"No fonder of me than I am of him. He has changed so much in these
last nine months."
"You, too, see that?"
"Oh, yes, and his mother sees it. He has matured in every way."
The Doctor smiled. "You talk as if you were his grandmother. I 'm
proud of him, I confess. Had my boy lived--" His voice broke.
"Dear Doctor Rugvie, it is all a wilderness, as Jamie said, is n't it?
And we 're fortunate to find a trail, like this, that leads to
camp--and friends," I said, pointing to the newly made path through the
forest.
"Yes, my dear,--and that reminds me I have n't shown you what I brought
you here to see. Come."
He penetrated farther into the woods and off the trail to the left.
There we found a blasted tree in which was a great hollow.
"It is filled with honey, Marcia, wild honey. I wonder that no track
of bear is to be seen about here."
"Who would ever think of finding such a store of sweet in this poor old
lightning-blasted tree!" I exclaimed, looking more closely at it.
"What a feast Bruin will have some day."
"You see there is honey even in the wilderness, Marcia. I wanted to
convince you that there is such--may you, also, find it so." He turned
towards the camp, I following his lead.
"By the way," he said, as he walked on rapidly, "do you know anything
that could have given old Andre any physical or nervous shock recently?"
"No--I don't recall anything, at least anything that he might feel
physically. It's just possible a fright I gave him unintentionally
that day of the storm may have affected him for a time. Why, does he
show any effect of shock?"
"Yes, decidedly. What was it?"
I told him of my carelessness with the paddle while crossing the lake;
of the careening of the canoe; of Andre's terrified shriek and his
muttered fear of the depth of the lake.
"That must have been it. I felt sure there was some nervous shock."
"Oh, how could I do it! Dear old Andre--and I of all others!"
"It's his age, Marcia; it was liable to come at any time; this is why
Ewart felt so anxious about you that day and required the promise. Old
as he is, he is tough as a pine knot, wiry as witch grass, with great
powers of endurance, good eyesight, good teeth; he has seemed less than
seventy till this year. Now he is breaking up. It would not surprise
me if this were his debacle."
"I can't bear to think of it. Why must all these changes come at once!
What am I to do in the midst of this general debacle?"
"Marcia," he stopped short, turned to face me, "remember that now and
hereafter when you need a friend you will find one in me. Don't
hesitate to come to me, to call on me whenever there may be need, or
when there is no need. I had once, many years ago, not only a son but
a darling daughter. She would have been about your age--a year
younger."
I could not thank him, grateful as I was, for I was inwardly rebellious
that he should feel called upon to offer me the protection of his
friendship, when he must see that his friend was the only one to give
me the needed shelter---and that in Lamoral, because he loved me. For
a moment his words seemed almost an insult to Mr. Ewart.
Suddenly he laughed out--his hearty kindly laugh. It put new heart
into me.
"What is it?" I asked quickly, ready to respond to a little cheer.
"Ewart is having his surprise too, but domestically. He had word in
the mail from Cale last night, and according to his account everything
is going to the dogs at Lamoral. Angelique has elected to fall in love
with Widower Pierre and he with her. They are to postpone the marriage
until the seignior returns, but beg he will consider the state of their
affections and be considerate."
I laughed with him. There was humor in this situation at Lamoral, for
I had warned Cale before I left how this affair would terminate, and he
had sniffed at my clairvoyance.
"The truth is, Cale is homesick for the whole household."
"Poor Cale! He is having a hard time. I ought to be at home to help
him, to comfort him. Our new relationship means that I have found
another friend."
"And a faithful one."
"You think we shall break camp very soon?"
"Yes. I have to be off to-morrow--"
"To-morrow! Why, you were to stay into the second week of September."
"I have to leave sooner than I planned. The Montagnais brought up a
telegram with the mail, and my answer goes back with me to-morrow. I
've kept the Montagnais for guide, although I should not fear to risk
it alone, now that I have been over the route so many times."
"Then, if Mrs. Macleod and Jamie are to sail soon, I must go, too, I
suppose."
"Yes, Cale needs you; the whole household needs you. I proposed to
Ewart that we all go together, then there will be no heart-breaking
goodbys, except to Andre."
I bit my lip to keep back any inquiry about Mr. Ewart's going with us,
and was thankful I held my peace for the Doctor continued, tramping
steadily on ahead of me:
"But now Ewart will remain to the end--"
"But has it come to this?" I cried. I was depressed at the turn of
events.
The Doctor stopped, turned and faced me, saying gravely:
"It has, Marcia; I read the signs. We shall know when we get back. I
was with him all last night; there is no help. But Ewart and I did not
want you and Jamie and Mrs. Macleod to know it--not till morning. You
thought he was out fishing when we left; so did Jamie. Ewart asked me
to tell you on our way back."
"Andre--"
I could not speak another word. The old Canadian had so endeared
himself to me during the many weeks in the wilds. Added to this was
the thought of his probable connection with my mother's short-lived
joy. It was all too sudden.
"It _is_ the debacle, no mistake about that," I said stolidly, and set
my teeth together that they should not chatter and betray my weakness
of spirit.
