Mona Guyon was not afraid. She was startled, and thrilled by an instant
intuitive sensing of the unusual and the significant in the man's
unexpected appearance. Yet the color did not leave her cheeks nor did a
cry come to her lips. She thrust the baby beavers from her lap and rose
unexcitedly to her feet, tall, slim and amazingly beautiful.
She was looking steadily at the man, and as she looked her heart beat a
little faster, for the wilderness had taught her a quick and definite
understanding of the story she saw written in the wild face among the
willows. Its tragedy flashed upon her before her parted lips had found
words--hunger, sickness, the emaciation and weakness of a man who found
less discomfort upon his hands and knees than upon his feet.
As she looked at him a change came into his face that the man himself
could feel as there swept over him a slow and inundating sense of
shame. Every instinct of chivalry in him revolted at the ridiculous and
alarming figure he must be making of himself. But even in this moment
of surprise and distress he did not entirely lose his sense of humor.
He tried to smile. The effort was nothing short of pathos.
"I beg your pardon," he said as he rose a little unsteadily to his feet
and came out of the willows. His raggedness and the coarse stubble on
his face could not conceal the consciousness of pride with which he
straightened himself and bowed to her. "I have come upon you like a
wolf, and I know I look like a wolf. But I assure you I am as harmless
as a sheep, and if you don't mind dividing your carrots with me----" He
nodded toward the little yellow pile of carrots she had brought for her
beaver pets.
His voice was pleasant. It made her think of Father Albanel, and as he
spoke a smile was in his eyes and on his pale lips. She went quickly
to his side and put a hand on his arm. Its firm young touch seemed to
steady him.
"What has happened?" she asked. "You look----"
"Sick--and a little mad," he finished for her, when she hesitated. "But
I'm mostly hungry, and if I may have the carrots----"
She helped him to the foot of the tree and he dropped down beside it
with a weakness that made him hunch his shoulders in disgust.
"I have something better than carrots," she said. "Please sit here and
I will get it."
She hurried across the little meadow to a deeper shade of thick-growing
jack pines on the farther side, and the man turned his head to follow
her movements with his eyes. Her beauty was twisting at something in
his heart. A long time ago he had known someone like her. The slim
figure, walking swiftly across the open, took him back twenty years,
and he could almost hear a sweet voice calling his name, and in a place
very much like this, with the coolness of the wilderness all about and
the sun shining through the trees. His hand touched the scrub of beard
on his face and he shivered. The thought came to him that the girl
was afraid of him and was running away. As she disappeared among the
banksians he reached for one of the raw carrots and began to eat it.
Mona returned so quietly that he did not hear her until she was at
his side. She brought a basket and a small pail of cold spring-water.
She spread a napkin on his lap and loaded it with the contents of the
basket. He was sensitively conscious of her eyes upon him and he tried
not to appear ravenous as he began with meat and bread.
"I'm spoiling your picnic, child," he said, speaking to her feebly like
a man who was very old. "I'm sorry."
"You're not spoiling it," she cried, leaning toward him with a gesture
full of sweet tenderness. "Oh, I have been so happy today--God has made
me happier by bringing me here in time to help you!"
"Happy," he whispered, as if to himself. "It is wonderful to be happy.
I have known--what it is."
It was her struggle to appear natural now as he ate. She had never been
so intimately close to starvation and pathos and weakness in man.
"Were you lost?" she asked.
He caught quickly at her suggestion. "Yes, lost--in the woods and the
swamps between the railroad and here. I was trying to find a place
called Five Fingers."
She gave a little exclamation. "I'm from Five Fingers. It is not far.
Uncle Pierre calls it a mile and a half."
Mona wondered at the strange silence which came over the man, and the
suddenness with which his hunger seemed to be satisfied.
"You have been an angel to me," he said, when he had finished.
"And--things love you. Even the wild creatures." He was looking at the
baby beavers, humped into furry balls at the edge of the pond. "You
called one of them Peterkin, and the old beaver Peter. I wonder--why?"
