AT THE MISSION
Far in the Northland, upon the bank of a great river that disgorges into
the frozen sea, stands a little Roman Catholic Mission. The mission is
very old--having had its inception in the early days of the fur trade.
Its little chapel boasts a stained glass window--a window fashioned in
Europe, carried across the Atlantic to Hudson Bay in a wooden sailing
vessel, and transported through three thousand miles of wilderness in
canoes, York boats, and scows, and over many weary miles of portage upon
the backs of sweating Indians. Upon its walls hang paintings--works of
real merit, the labor of priestly hands long dead. A worthy monument,
this mission, to the toil and self sacrifice of the early Fathers, and a
living tribute to the labor of the grave Grey Nuns.
The time was July--late evening of a July day. The sun still held high
above the horizon, and upon the grassed plateau about the buildings of
the mission children were playing. They were Indian children, for the
most part, thick bodied and swarthy faced but among them here and there,
could be seen the lighter skin of a half breed. Near the door of one of
the buildings sat a group of older Indian girls sewing. In the doorway
the good Father Ambrose stood with his eyes upon the up-reach of the
river.
Like a silent grey shadow Sister Mercedes glided from the chapel and
seated herself upon a wooden bench drawn close beside the door. Her eyes
followed the gaze of the priest. "No sign of the brigade?" she asked.
"They have probably tied up for the night. Tomorrow maybe--or the day
after, they will come." Ensued a long pause during which both studied
the river. "I think," continued the Nun, "that when the scows return
southward we will be losing Snowdrift."
"Eh?" The priest turned his head quickly and regarded Sister Mercedes
with a frown. "Henri of the White Water? Think you he has----"
The Sister interrupted: "No, no! To school. She is nineteen, now. We can
do nothing more for her here. In the matter of lessons, as you well
know, she has easily outstripped all others, and books! She has already
exhausted our meagre library."
The priest nodded. The frown still puckered his brow but his lips
smiled--a smile that conveyed more of questioning than of mirth.
Intensely human himself, Father Ambrose was no mean student of human
nature, and he spoke with a troubled mind: "To us here at the mission
have been brought many children, both of the Indians and of the Metis.
And, having absorbed to their capacity our teachings, the Indians have
gone stolidly back to their tepees, and to their business of hunting and
trapping, carrying with them a measure of useful handicraft, a
smattering of letters, and the precepts of the Word." The smile had
faded from the clean-cut lips of the priest, and Sister Mercedes noted a
touch of sadness in the voice, as she watched a slanting ray of sunlight
play for a moment upon the thinning, silvery hair. "I have grown old in
the service of God here at this mission, and it is natural that I have
sought diligently among my people for the outward and visible signs of
the fruit of my labor. And I have found, with a few notable exceptions
that in one year, or two, or three, the handicraft is almost forgotten,
the letters are but a dim blur of memory, and the Word?" He shrugged,
"Who but God can tell? It is the Metis who are the real problem. For it
is in their veins that civilization meets savagery. The clash and the
conflict of races--the antagonism that is responsible for the wars of
the world--is inherent in the very blood that gives them life. And the
outcome is beyond the ken or the conjecture of man. I have seen, I
think, every conceivable combination of physical and mental condition,
save the one most devoutly to be hoped for--a blending of the best that
is in each race. That I have not seen. Unless it be that we are to see
it in Snowdrift."
Sister Mercedes smiled: "I do not believe that Snowdrift is a half
breed. I believe she is a white child."
Father Ambrose smiled tolerantly: "Still of that belief? But, it is
impossible. I know her mother. She, too, was a child of this
mission--long before your time. She is one of the few Indians who did
not forget the handicraft nor the letters." The old man paused and shook
his head sadly, "And until she brought this child here I believed that
she had not forgotten the Word. For she continued to profess her belief,
and among her people she waged war upon the rum-runners. Later, I,
myself, married her to a Dog Rib, a man who was the best of his tribe.
Then they disappeared and I heard nothing from her until she brought
this child, Snowdrift, to us here at the mission. She told me that her
husband had been drowned in a rapid, and then she told me--not in
confessional, for she would not confess, that this was her child and
that her father was a white man, but that he was not her husband."
"She may have lied. Loving the child, she may have feared that we would
take her away, or institute a search for her people."
"She loves the child--with the mother love. But she did not lie. If she
had lied, would she not have said that after the death of her husband
she had married this white man? I would have believed her. But,
evidently the idea of truth is more firmly implanted in her heart
than--other virtues--so she told the truth--knowing even as she did so
the light in which she would stand before men, and also the standing of
her daughter."
