Upon George Mansion's arrival at the garrison town he had been met
on the wharf by the major, who took him to the hotel, while
hurriedly explaining just why he must not go near Lydia's sister and
the clergyman whom George had expected would perform the marriage
ceremony. "So," continued the major, "you and Lydia are not to be
married at the cathedral after all, but Mrs. Harold and I have
arranged that the ceremony shall take place at little St. Swithin's
Church in the West End. So you'll be there at eleven o'clock, eh,
boy?"
"Yes, major, I'll be there, and before eleven, I'm afraid, I'm so
anxious to take her home. I shall not endeavour to thank you and
Mrs. Harold for what you have done for my homeless girl. I can't
even--"
"Tut, tut, tut!" growled the major. "Haven't done anything. Bless
my soul, Chief, take my word for it, haven't done a thing to be
thanked for. Here's your hotel. Get some coffee to brace your
nerves up with, for I can assure you, boy, a wedding is a trying
ordeal, even if there is but a handful of folks to see it through.
Be a good boy, now--good-bye until eleven--St. Swithin's, remember,
and God bless you!" and the big-hearted, blustering major was
whisked away in his carriage, leaving the young Indian half
overwhelmed with his kindness, but as happy as the golden day.
An hour or so later he stood at the hotel door a moment awaiting
the cab that was to take him to the church. He was dressed in
the height of the fashion of the early fifties--very dark wine
broadcloth, the coat shaped tightly to the waist and adorned with
a silk velvet collar, a pale lavender, flowered satin waistcoat,
a dull white silk stock collar, a bell-shaped black silk hat. He
carried his gloves, for throughout his entire life he declared he
breathed through his hands, and the wearing of gloves was abhorrent
to him. Suddenly a gentleman accosted him with:
"I hear an Indian chief is in town. Going to be married here this
morning. Where is the ceremony to take place? Do you know anything
of it?"
Like all his race, George Mansion had a subtle sense of humor. It
seized upon him now.
"Certainly I know," he replied. "I happened to come down on the
boat with the chief. I intend to go to the wedding myself. I
understand the ceremony was arranged to be at the cathedral."
"Splendid!" said the gentleman. "And thank you, sir."
Just then the cab arrived. Young Mansion stepped hastily in, nodded
good-bye to his acquaintance, and smilingly said in an undertone to
the driver, "St. Swithin's Church--and quickly."
* * * * *
"With this ring I thee wed," he found himself saying to a little
figure in a soft grey gown at his side, while a gentle-faced
old clergyman in a snowy surplice stood before him, and a
square-shouldered, soldierly person in a brilliant uniform almost
hugged his elbow.
"I pronounce you man and wife." At the words she turned towards her
husband like a carrier pigeon winging for home. Then somehow the
solemnity all disappeared. The major, the major's wife, two handsome
young officers, one girl friend, the clergyman, the clergyman's
wife, were all embracing her, and she was dimpling with laughter
and happiness; and George Mansion stood proudly by, his fine dark
face eager, tender and very noble.
"My dear," whispered the major's wife, "he's a perfect prince--he's
just as royal as he can be! I never saw such manners, such ease.
Why, girlie, he's a courtier!"
"Confound the young rogue!" growled the major, in her ear. "I
haven't an officer on my staff that can equal him. You're a lucky
girl. Yes, confound him, I say!"
"Bless you, child," said the clergyman's wife. "I think he'll make
you happy. Be very sure that you make _him_ happy."
And to all these whole-hearted wishes and comments, Lydia replied
with smiles and care-free words. Then came the major, watch in
hand, military precision and promptitude in his very tone.
"Time's up, everybody! There's a bite to eat at the barracks,
then these youngsters must be gone. The boat is due at one
o'clock--time's up."
As the little party drove past the cathedral they observed a huge
crowd outside, waiting for the doors to be opened. Lydia laughed
like a child as George told her of his duplicity of the morning,
when he had misled the inquiring stranger into thinking the Indian
chief was to be married there. The little tale furnished fun for
all at the pretty breakfast in the major's quarters.
"Nice way to begin your wedding morning, young man!" scowled the
major, fiercely. "Starting this great day with a network of
falsehoods."
"Not at all," smiled the Indian. "It was arranged for the
cathedral, and I did attend the ceremony."
"No excuses, you bare-faced scoundrel! I won't listen to them. Here
you are happily married and all those poor would-be sight-seers
sizzling out there in this glaring August sun. I'm ashamed of you!"
But his arm was about George's shoulders, and he was wringing the
dark, slender hand with a genuine good fellowship that was pleasant
to see. "Bless my soul, I love you, boy!" he added, sincerely.