"And there is a bear cub I call Pete," she added. "It is because--"
"Yes----"
Her eyes were shining.
"Because I am going to marry a man whose name is Peter."
It did not seem strange to her that she should be confessing the secret
of her happiness to a man she had never seen before.
There was something in his eyes which made her want him to know, a
mysterious gentleness that seemed to plead for her confidence and her
friendship. It gave her a pleasurable thrill to tell someone that she
loved Peter and was going to be his wife. And this man was unlike any
other who had ever come from the outside world into the wilderness
isolation of Five Fingers.
In his rags and misfortune and his whitening hair and pale, thin face,
she saw something which stirred more than her pity. And it was more
than faith.
Just what it was, in that moment, she did not know. She was puzzled by
the tremor which ran through his body coincident with her mention of
Peter.
"And this Peter----" he began feverishly. The words seemed to choke in
his throat, and he passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away a
mist. Then he said: "He is a lucky lad. Is his name Peter McRae?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"And--you love him?"
She nodded. "I was only thirteen then, but I loved him the first day he
came to Five Fingers and fought Aleck Curry for me. Aleck was a bully
and was pulling my hair."
The mysterious stranger bent his gray head so that she could not
see his face. "That was six years ago last May, in the afternoon.
And--Peter--did he ever tell you about--his father?"
"Yes, that same night. It was in the edge of the forest, and it
was growing dark. He had brought a letter from his father to Simon
McQuarrie, and Simon had told him the truth. He said his father had
killed a man--accidentally--a long time ago, but that the police
wouldn't believe it was an accident and were after him, and would hang
him if he was caught. And ever since then----"
She was at his side, staring at him as he slowly raised his head,
the color gone from her face and her white throat beating with the
sudden mad pounding in her breast. "Ever since that night--that very
hour--we have prayed together for Peter's father to come back. And
you--_you_----"
He could not escape the wild questioning in her eyes and their demand
to be answered.
"Would you have _me_ Peter's father?" he asked uncertainly. "This
way--an outlaw--ragged--dirty--a beggar----"
There was an almost tragic note of hopefulness in his voice.
"Yes," she cried, her voice breaking in excited entreaty from her lips.
"If you are Peter's father, tell me. We have waited. And I have told
him you would come. Oh, I have _promised_ him that, and have asked God
every night to make it come true. Are you----" Her hands were reaching
out to him.
"Yes, I am Peter's father."
There was no flash of joy or pride in his acknowledgment of the truth.
His head sank upon his breast as if a sudden weariness had overcome
him, and a moan of protest was in his voice. And then a thing happened
which swept the bitterness and grief from Donald McRae's heart. He
caught a glimpse of Mona's face, gloriously flushed in this moment of
her answered prayer; and then her arms were about him, her soft cheek
against his rough stubble of beard, and for an instant he felt the
swift pressure of her lips against his.
He raised his hand and touched her hair. "Child," he cried brokenly,
"dear child----"
She sprang up from him, half laughing and half sobbing, and ran out
from under the mountain ash tree and stood in the edge of the clearing.
With her hands in the form of a megaphone she called: "Peter! Peter!
_Oh, Peter!_"
With a protesting cry he climbed to his feet and went to her. She saw
the white, almost frightened look in his face and eyes. "Don't do
that!" he exclaimed. "For God's sake--don't! Peter must not know I am
here."
In her amazement her hands fell slowly from her face to her side.
"Why?" she demanded.
"Because----" He stopped, listening to a voice that came faintly from
out of the forest.
"That is Peter," said Mona. "We are going to eat our picnic supper
here--at the pool."
"It is Peter--_coming_----"
"Yes."
He tried to breathe steadily, tried to speak calmly as he took her hand
and stroked it with nervous gentleness. "What is your name?"
"Mona Guyon."