"Oh, it is a shame!" cried the Nun, "But, still I do not believe it! I
cannot believe it! Snowdrift's skin, where the sun and the wind have not
turned it, is as white as mine."
"But her hair and eyes are the dark hair and eyes of the Indian. And
when she was first brought here, have you forgotten that she fought like
a little wild cat, and that she ran away and trailed her band to its
encampment? Could a white child have done that?"
"But after she had been brought back, and had begun to learn she fought
just as hard against returning to the tribe for a brief vacation. She is
a dreamer of dreams. She loves music and appreciates its beauty, and the
beauty of art and the poets."
"She can trail an animal through country that would throw many an Indian
at fault."
"She hates the sordid. She hates the rum-runners, and the greasy
smoke-blackened tepees of the Indians. In her heart there has been an
awakening. She longs for something better--higher. She has consented to
go to the convent."
"And at the same time we are in mortal dread lest she marry that prince
of all devils, Henri of the White Water. Why she even dresses like an
Indian--the only one of the older girls who does not wear the clothing
of white women."
"That is because of her artistic temperament. She loves the ease and
comfort of the garments. And she realizes their beauty in comparison to
the ugliness of the coarse clothing and shoes with which we must provide
them."
"Where is she now?"
"Hunting."
Father Ambrose laughed: "And I predict that she will not return until
she has brought down her caribou, or her moose. Would your white maiden
of nineteen be off hunting alone in the hills with her rifle? No. By our
very contentions we have established the dual nature of her. In her the
traits of civilization and savagery are not blended, but each in turn
dominate and order her thoughts and actions. Hers is what one might term
an alternating ego. And it is a thing that troubles me sore. What will
happen down there--down at the convent, where they will not understand
her, and where there is no hunting? To what end will this marvelous
energy exert itself? For, it will not remain pent up within her breast.
It will seek outlet. And then?"
"Who can tell?" answered the Nun, thoughtfully. "At least, I shall be
glad indeed to know that she will be far from the baleful influence of
Henri of the White Water. For, devil that he is, there is no gainsaying
the fact that there is something attractive about him, with his bold
free manner, and his handsome face, and gay clothing. He is a figure
that might well attract a more sophisticated woman than our little
Snowdrift. As yet, though, I think he has failed to rouse in her more
than a passing interest. If she cared for him she would not be away
hunting while everyone else is eagerly watching for the brigade."
Father Ambrose shrugged: "'Tis past understanding--the way of a maid
with a man. But see, here she comes, now." Both watched the lithe form
that swung across the clearing from the bush. The girl was hatless, her
mass of black hair, caught up and held in place by an ingenious twist of
bark. Her face and full rounded throat that rose gracefully from the
open collar of a buckskin hunting shirt showed a rich hazel brown in the
slanting rays of the sun. Buckskin gloves protected her hands from the
ever present mosquitoes. A knee-length skirt of heavy cloth, a pair of
deer skin leggings tanned with the hair on, and Indian moccasins
completed her costume.
"What luck?" greeted the priest.
The girl paused before them and flashing a smile, disclosed a set of
teeth that gleamed like wet pearls: "Good luck," she answered, "A young
bull caribou, and two wolves that were just closing in on a cow with a
young calf. Every bullet went true. I shot three times. Has the brigade
passed?"
The priest shook his head: "No, not yet. They will have camped before
this for the night." As he spoke the girl's eyes strayed to the river,
and at the extreme reach of glistening water, they held: "Look!" she
cried, "They are coming, now!" Around the bend into view shot a scow,
and another, and another, until the whole surface of the river seemed
black with the scows. The playing children had seen them too, and with
wild whoops of delight they were racing for the bank, followed by the
older Indian girls, and by Father Ambrose. For the annual coming of the
brigade is an event in the North, bringing as it does the mail and the
supplies for the whole year to these lonely dwellers of the far
outlands.
Sister Mercedes remained seated upon her bench and standing her rifle
against the wall, Snowdrift sat down beside her, and in silence the two
watched the scows swing shoreward in response to the strokes of the
heavy steering sweeps, and listened to the exchange of shouted
greetings.
Of all the rivermen, the bravest figure was that of Henri of the White
Water. The two women could see him striding back and forth issuing
orders regarding the mooring of scows and the unloading of freight. They
saw him pause suddenly in his restless pacing up and down, and eagerly
scan the faces of the assembled group. Then, his glance travelled back
from the river and rested upon the two silent figures beside the door,
and with a wave of his hand, he tossed the sack of mail to the waiting
priest, and stepping past him strode rapidly up the bank in the
direction of the mission.