"Love you through and through; and remember, I'm your white father
from this day forth."
"And I am your white mother," said the major's wife, placing her
hands on his shoulders.
For a second the bridegroom's face sobered. Before him flashed a
picture of a little old Indian woman with a broadcloth folded about
her shoulders, a small carven pipe between her lips, a world of
sorrow in her deep eyes--sorrow that he had brought there. He bent
suddenly and kissed Mrs. Harold's fingers with a grave and courtly
deference. "Thank you," he said simply.
But motherlike, she knew that his heart was bleeding. Lydia had
told of his parents' antagonism, of the lost Mansion title. So the
good lady just gave his hand a little extra, understanding squeeze,
and the good-byes began.
"Be off with you, youngsters!" growled the major. "The boat is
in--post haste now, or you'll miss it. Begone, both of you!"
And presently they found themselves once more in the carriage, the
horses galloping down to the wharf. And almost before they realized
it they were aboard, with the hearty "God bless you's" of the
splendid old major and his lovable wife still echoing in their
happy young hearts.
* * * * *
It was evening, five days later, when they arrived at their new
home. All about the hills, and the woods, above the winding river,
and along the edge of the distant forest, brooded that purple
smokiness that haunts the late days of August--the smokiness that
was born of distant fires, where the Indians and pioneers were
"clearing" their lands. The air was like amethyst, the setting sun
a fire opal. As on the day when she first had come into his life,
George helped her to alight from the carriage, and they stood a
moment, hand in hand, and looked over the ample acres that composed
their estate. The young Indian had worked hard to have most of the
land cleared, leaving here and there vast stretches of walnut
groves, and long lines of majestic elms, groups of sturdy oaks, and
occasionally a single regal pine tree. Many a time in later years
his utilitarian friends would say, "Chief, these trees you are
preserving so jealously are eating up a great deal of your land.
Why not cut away and grow wheat?" But he would always resent the
suggestion, saying that his wheat lands lay back from the river.
They were for his body, doubtless, but here, by the river, the
trees must be--they were for his soul. And Lydia would champion him
immediately with, "Yes, they were there to welcome me as a bride,
those grand old trees, and they will remain there, I think, as long
as we both shall live." So, that first evening at home they stood
and watched the imperial trees, the long, open flats bordering the
river, the nearby lawns which he had taken such pains to woo from
the wilderness; stood palm to palm, and that moment seemed to
govern all their after life.
Someone has said that never in the history of the world have two
people been perfectly mated. However true this may be, it is an
undeniable fact that between the most devoted of life-mates there
will come inharmonious moments. Individuality would cease to exist
were it not so.
These two lived together for upwards of thirty years, and never had
one single quarrel, but oddly enough, when the rare inharmonious
moments came, these groups of trees bridged the fleeting difference
of opinion or any slight antagonism of will and purpose; when these
unresponsive moments came, one or the other would begin to admire
those forest giants, to suggest improvements, to repeat the
admiration of others for their graceful outlines--to, in fact,
direct thought and conversation into the common channel of love
for those trees. This peculiarity was noticeable to outsiders, to
their own circle, to their children. At mere mention of the trees
the shadow of coming cloud would lessen, then waste, then grow
invisible. Their mutual love for these voiceless yet voiceful and
kingly creations was as the love of children for a flower--simple,
nameless, beautiful and powerful beyond words.
That first home night, as she stepped within doors, there awaited
two inexpressible surprises for her. First, on the dining-room
table a silver tea service of seven pieces, imported from
England--his wedding gift to her. Second, in the quaint little
drawing-room stood a piano. In the "early fifties" this latter
was indeed a luxury, even in city homes. She uttered a little cry
of delight, and flinging herself before the instrument, ran her
fingers over the keys, and broke into his favorite song, "Oft in
the Stilly Night." She had a beautiful voice, the possession of
which would have made her renowned had opportunity afforded its
cultivation. She had "picked up" music and read it remarkably well,
and he, Indian wise, was passionately fond of melody. So they
laughed and loved together over this new luxurious toy, until
Milly, the ancient Mohawk maid, tapped softly at the drawing-room
and bade them come to tea. With that first meal in her new home,
the darkened hours and days and years smothered their haunting
voices. She had "left yesterday behind her," as the major's royal
wife had wished her to, and for the first time in all her checkered
and neglected life she laughed with the gladness of a bird at song,
flung her past behind her, and the grim unhappiness of her former
life left her forever.
* * * * *
It was a golden morning in July when the doctor stood grasping
George Mansion's slender hands, searching into his dusky, anxious
eyes, and saying with ringing cheeriness, "Chief, I congratulate
you. You've got the most beautiful son upstairs--the finest boy I
ever saw. Hail to the young chief, I say!"