"Mona--Guyon. It is a pretty name. And you are sweet and good and
beautiful. Peter's mother was like you. And--I am glad you love my
boy." A new strength seemed to possess him.
The voice came again out of the forest, a little nearer this time, and
Donald McRae held the girl's hand closer, and a tremor went through him
as he smiled at her in the way he used to smile at his boy in the old
days of their comradeship and happiness.
"That is my call," he said evenly. "Peter's mother and I used it twenty
years ago, and afterward I taught it to Peter. It carries a long
distance in the woods."
It was not his poverty and his weakness that affected Mona most.
Something more than pity overwhelmed her--his forced calmness, the
strange light in his eyes, the almost superhuman fight he was making to
rise up out of his rags and his misery in the most tragic hours that
could have come into his life. His words and his appearance set her
heart pounding fiercely. She was a little frightened and wanted to put
her arms about him again and hold him until Peter came. What did he
mean?
"Why mustn't Peter know you are here?" she demanded. "_Why?_"
He led her back in the willows. In a moment they were hidden.
"Are you brave enough to hear? And do you love Peter enough to
help--me?" he asked her.
"Yes, yes, I will help you."
He stood so that he could look out of the willows and across the meadow
through which Peter would come. A moment of despair and hopelessness
twisted the muscles of his face.
"He must not see me," he said in a voice that was hardly more than a
strained whisper. "Child, you must understand--you most of all. Don't
you know why I ran away from Peter that day near Five Fingers, and sent
him on to Simon McQuarrie? It was so Peter might have a chance in life
that he never could have with me, even if I escaped the law. I, too,
have prayed--every day and every night through the years that have been
more than eternities for me; prayed that good and happiness might come
to him, and that in time even the memory of his father would wear away.
But never for an instant have I been able to forget my boy. He has been
a part of my soul and body, walking with me, sleeping with me, sitting
with me beside my hidden camp-fires at night, until at times the desire
to see him once more was so strong in me that it almost drove me mad.
And all this time I was hunted, running from place to place, living in
swamps and hidden depths of the forests, avoiding men and places of
habitation--but with Peter always at my side, just as he looked that
last terrible day at the edge of Five Fingers when he pleaded with me
to take him along----"
His lips trembled and a shiver ran through his body.
"And through those years Peter _was_ with you--Peter and I," replied
the girl. "Summer nights we used to ask the moon where you were, and
when it was cold and stormy we--we prayed. And on Christmas--Peter
always got a present--for _you_."
A joyous light passed over his haggard face. "You thought of me--on
Christmas?"
"Yes, always. And Peter asked me to keep the presents carefully in my
cedar chest, for we knew you would come back some day. And now----"
It was Peter's voice that came to them again, much nearer. Donald's
arms fell away from the girl, but she raised her face quickly and
kissed him. Her eyes were filled with tears.
"Peter is wondering why I do not answer. Please--please----"
In his indecision he bowed his face in his hands. It was with an effort
that he shook himself free of temptation.
"I must tell you quickly, and you must understand," he said
desperately. "The police are close after me again. That is why I was
in the great swamp to the north--to get away from them. If I come back
into Peter's life now it can only be for a few hours, and you know what
it will mean--a fresh tragedy for him, a new grief, pain, disgrace, a
black cloud of unhappiness over the paradise which you have made and
can make for him. I have come back to see him, to look at him, to carry
away a new picture of him in my heart. But he must not know. And if
you love Peter--if you care a little for what is in the heart of his
father--you will make it possible for me to look upon my boy. I will
hide here, in the willows; and you two, there under the ash tree----"
"It is wrong," broke in Mona. "Oh, it is terribly wrong!"
"No, it is right," he persisted. "It will make me happy--to see him so
near to me, hear his voice and know that life and God and _you_ have
been good to him. If I see Peter, child, if his hands touch me, if we
are together again--it may cost me my life. For those things would hold
me; I could not go away again after that, and the police are near, very
near, and if they should catch me----"
The sag that came into his shoulders gave eloquence to the thing which
he did not finish, and Mona's eyes burned with a fire which dried up
her tears. "If I bring Peter down there, under the tree, will you
promise not to go away until I have seen you again?" she asked.