"Can't I stay and help to nurse him?"
"No, Marcia, that won't do. Andre lies in a lethargy; his condition
may not change for days, for weeks, although I doubt this. His son and
Ewart will do all that is necessary. Ewart will never leave the two
here alone. You would be an extra care for them. It is now
exceptionally cold for the season in this latitude; the fall rains may
set in any time. Don't propose such a thing to Ewart, I beg of you.
But Ewart remains--that is the kind of friend Ewart is."
The request was too earnest for me not to accede to it with as good a
grace as possible.
On our return we found that it was as the Doctor had predicted: the old
guide was unconscious.
Mr. Ewart decided the matter of breaking camp. We were to leave the
next morning with the Montagnais and Andre the Second for guides.
Andre's son was to accompany us only to the fourth portage. The
Doctor, with the other Montagnais, was sufficient for the rest of the
way. The camp belongings were to follow later with Mr. Ewart, whenever
that should be.
I remember that day as one of dreary confusion--packing, sorting,
shivering a little in the chill air. The sun shone pale; it failed to
warm the earth or our bodies. All the forest stirred at times
uneasily. Andre's son declared it foretold long cold rains followed by
sharp frost. And amid all the confusion of the day we could hear the
undertone of our thought: "Old Andre is dying". Mr. Ewart would not
permit us to see him.
"It is better to carry with you only the memory of him as he has looked
to us during all these weeks--young in his heart, joyful in our
companionship."
I saw the relief in Mr. Ewart's face when we were ready. He spoke
cheerily to me who failed to respond with anything resembling
cheerfulness.
"It's a bad business in camp during the fall rains, and they are
setting in early this year. I shall know you are safely housed--and
there is so much to look forward to. Home will be a pleasant place for
us, won't it?"
"I thought this, also, was home to you--"
"Only so long as you are here; my home henceforth is where you are."
And, hearing those words, despite the chill air, despite the lack of
warm sunshine, despite the fact that old Andre lay dying in his tent
just beyond the camp, despite the fact that Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were
to leave me alone in Lamoral, that the Doctor was going away for an
indefinite time, my happiness was at the flood.
For a moment only, we stood there on the shore of the little cove,
together and alone--and glad to be! We stood there, man and woman
facing each other, as primeval man and woman may have stood thousands
of years ago on this oldest piece of the known earth, there in the
heart of the Canadian wilderness. Something primeval entered into the
expression of our love for each other; our souls were naked, the one to
the other; our eyes promised all, the one to the other; our lips were
ready for their seal of sacrament when the time should come that we
might give it each to the other without witness.
And no word was spoken, for no word was needed.
The Doctor joined us rather inopportunely and, accounting for the
situation, made no end of a pother with his traps and his canoe.
Once more Jamie and I asked if we might not take one look at old Andre,
but the Doctor put his foot down.
"Better not. Remember him as you last saw him; it will be a memory to
dwell with--this would not be."
Jamie put on a brave face, but I knew he was ready for a good cry.
"I am not reconciled to say goodby to you here, Gordon," he said.
The two clasped hands.
"Oh, I shall be running over to see you and Mrs. Macleod before long.
Be sure, Mrs. Macleod, to have my room ready for me next summer in
Crieff--and don't forget the green canopy over my bed. I have n't
forgotten it."
She smiled. "I shall never forget your kindness, never; but I can't
help the longing for home."
"There, there, no more you can't," said the Doctor brusquely. "No more
leave-takings; they don't set well on my breakfast. We shall all be
together again soon, please God. The ocean is but a pond and the
crossing a five days' picnic now-a-days. You may follow us in a few
days, Ewart. Meanwhile, I 'll see that your household is safely landed
at Lamoral--if only the rain will hold off, we shall have cause for
thankfulness," he added fervently. We all knew the Doctor was talking
against time and parting. "Raincoats all in readiness?" And then, not
waiting for an answer:
"I shall run up to Lamoral after I get back from San Francisco, Gordon;
I 'm not sure I shan't return by the Canadian Pacific."
"Good luck, John, and goodby till then," said Mr. Ewart. "Bon voyage,
Mrs. Macleod. Miss Farrell, I give you carte blanche for all wedding
preparations. Tell Pierre to order from his tailor, and charge to me.
I shall give them away.--Macleod, you full-fledged genius,"--he caught
Jamie's hands in his,--"let me hear from you--a wireless will just suit
my impatience. Oh, Miss Farrell, may I trouble you to see Mere
Guillardeau and tell her of Andre? I will telegraph you before I
return. Goodby--goodby."
There was a hand-clasp all around again. The Montagnais and Andre's
son took their places; pushed off. Our return voyage was begun.
With the dip of the paddles I heard, as an undertone, old Andre's
little song he used to sing to us in camp, the little French song that
Jamie incorporated in his "Andre's Odyssey":
"I am going over there, over there,
To search for the City of God.
If I find over there, over there,
What I seek--oh afar, oh afar!--
I will sing, when I'm home from afar,
Of the wonders and glory of God."