The face of Sister Mercedes hardened as she noted the flaunting air of
the approaching man, his stocking cap of brilliant blue, his snow-white
_capote_ thrown open to reveal the flannel shirt of vivid red and black
checks.
With a royal bow, he swept the blue stocking cap from his head and
saluted the two upon the bench: "Ah-ha, greetings, _ma cheres_! From
Henri of the White Water to the fairest flower of the North, and
her--ah, guardian angel--_non_?" His lips flashed a smile, and he
continued: "But, there are times when even a guardian angel is not
desired to be. Come with me, Snowdrift, and we will walk yonder to the
edge of the bank, where we will still be within sight of the ever
watching eye of the church, but well out of hearing of its ever
listening ear. You see, Sister _religieuse_, I am a respecter of your
little laws!" He laughed aloud, "Ah, yes Henri of the White Water is a
great respecter of laws, _voila_!"
Seating themselves upon the high bank of the river the two watched the
sun dip slowly behind the scrub timber. And, as the twilight deepened,
the man talked rapidly and earnestly, while the girl listened in
silence. "And so," he concluded, "When the scows return, in one month
from now, you shall leave this place forever. We shall go away and be
married, and we will journey far, far up the rivers to the cities of the
white men, and only upon occasion will we make flying trips into the
North--to the trade."
"It is said that you trade hooch," said the girl, "I will not marry any
man who trades hooch. I hate the traders of hooch."
"Ah-ha! _Ma chere!_ Yes, I have now and then traded hooch. You see, I do
not deny. Henri of the White Water must have adventure. But upon my
soul, if you do not want me to trade hooch, I shall never trade another
drop--_non_."
"When the scows return in a month, I shall go with them," answered the
girl dispassionately, "But, not to be married. I am going to school----"
"To school! _Mon Dieu!_ Have you not had enough of school? It is time
you were finished with such foolishness. You, who are old enough to be
the mother of children, talking of going to school! Bah! It is to laugh!
And where would you go--to school?"
"To the convent, at Montreal."
"The devil take these meddlers!" cried the man, rising and pacing
rapidly up and down before the girl. Then suddenly he paused and looking
down upon her, laughed aloud. "Ha, ha! You would go to Montreal! And
what will you do when you get there? What will you say when they ask you
who is your father? Eh, what will you tell them?"
The girl looked at him in wide-eyed surprise. "Why, what do you mean? I
shall tell them the truth--that my father is dead. Why should I not tell
them that my father is dead. He was a good man. My mother has told me."
Again the man laughed, his laugh of cruel derision: "Such innocence! It
is unbelievable! They will have nothing to do with you in the land of
the white men. They will scorn you and look down upon you. You never had
a father----"
The girl was upon her feet, now, facing him with flashing eyes: "It is a
lie! I did have a father! And he was a good man. He was not like the
father of you, old Boussard, the drunken and thieving old hanger-on
about the posts!"
"Aye, I grant you that the old devil is nothing to brag of. I do not
point to him with the finger of pride, but he is nevertheless a
produceable father. He and my Indian mother were married. I at least am
no _enfant natural_--no _batarde_! No one can poke at me the finger of
scorn, and draw aside in the passing, as from a thing unclean!"
The girl's face flamed red, and tears of rage welled from her eyes: "I
do not know what you mean!" she cried, "But I do know that I hate you! I
will find out what you mean--and then maybe I will kill you." In her
rage she sprang at the man's throat with her bare hands, but he easily
thrust her aside, and sobbing she ran toward the mission.
It was long after midnight that Snowdrift emerged from the room of
Sister Mercedes. The girl had gone straight to the Nun and asked
questions, nor would she be denied their answers. And so explaining,
comforting, as best she could, the good Sister talked till far into the
night. Snowdrift had gone into the room an unsophisticated girl--she
came out from it a woman--but, a woman whose spirit, instead of being
crushed and broken by the weight of her shame, rose triumphant and
defiant above that shame. For in her heart was bitter hatred against the
white men, whose code of ethics brought shame upon the innocent head of
one whose very existence was due to the lust of a man of their own race.
Silently the girl crossed the clearing to the building in which was her
room, and very silently she made up a pack of her belongings. Then,
taking the pack, and her rifle, she stole silently out the door and
crossing the broad open space, entered the bush. At the edge of the
clearing she turned, and stood for a long time looking back at the
mission with its little buildings huddled together in the moonlight. And
then, with a choking sob that forced itself past her tight-pressed lips,
she turned and plunged into the timber.