The doctor was white. He did not know of the broken line of
lineage--that "the boy upstairs" could never wear his father's
title. A swift shadow fought for a second with glorious happiness.
The battlefield was George Mansion's face, his heart. His unfilled
duty to his parents assailed him like a monstrous enemy, then
happiness conquered, came forth a triumphant victor, and the young
father dashed noiselessly, fleetly up the staircase, and, despite
the protesting physician, in another moment his wife and son were
in his arms. Title did not count in that moment; only Love in its
tyrannical majesty reigned in that sacred room.
The boy was a being of a new world, a new nation. Before he was two
weeks old he began to show the undeniable physique of the two great
races from whence he came; all the better qualities of both bloods
seemed to blend within his small body. He was his father's son,
he was his mother's baby. His grey-blue eyes held a hint of the
dreaming forest, but also a touch of old England's skies. His hair,
thick and black, was straight as his father's, except just above
the temples, where a suggestion of his mother's pretty English curls
waved like strands of fine silk. His small mouth was thin-lipped;
his nose, which even in babyhood never had the infantile "snub,"
but grew straight, thin as his Indian ancestors', yet displayed
a half-haughty English nostril; his straight little back--all
combined likenesses to his parents. But who could say which blood
dominated his tiny person? Only the exquisite soft, pale brown of
his satiny skin called loudly and insistently that he was of a
race older than the composite English could ever boast; it was the
hallmark of his ancient heritage--the birthright of his father's
son.
But the odd little half-blood was extraordinarily handsome even as
an infant. In after years when he grew into glorious manhood he
was generally acknowledged to be the handsomest man in the Province
of Ontario, but to-day--his first day in these strange, new
surroundings--he was but a wee, brown, lovable bundle, whose tiny
gossamer hands cuddled into his father's palm, while his little
velvet cheek lay rich and russet against the pearly whiteness of
his mother's arm.
"I believe he is like you, George," she murmured, with a wealth of
love in her voice and eyes.
"Yes," smiled the young chief, "he certainly has Mansion blood; but
your eyes, Lydia, your dear eyes."
"Which eyes must go to sleep and rest," interrupted the physician,
severely. "Come, Chief, you've seen your son, you've satisfied
yourself that Mrs. Mansion is doing splendidly, so away you go,
or I shall scold."
And George slipped down the staircase, and out into the radiant
July sunshine, where his beloved trees arose about him, grand and
majestic, seeming to understand how full of joy, of exultation,
had been this great new day.
* * * * *
The whims of women are proverbial, but the whims of men are things
never to be accounted for. This beautiful child was but a few weeks
old when Mr. Bestman wrote, announcing to his daughter his
intention of visiting her for a few days.
So he came to the Indian Reserve, to the handsome country home his
Indian son-in-law had built. He was amazed, surprised, delighted.
His English heart revelled in the trees. "Like an Old Country
gentleman's estate in the Counties," he declared. He kissed his
daughter with affection, wrung his son-in-law's hand with a warmth
and cordiality unmistakable in its sincerity, took the baby in his
arms and said over and over, "Oh, you sweet little child! You sweet
little child!" Then the darkness of all those harsh years fell away
from Lydia. She could afford to be magnanimous, so with a sweet
silence, a loving forgetfulness of all the dead miseries and bygone
whip-lashes, she accepted her strange parent just as he presented
himself, in the guise of a man whom the years had changed from
harshness to tenderness, and let herself thoroughly enjoy his
visit.
But when he drove away she had but one thing to say; it was,
"George, I wonder when _your_ father will come to us, when your
_mother_ will come. Oh, I want her to see the baby, for I think my
own mother sees him."
"Some day, dear," he answered hopefully. "They will come some day;
and when they do, be sure it will be to take you to their hearts."
She sighed and shook her head unbelievingly. But the "some day"
that he prophesied, but which she doubted, came in a manner all too
soon--all too unwelcome. The little son had just begun to walk
about nicely, when George Mansion was laid low with a lingering
fever that he had contracted among the marshes where much of his
business as an employee of the Government took him. Evils had begun
to creep into his forest world. The black and subtle evil of the
white man's firewater had commenced to touch with its poisonous
finger the lives and lodges of his beloved people. The curse began
to spread, until it grew into a menace to the community. It was the
same old story: the white man had come with the Bible in one hand,
the bottle in the other. George Mansion had striven side by side
with Mr. Evans to overcome the dread scourge. Together they fought
the enemy hand to hand, but it gained ground in spite of all their
efforts. The entire plan of the white liquor dealer's campaign was
simply an effort to exchange a quart of bad whiskey for a cord of
first-class firewood, or timber, which could be hauled off the
Indian Reserve and sold in the nearby town markets for five or
six dollars; thus a hundred dollars worth of bad whiskey, if
judiciously traded, would net the white dealer a thousand dollars
cash. And the traffic went on, to the depletion of the Indian
forests and the degradation of the Indian souls.
