Rose was in the boat alone with her aunt. Neither being in the mood for
talk, they ran silently down the broadening stream without a word. The
paddles dipped and rose; the evening shadows crept forth, as it were,
out of the earlier darkness of the woods, and again, as once before,
they sped along in the gloom of an overcast night.
The same soft odors of earth and spruce, the peculiar smell of broken
water, were as they had been. Once more the hills seemed closing in upon
them. The clouded skies overhead appeared to be almost within touch.
Then the white flash and roll and strange voices of the rapids went by
them like the mysterious uncertainties of a dream.
All was as it had been three weeks before: all but Rose herself. She was
under other skies, in the strong tide of a mightier current. She locked
her hands, and set herself to put it all aside, and to win again the
mood of peace and serenity which these three weeks had so disturbed. It
would not come back.
As for Anne, she lay against the piled-up luggage, silent and
thought-bound. She was in the dreary company of pain, and smiled sadly
as she glanced back over the years in which it had been her foe or
friend, and again, as often before, wondered how long it would last, and
she be called upon to bear it with ever-weakening physical power to make
the fight less easy.
At the landing, and while they were arranging to go to the station, a
man came down the bank and asked for Mr. Lyndsay.
“That is my name. How are you, Carstairs? What is it?”
“This way, sir, a moment. Could you let Michelle come with me for half
an hour,—or Tom. The body of a man has come ashore on Caribou Bar. They
have taken it up to my barn. Some of the men say it is Joe Colkett. We
think one of your people would know.”
Lyndsay called Michelle, and, leaving proper directions, went away with
him.
In the barn, after twenty minutes’ walk, he found a number of men, and
the local magistrate. Two lanterns lit dimly the threshing-floor.
The men stood about silent; the horses in the stalls beyond changed
feet, and the noises of the never-quiet river came up through the night.
On the floor lay the body. Lyndsay took the lantern, and bent over it.
“Yes, it is Joe! Poor fellow!”
“He is badly cut up by them rocks,” said Michelle, “and his foot.”
“Was it rocks?” asked Lyndsay. “The skull seems broken. Poor fellow!”
Then he took the magistrate aside, and they talked long and earnestly.
“Yes, I got your message. Thursday night one of the wardens hailed a
dugout, and got no answer. That was below your camp.”
“I passed it also, farther up—two people. It must have been that woman
and Joe. They fired their house,—why, I do not know,—and got off with
their plunder.”
“We shall catch her. Do you think she killed Joe?”
“Perhaps! As like as not. But, if that woman is alive, you will not
catch her.”
“I shall wire to Quebec.”
“And you will let me know?”
“Certainly.”
“Carington’s evidence you can get, of course. I really have none to give
myself. The woman you will never get.” And they did not. No dugout was
found, and whether she too was lost or escaped to breed further
mischief, none know.
Lyndsay walked swiftly back, and rejoined his people at the station.
When at last they were running at speed between Quebec and Montreal,
Anne said:
“Archie, what was it last night? Why did they want you?”
Then he told her, as he had already told his wife, the sad ending of
poor, simple Joe.
“It is a miserable business,” she returned. “Really, Archie, the morals
which come at the end of life’s fables are pretty useless for those most
concerned.”
On reaching home, Anne found a letter from Carington. He wrote:
That astonishing woman—Dorothy Maybrook—has spent most of her time with
me. She calmly told Ellett to go a-fishing. He went. I have been
admirably nursed, and, as you may suppose, have not lacked conversation.
Who ‘p’ints’ Hiram, in her absence, I do not know.
There has been no news of the Colketts. It is but too probable that she
killed the man, and got away in safety. I shall hereafter entertain a
profound respect for the intelligence of crime.
It is great fun to hear Ellett and Dorothy. Do write to me—and say
pleasant things to all of those dear, good people of yours. Tell Miss
Rose I am not too badly crippled to ask for a new place as bowman.
Yours, etc.