"Well, one night in camp--last summer, you know, it was just before
Ewart left me there--old Andre told us what happened years ago up there
in the wilds of the Saguenay. He said one day two Indian guides,
Montagnais, came to his camp. The oldest, Root-of-the-Pine, a friend
of Andre's, brought him word from old Mere Guillardeau, Andre's
sister--you know her--who is living here in Lamoral. She told him to
receive two of the English, a man and a woman, as guests for a month.
The Indian told Andre they were waiting across the portage.
"Andre said he went over to meet them, and they stayed with him not
only one month, but four. He told us the girl had a voice as sweet as
the nightingale's; that her eyes were like wood violets, her laugh like
the forest brook. He said they loved each other madly, so madly that
even his old blood was stirred at times. He was alone with them there
in that wilderness for all those months, caring for them, fishing,
hunting, picking the mountain berries, till the first snow flew. Then
they took their flight.
"Mere Guillardeau had sent in her message: 'Ask no questions. You can
confess and be shriven when you come to Richelieu-en-Bas.' He obeyed
to the letter.
"He knew, he said, that they were not married, but he caught enough of
their English to know they were looking forward to being married when
it should be made possible for them. Whence they came, he never knew;
whither they went, he never asked. They came, as birds come that mate
in the spring; they went, as the late birds go after the mating season
is over, with the first snow-fall; but, Marcia--"
"Yes, Jamie."
"You won't mind my speaking out after what was said last evening?"
"I mind nothing from you."
"Andre told us that before they left he knew a nestling was on its way;
the slender form, like a willow shoot, as he expressed it, was rounder,
and the face of the girl was the face of a tender doe. You should have
heard him tell it--there in the setting of forest, lake and mountain!
"'All this happened long, long ago,' he said, 'but still I hear her
voice in the forest; still I see her eyes in the first wood violets;
see her smile that made sunshine in the darkest woods. Still I hear
her light steps about the camp and follow her still in thought across
the last portage when we carried her in our arms; still see her waving
her hand to me from the canoe that floated like a brown leaf on the
blue lake waters. Wherever she may be, may the Holy Virgin, Our Lady
of the Snows, guard her--and her child! I have waited all these years
for her to come again.'
"Marcia--Andre called their love 'forest love'. Sometimes I think he
spoke truly; untaught, he knew the difference."
I listened, caught by the pathos of the tale, the charm of old Andre's
words; but in love I was untaught. I wondered how Jamie could know the
"difference".
"But now to my point. Of course I listened all eyes and ears to Andre.
When he finished, the camp fire was low. The full moon had risen above
the waters of the lake and lighted the tree-fringed shore. I turned to
Ewart, and caught the same look on his face that I saw last night when
the Doctor was telling his story: the look of a man who is seeing
ghosts--more than one. For three days I scarce got a decent word when
he was with me, which was seldom; he was off by himself in the forest.
So you see _this_, last night's occurrence, does not wholly surprise
me."
We sat for a while without talking. Jamie took his pipe, filled and
lighted it with a glowing coal.
"Jamie," I said at last. He nodded encouragingly.
"You know you told me about that queer rumor that crops out at such odd
times and places--about Mr. Ewart's having been married and divorced,
and the boy he is educating, 'Boy or girl?' you know he said--"
"Yes, I know."
"Might n't it be--I know you did n't believe it, but would n't it be
possible that there is some truth in that, distorted, perhaps, but
enough to make him suffer when there is any reference to love that has
brought with it misery and suffering?"
"It may be you 're right; I had n't thought of it in that light. Of
course, I never heard of the rumor till I came back from camp in
September; then it seemed to be in the air. I wonder if the Doctor has
ever heard anything."
"Probably his coming home so soon and making his home here started the
gossip. Jamie--"
"Yes."
"You said he never spoke much to you about his personal affairs--that
you don't know so very much of his intimate personal life. Does n't
that prove that he has had some trouble, some painful experience?"
"Woman's logic, but I suppose he has. Most men have been through the
wilderness, or been lost in it, by the time they are forty. I should
think if--mind you, I say 'if'--he was ever married, ever divorced,
ever had a child somewhere, he might find his special trail difficult
at times; but he has n't lost it! Ewart does not lose a trail so
easily! Look at his experience--Oxford, London, Australian
sheep-ranchman, forester here in Lamoral! And he 's so tender with
everything and everybody. That's what makes him so beloved here in
this French settlement."
"Except towards the Doctor last night."
"That's so; but he is tender just the same. I 've seen that trait in
him so many times."
"I should think he might be--and like adamant at others," I said, and
began to put the room to rights.