Then the Canadian Government appointed young Mansion special forest
warden, gave him a "V. R." hammer, with which he was to stamp
each and every stick of timber he could catch being hauled off
the Reserve by white men; licensed him to carry firearms for
self-protection, and told him to "go ahead." He "went ahead." Night
after night he lay, concealing himself in the marshes, the forests,
the trails, the concession lines, the river road, the Queen's
highway, seizing all the timber he could, destroying all the
whisky, turning the white liquor traders off Indian lands, and
fighting as only a young, earnest and inspired man can fight. These
hours and conditions began to tell on his physique. The marshes
breathed their miasma into his blood--the dreaded fever had him in
its claws. Lydia was a born nurse. She knew little of thermometers,
of charts, of technical terms, but her ability and instincts in the
sick-room were unerring; and, when her husband succumbed to a
raging fever, love lent her hands an inspiration and her brain a
clarity that would have shamed many a professional nurse.
For hours, days, weeks, she waited, tended, watched, administered,
labored and loved beside the sick man's bed. She neither slept nor
ate enough to carry her through the ordeal, but love lent her
strength, and she battled and fought for his life as only an
adoring woman can. Her wonderful devotion was the common talk of
the country. She saw no one save Mr. Evans and the doctors. She
never left the sick-room save when her baby needed her. But it all
seemed so useless, so in vain, when one dark morning the doctor
said, "We had better send for his father and mother."
Poor Lydia! Her heart was nearly breaking. She hurriedly told the
doctor the cause that had kept them away so long, adding, "Is it so
bad as that? Oh, doctor, _must I send for them_? They don't want to
come." Before the good man could reply, there was a muffled knock
at the door. Then Milly's old wrinkled face peered in, and Milly's
voice said whisperingly, "His people--they here."
"Whose people? Who are here?" almost gasped Lydia.
"His father and his mother," answered the old woman. "They
downstairs."
For a brief moment there was silence. Lydia could not trust herself
to speak, but ill as he was, George's quick Indian ear had caught
Milly's words. He murmured, "Mother! mother! Oh, my mother!"
"Bring her, quickly, _quickly_!" said Lydia to the doctor.
It seemed to the careworn girl that a lifetime followed before the
door opened noiselessly, and there entered a slender little old
Indian woman, in beaded leggings, moccasins, "short skirt," and a
blue "broadcloth" folded about her shoulders. She glanced swiftly
at the bed, but with the heroism of her race went first towards
Lydia, laid her cheek silently beside the white girl's, then looked
directly into her eyes.
"Lydia!" whispered George, "Lydia!" At the word both women moved
swiftly to his side. "Lydia," he repeated, "my mother cannot speak
the English, but her cheek to yours means that you are her blood
relation."
The effort of speech almost cost him a swoon, but his mother's
cheek was now against his own, and the sweet, dulcet Mohawk
language of his boyhood returned to his tongue; he was speaking it
to his mother, speaking it lovingly, rapidly. Yet, although Lydia
never understood a word, she did not feel an outsider, for the old
mother's hand held her own, and she knew that at last the gulf was
bridged.
* * * * *
It was two days later, when the doctor pronounced George Mansion
out of danger, that the sick man said to his wife: "Lydia, it is
all over--the pain, the estrangement. My mother says that you are
her daughter. My father says that you are his child. They heard of
your love, your nursing, your sweetness. They want to know if you
will call them 'father, mother.' They love you, for you are one of
their own."
"At last, at last!" half sobbed the weary girl. "Oh, George, I am
so happy! _You_ are going to get well, and _they_ have come to us
at last."
"Yes, dear," he replied. Then with a half humorous yet wholly
pathetic smile flitting across his wan face, he added, "And my
mother has a little gift for you." He nodded then towards the
quaint old figure at the further side of the bed. His mother arose,
and, drawing from her bosom a tiny, russet-colored object, laid it
in Lydia's hand. It was a little moccasin, just three and a quarter
inches in length. "Its mate is lost," added the sick man, "but I
wore it as a baby. My mother says it is yours, and should have been
yours all these years."
For a second the two women faced each other, then Lydia sat down
abruptly on the bedside, her arms slipped about the older woman's
shoulders, and her face dropped quickly, heavily--at last on a
mother's breast.
George Mansion sighed in absolute happiness, then closed his eyes
and slept the great, strong, vitalizing sleep of reviving forces.