"Marcia," said the Doctor one morning, after he had been enjoying,
apparently, every minute of his vacation-life in the open, "will you
come with me over the north trail as far as Ewart and Andre have made
it? I want to show you something I found there the other day."
Before I could answer, Jamie spoke:
"How about your _solitude a deux_ principle, Doctor?"
"It is wise to forget sometimes, Boy. Will you come this morning,
Marcia?"
I promptly said I would. I saw that he was slightly ruffled at Jamie's
innocent jest; indeed, ever since his arrival, the Doctor had not been
wholly like his genial self. Mrs. Macleod noticed it and spoke of it
to me.
"We don't realize, when we see him enjoying everything with the zest of
a boy, how much he has on his mind. He told me the other day he must
cut his vacation short; he is called to the Pacific coast for some of
his special work."
I said nothing at the time, because I could not agree with her. I
noticed that, at times, there was a slight constraint in his manner
towards me--me who was willing for him to know all there was to know,
except the fact that I loved his friend. I was convinced that he
wanted to air his special knowledge of me with me alone; that after he
had freed his mind to me, there would be no constraint.
Twice I caught him looking at Mr. Ewart, as if he were diagnosing his
case, and I laughed inwardly. From time to time I surprised the same
expression on his face when he was silent, smoking and, at the same
time, watching me weave my baskets under the tutelage of a Montagnaise,
the squaw of our postman. Mr. Ewart heard me express the wish to learn
this handicraft, and within a week my teacher was provided. She
remained in camp five days. Perhaps this opened the Doctor's eyes.
Perhaps Jamie had spoken with him about what was evident to all. The
Doctor grew more and more silent, more thoughtful, less inclined to
jest with me. Added to this was the thought that we must break camp
sooner than Mr. Ewart had intended. The "homing sense" was making
itself felt, for September was with us. We saw some land birds going
over early, and the first frost was a heavy one.
The Doctor and I followed the north trail for half a mile; then the
Doctor bade me rest, for it was rough going.
"Marcia," he said abruptly, sitting down in front of me, his back
against a tree, his hands clasping his knees, "let's have it out."
I saw he felt ill at ease and could but wonder, for, after all, it was
only I with whom he had to deal.
"I am ready. I 've only been waiting for you all these weeks."
"Do you know that I have been to Delia Beaseley for certain
information?"
"Yes; she wrote me. I wrote her to tell you all she knew of me."
He seemed to breathe more freely after my speaking so frankly, as if I
really would welcome anything he might have to say.
"Ah--this clears the atmosphere; we can talk. Of course, you know with
Cale's story dovetailing so perfectly into what I told you on my first
making acquaintance with you, I simply had to put two and two together;
besides, your smile was a constant reminder of some one whom I had
known or met--but whom I could not recall try as hard as I might. The
result of it all was that I went to Delia Beaseley and put a few
questions. Now,"--he hesitated a moment; he seemed to brace himself
mentally in order to continue,--"do you know positively whether your
father is living or dead? Have you ever known?"
"No; but dead to me even if living--that is why I said I was an orphan."
"I understand; but you don't know either the one or the other for a
fact?"
"No; I have no idea."
"You never knew his name?"
"No; and none of the family knew it--you know what Cale said. He gave
me the details for the first time."
"You do not know, then, that I have in my possession some papers that
might give the name?"
"Yes; I know that. But I told Delia Beaseley not to mention that fact
to you, or the papers in any way."
"Why?"
"_Why?_"
I think all the bitterness of my past must have been concentrated in
the tone in which I uttered that syllable. He did not press for the
reason, and I did not offer to give it.
"Did it ever occur to you that your father might be living?"
"I have no father, living or dead," I replied passionately. "I own to
no such possession. Does a man, simply because he chooses to pursue
his pleasure, unmindful of results, acquire the right to fatherhood
when he assumes no responsibility for his act?"
"Marcia, poor child, has life been so hard for you? Has nothing
compensated for just living?"
He knew he was searching my very soul. I knew it; and the thought of
my joy in life, in just living, because of my love that was filling
every minute of the day and part of the night with a happiness so
intense that, sometimes, I feared it could not endure from its sheer
intensity, brought the tears to my eyes, softened my heart, turned for
the moment the bitter to sweet.
I answered, but with lips that trembled in spite of my efforts at
control: "Yes, there is compensation, full, free, abundant. For all
that life has taken out of me, it has replaced ten thousand fold.
Perhaps I never had what we call 'life' till now."
"Oh, child, I have seen this happiness in your face--would to God I
might add to it!" His face worked strangely with emotion. "Marcia,
dear, I am the friend, but also the surgeon. I have to use the knife--"
"But not on me--not on me!" I cried out in protest. "Don't tell me you
know who my father is or was--don't, if you are my friend; don't speak
his name to me."
"Why not, Marcia?"
"I must not hear it; I will not hear it--will not, do you understand?
I am trying to forget that past, live in my present joy--don't, please
don't tell me." I covered my eyes with my hands.
He drew down my hands from before my face.
"Listen, my dear girl. There are rights--your rights I have every
reason to believe, and legal, as it seems to me. This whole matter
involves a point of honor with me. Let me explain--don't shrink so
from hearing me; I won't mention any names. Let me ask you a
question:--Did Delia Beaseley tell you there was a marriage certificate
among those papers?"
"Yes, but, thank God, she could not remember the name! It has been so
many years--and all before I was born."
"But I know it. It stands in black and white, and through that unlying
witness you have rights--that money, you know--"
"The 'conscience money'?"
"Yes."
"It is tainted, tainted, and my mother's blood is on it--I will not
touch it. I will not have it. I have taken wages in Lamoral because
Jamie assured me the money was your own--not one penny of it from that
fund."
"Yes, it is my own, and I never made a better investment with so few
dollars. But, Marcia--"
He hesitated; his face looked tense; his voice sounded as if strained
to breaking. The knife was hurting him almost as much as it hurt me.
I looked at him.
"Don't look at me so; I can't do my duty if you do."
"I don't want you to do your duty so far as I am concerned. I want you
to show your friendship for me, by not telling me anything that you may
know."
"But, Marcia, it is time--"
"But not now--oh, not now! You don't know what I have borne--I can
bear no more--" I spoke brokenly.
"My dear girl, what can you tell me that I do not know, I who was with
your mother in her last hour--"