something more for the men to
read. They are about wild for books and magazines. They have already
devoured everything in my small library, and some of the men are reading
the books all over again."
Nance glanced at Dick's worried face, and her eyes dropped as they met
his. An idea came into her mind, and she was on the point of speaking
when she checked herself. No, she would surprise Dick, and that would
make it all the more interesting.
They were standing close to each other, and as Dick looked upon Nance he
thought that she never seemed so beautiful. There was such a simplicity
about her manner, combined with a deep interest in any of his
undertakings. Her hands were clasped before her as she stood there
looking around the room. How he longed to take those hands in his, and
tell her of all that was in his heart. It was not the first time that he
had desired to do so, but he had always desisted. He believed that she
cared for him, but he wanted her to do more than that. He wished to be
sure that she loved him. He was so happy in her presence that he feared
if he told her all that his heart prompted him to tell it might break
the spell, and cause her to avoid him.
Dick Russell was not much acquainted with the ways of women. Hitherto
little time or opportunity had been his to devote to the tender
affections. And in truth he had but slight inclination to do so until he
met Nance. He could not, therefore, read the look of love in her eyes,
nor comprehend the flush which suffused her face whenever he approached.
Could he have done so he would not have hesitated about telling her of
his over-mastering love.
All that afternoon Nance remained with Nurse Marion at the hospital. She
thought much about her father, and wondered if he was safely sheltered
in some miner's cabin. He was in her mind more than usual, and during
the night as she listened to the storm she felt uneasy as to his
welfare. Even after she had fallen asleep she awoke with a start,
thinking that he was holding out his hands to her, and calling to her
for aid.
Such an impression did the vision make upon her that she could not free
herself from the idea that something had happened to her father. During
the morning she was more quiet than the nurse had ever seen her.
The storm had cleared in the night, and after dinner Nance put on her
snow-shoes, and left the hospital. It was Saturday, the day her father
always came home, and it was her custom to have a cheerful fire awaiting
him, and supper ready. She found the house more cold and desolate than
it had ever appeared to her before. But when she had a bright fire
blazing up, the room looked more comfortable and homelike.
Nance sat near the fire warming herself, for she was cold. She thought
of the many times she had sat there with Martin by her side. Then for
the first time the sense of loneliness came upon her. She felt
home-sick, and longed for Martin. She wanted to have him near her, and
listen to his voice. She wished to be a child once again, and to sit
upon his knee while he told her stories. She had fondly imagined that
she would be supremely happy to be away from the log house, and out into
the great world beyond. But now she realised that no matter where she
might go, no place could ever be so dear to her as this rude home where
she had spent so many happy years.
She looked about the room upon all that Martin had done, and the various
things that he had made for her comfort. She had always appreciated his
efforts on her behalf, but now a different feeling stole into her heart,
and tears came into her eyes. How she longed to see him again, that she
might tell him what he was to her, and to thank him for so much
kindness.
At length, brushing away her tears, she rose to her feet, and crossed
the room to the book-shelves. Standing there, she looked for a while
upon the volumes which Martin had read with such enjoyment through the
long winter evenings. He had said that she might take them over to the
reading-room when the miners needed them most. Surely now was the time,
and when her father came home she would speak to him about them. How
surprised and delighted Dick would be when she carried an armful over
the next day.
Reaching up her hand, she brought down a volume which was lying on top
of several others. As she looked at the title, she believed that the
miners would like it. It had been years since she had read it, but she
remembered how delighted she had been with it at the time. The hero in
the book had appealed to her very strongly. She had not met Dick Russell
then, and she mused for a while about the difference between her present
idea of a hero to that of years ago. Then Martin was the only white man
she knew, and she had never looked upon him as a hero. Her heroes were
like those mentioned in books, men of war and action, who had
accomplished great things.
Going back to the fire, Nance ensconced herself in Martin's big chair,
and opened the book. As she did so a newspaper clipping lying between
the leaves attracted her attention. Wondering what it could be, she laid
the book upon her lap, unfolded the paper, and began to read. She had
not proceeded far when her face went white as death, and her hand
trembled violently. She rubbed her eyes to make sure that she was not
dreaming. The printed columns fascinated her, and she read on and on
until she came to the end of the sad tale of shame and disgrace.
The whole truth now flashed into Nance's mind with a startling
intensity. Her brain reeled, her heart seemed numbed at the shock, and
the light of life, with all its joy, went out. She stared long and hard
at the heading of the article. "Deposed by his Bishop." How terrible
seemed those words. And there was the name of the man who had fallen,
"The Rev. Martin Rutland." Again she read through the entire story,
every word of criticism, scorn, and condemnation searing her heart like
red-hot iron. Could it be possible that this was some one else? she
asked herself. She knew very well that it could not be, for why then
should her father have the clipping in his possession? A groan escaped
her parched lips as she endeavoured to view calmly the whole situation.
Many things which had hitherto puzzled her were instantly cleared up,
and she understood for the first time the reason of Martin's peculiar
actions since the arrival of the miners. She knew why he had fled away
from the ways of civilisation to live alone in the wilderness. He did
not wish to meet people who knew of his disgrace. This, too, was why he
would not go to service on Sunday. And to think that for years he had
been deceiving her. While she believed him to be so true and noble, he
was in reality a man utterly disgraced, an outcast from the Church and
society.
A feeling of bitter resentment rushed into her heart. Why had he treated
her thus? Why had he pretended to be so good when all the time he was
evil, and his whole life a sham? How could she ever face him again,
knowing everything, and what he really was? He might return at any
moment, and find her sitting there with the clipping in her hand. She
did not want to meet him, for she felt that she could not bear to do so.
She must get away, and hurry back to the hospital.
Carefully replacing the paper in the book, Nance went back to the shelf
from which she had taken it. She paused and looked around the room,
thinking that perhaps this would be the last time that she should ever
see it again. Everywhere she beheld the work of Martin's hands: the
tables, chairs, and decorations on the walls. She turned and walked to
her own little room, which she entered. There, too, she saw how he had
fitted up everything for her comfort. Then in an instant there came to
her a great reversal of feeling. Martin, the outcast, disappeared, and
in his stead she beheld a man strong, patient, and gentle, who had been
to her both a father and a mother during her whole life. She thought of
what he had done for her, how he had striven for her welfare, and cared
for her when she would have been left to the uncertain mercy of the
Indians. A love deep and strong filled her heart for this man. She
pictured to herself how he must have suffered during his exile in the
wilderness, knowing that nothing could ever undo the past, and that he
would never be forgiven by the Church which had cast him out. If she
turned against him would it not break his heart entirely? No, she would
be faithful, and he should never know that she had seen the paper, or
had the least idea of his past life. It would remain a secret with her,
and she would never breathe a word to any one, not even to Dick.
Nance was standing erect in her room as this resolve firmly fixed itself
upon her mind. Her face became radiant with a new light, and her eyes
shone with the intensity of her great purpose. For a while she stood
there, thinking deep, earnest thoughts. A new sense of responsibility
came to her. She now saw that life was not all joy and happiness. There
was a tragic depth beneath into which for the first time she had been
permitted a brief glimpse.
And while standing there she heard some one calling her by name.
Hurrying forth from her room, she saw Dick coming to meet her. There was
no smile upon his face, but instead an expression of deep concern was
depicted there, such as Nance had never seen before. Something had
happened, she felt certain, for what else could make Dick look at her in
that way?
"What is it?" she gasped. "There's something the matter, I'm sure."
"You are wanted at the hospital, Nance," was the reply.
"Is Nurse Marion ill?"
"No. It's your father."