"Yes, I promise that."
"Even if it is tomorrow, or the next day?"
"I will wait."
It was hard for him to lie, looking into the beautiful eyes that were
fixed upon him so steadily. But he did it splendidly; so well that Mona
did not guess the falsehood back of his last great fight.
She turned from him swiftly with her face toward the meadow.
"I will bring Peter--down there," she said.
She ran to the mountain ash tree and in a few breathless seconds
rearranged the luncheon basket and tossed half eaten bits of food into
the pond. Then she hurried across the meadow. Peter's call came to her
again, and this time she answered it. In the deep shade on the farther
side of the meadow she stopped and pressed her hands to her face. Her
cheeks were hot. She was fighting against a sense of overwhelming
guilt, for in this hour, this very minute, she knew she was not only
betraying Peter, but committing the sacrilege of repudiating answered
prayer. And Peter must not know!
He could not fail to see her excitement, unless--she laughed softly as
the old, sweet thought came to her. Peter loved her hair. He loved to
see it down, as on that first day six years ago when he came upon her
in the edge of the forest near Five Fingers. She paused again, and her
fingers worked swiftly among its lustrous coils until they fell about
her. Peter would guess nothing now--when she came to him like this, in
a way that shut his eyes to all the rest of the world.
She could hear him coming through the brush. He was running, and she
guessed at the alarm which was urging him because she had failed to
answer his calls until that last time, when she knew her voice had not
sent forth the old cry in just the way it should have greeted Peter.
She stood very still, so that when Peter leaped over a fallen tree not
twenty paces away from her he did not see her. He stopped, his head
thrown back, breathing quickly, and listening; and in this moment Mona
recalled the other day of years ago when he came into the cutting near
Five Fingers and found her struggling with Aleck Curry, the bully of
the settlement.
He was the same Peter, only now he was a man. His hair had not darkened
and his eyes were the same blue. He was the clean-cut, fearless,
sensitive Peter who had gone into battle for her against a boy nearly
twice his weight and years older. The years had given a splendid change
to his body. He was still slim, like the old Peter, and there was a
litheness and alertness in him which filled her with pride. She held
her breath, watching him, and exulted when she saw the anxiety in his
face. Then he called again, and in the moment of silence which followed
she suddenly clapped her hands and laughed.
Peter turned in amazement, and when he saw her standing as she was,
with her long hair streaming about her, he drew in a deep breath, and
the blood surged into his tense face as he came to her. The happiness
which swept his anxiety away brought a responsive glow of joy into her
eyes, and as she held out her arms to him she forgot for a moment the
man hidden among the willows near the mountain ash tree. For a little
while Peter held her so close she could feel the thumping of his heart,
and not until he had kissed her hair and her lips did he seem to have
breath to ask why she had not answered his calls.
"To punish you for making me wait so long at the pond," she said.
"But"--she raised a soft tress to his lips--"I was sorry, at the last
moment, and did _this_ for you, Peter. Will you forgive me?"
She was thinking of Donald McRae again, and slipping her hand into
Peter's, she led him toward the pond. And Peter, in the sweetness and
joy of her presence, guessed nothing because her fingers tightened in
his hand or because her breath came more quickly than usual.
They drew nearer to the ash tree and the willows. She knew that Donald
McRae was now looking upon the face of his boy; she could see the clump
of twisted bushes behind which he was hidden, and caught a movement in
their tops, as if an animal or a breath of wind had disturbed them.
They were under the ash tree when she flung back her hair, no longer
making an effort to hide from Peter the distress in her face. He was
shocked, even a little terrified at her appearance. Involuntarily her
glance went beyond him to the thicket which concealed Donald McRae. It
was only a few steps away, and she knew Peter's father could distinctly
hear what they said. Then she looked at Peter again, and smiled gently
at his suspense as she raised one of his hands to her lips in the soft
caress that always wiped away his troubles. And in that same moment she
drew him a step nearer to the willows.
"Something happened before you came," she said, speaking so that Donald
McRae would not lose a word of what she was saying. "I think I must
have had a--a--dream--and it was terrible!" She shuddered, and listened
to the breaking of a twig in the willows. "I am foolish to let it
frighten me."
His arms were about her, his fingers smoothing back her shining hair as
relief leaped into his face.
"You were asleep, _Ange_--with me bursting my throat to make you hear
from the forest?"
She did not answer his question. Instead, she said: "Peter, you have
not lied to me? You believe in prayer?"
He bent his lips to her white forehead. "Yes, _Ange_, and yours most of
all. God has answered you, and always will."
"And we have prayed a long time for your father to come back?"
He nodded wonderingly. "Yes, a long time."
She spoke slowly then, and her words were for Donald McRae and not for
Peter.
"And if your father does not come, if you never see him again, your
faith in the God we have prayed to for so long will be a little broken,
will it not, Peter?"
She waited, holding her breath for fear even that sound might come
between Peter's answer and the man in the bushes.
"He will come--some day--Mona."
"That was what he promised you--the day he sent you on alone to Five
Fingers, and ran away from you? And you have always told me that next
to your faith in God you believed in your father. You have never
thought that he lied to you that day in the edge of the forest?"
He stared at her, speechless, and in that moment she faced the willows
with a glow of triumph in her eyes.
"Down in the little church at Five Fingers Father Albanel has always
taught us not to lie and to be true to our promise," she said, speaking
directly at the willows. "Peter, if your father should break his
faith, or I should break mine, it would be terrible. And that is what
happened--in my vision--and it has frightened me." She rested her cheek
against his arm so he could not see her face. "I was here--under the
tree--when in this vision your father came. He was ragged and tired and
sick--and so hungry he ate carrots I brought for the beavers. He had
come just to look at you, Peter, but not to let you know. He said it
would make you unhappy; that it was best for you that he should never
come into your life again--and he made me promise not to tell you that
he was here.
"And I promised. I did--I promised him I would be a traitor to you,
after all the years we have waited for him, and prayed for him, and
_believed_ in him."
Her arms crept up to his shoulders. "If I should do a thing like that
God would never forgive me, and you--if some day you found out what I
had done--would never have faith in me again. Would you?"
She hid her face against his shoulder, her heart beating wildly, her
body trembling. For she had seen another movement in the willows and
she was afraid that Donald McRae was going away.
"It was only a dream," Peter was saying, holding his arms closely about
her. "You are not afraid of dreams, Mona?"
And then from behind them came a voice.
"_God forgive me my weakness!_" it cried. "_Peter--Peter----_"
Donald McRae stood out in the open at the edge of the willow thicket.
He had forgotten the rags and mud that covered him, and was no longer
a fugitive with the lines of a hunted man in his face. The present was
for a space obliterated--the present with its menace of the law, its
exhaustion and its poverty; and he was standing once more in the warm
glow of that day of six years ago when he had said good-by to Peter.
In those seconds, when Peter stood shocked into deathlike stillness by
the sound of the voice behind him, Mona could see Donald McRae with his
outreaching arms; but as Peter turned slowly, facing his father, the
strain broke in a hot flood of tears that blinded her vision.
And then----
"_Dad!_"
It was the strangest cry she had ever heard from Peter's lips, and
with an answer to that cry in her own choking breast she turned away
as the two men came into each other's arms. She passed out of sight
along the edge of the pond, scarcely seeing the path ahead of her, and
unconsciously she kept repeating Peter's name in a whisper, as if--even
though she had prayed so long for this hour to come--she had never
quite expected its fulfilment.