Doubts
It was with a violent start that Hugo awoke, feeling chilled to the
bone in spite of his heavy blankets. His injured shoulder was so stiff
that for some minutes he was scarcely able to move it. He got out of
his bunk, his whole frame shaking with the cold, and managed to kindle
a fire in the stove. But presently he felt warm again, rather
unaccountably warm, in fact, and his face grew quite red. Curiously
enough, for a man with the vast appetite of hard workers in cold
regions, he did not at all feel inclined to eat. Yet he prepared some
food, according to custom, and sat before a tin pint dipper of strong
hot tea. This he managed to swallow, with some approach to comfort,
but when he tried to eat the first few mouthfuls satiated him and he
pushed the remainder away.
He had opened the door to let Maigan go out, and when the dog returned
after a good roll in the snow Hugo swept his breakfast of rolled oats
and bread into a pan and fed it to his companion.
"You're certainly not going hungry because my own grub doesn't taste
right, old boy," he commented.
Men of the wilderness learn to speak to their dogs, or even to think
out aloud, when no living thing chances to be near. It answers to the
inherited need of speech, to an instinct so long inbred in man that he
must needs, at times, hear the sound of a voice, even if it be but his
own, or go crazy.
Maigan wagged his tail and gobbled up the food. When he saw his master
fastening on his snowshoes he barked loudly. Hugo allowed him to romp
about for a few minutes before hitching him up to the toboggan.
A few minutes later they were on their way to Papineau's. An attempt
to smoke his pipe was immediately abandoned by the young man. For some
reason it tasted wretchedly. While the start was made at a good pace
little more than a couple of hundred yards had been covered before
Hugo realized that he was going ever so slowly. Maigan was stopping
all the time and waiting for him. What on earth was the matter? He
judged that the poor night's sleep had had some ill effect upon him.
It couldn't be his shoulder. Certainly not! The pain in it was no more
than any chap could bear, even if he had to make a wry face over it at
times. He wondered whether anything he had eaten on the previous day
could have disagreed with him. He decided that it probably was some
canned meat he had bought at McGurn's. That explained the thing quite
satisfactorily to him. Anyway, it was bound to wear off soon. Such
things always did. With this cheering thought he sought to lengthen
his stride again, but a moment later he was dragging himself along,
dully, wondering what was the matter with him.
He was anxious to see Madge again. He must tell her of the finding of
her message. Surely he would be able to talk to her, calmly and
quietly, and to obtain from her all that she knew of this strange
jumble of mysteries. He hoped that she had been able to rest, that he
would find her less weary and overwrought. This girl had been badly
treated, sinned against most grievously. If there was anything he
could do he would offer his services eagerly.
"I expect she'll want to turn right back to Carcajou," he told
himself. "I wish I were feeling more fit for the journey. If Papineau
is home from his trapping he will help me out. But I'll feel all right
soon. This is bound to pass off. If I get too tired when I reach
Carcajou, Stefan will put me up for the night. It--it seems a pity
that girl will have to go."
He trudged along behind the toboggan. He could have ridden on it, most
of the way, but wanted to keep Maigan fresh for the trip to Carcajou,
for the trunk would have to go also. The light sled was nothing for
the dog to pull, of course, and sometimes he dashed ahead so that his
pace became too great for his master. Then he would stop and sit down
in his traces, to wait until he was overtaken. The road was
unaccountably long, that morning, but at last they came in sight of
the Papineau homestead and the cleared land upon which some crops of
oats and potatoes had already been raised, amid the short stumps of
the half-cleared land. In summer the river ran very slowly at this
place, and big trout were ever making rings on the surface which they
broke in their dashes after all sorts of flies and beetles. On the
land opposite, where there had once been a forest fire, the red weeds
that follow conflagrations grew strong and rank in the summer time and
little saplings sprouted up among the charred and wrecked trunks of
the _brulé_. But at this time it all looked very bleak and desolate.
"She couldn't ever have lived in such a country," he told himself,
with perhaps a tinge of regret. "Poor little thing, I wonder what's to
become of her? The whole thing's a shame--a ghastly shame. Wait till
Stefan and I find out all about it. Somebody's got to get hurt, that's
all!"
Maigan had already hauled the toboggan to the door of the big shack,
and the other animals had come near to renew assurances of armed
neutrality. The good woman of the house appeared just as Hugo came up.
She must have been rather staggered by his appearance, for she drew
back, staring at him and shaking her head in decided disapproval.
"'Ow many mile you call heem to de depot at Carcajou," she asked him,
with hands on her hips and a severe look on her face.
"Why, it's twelve miles to my shack and one more to this place," he
answered, dully. "You know that just as well as I. Don't you remember
the county surveyors told us so last year?"
"An' you tink you goin' pull dat toboggan all way back wid you h'arm
all bad an' you seek, lookin' lak' one ghosts! Excuse me, Monsieur
Hugo, but you one beeg fool. My man Papineau 'e come back from de
traps to-morrow an' heem pull de young lady 'ome wid de dogs. You no
fit to go. I tink you go to bed right now, bes' place for you, sure."
She pulled him inside, holding on to his uninjured arm as if he had
been under arrest. She was a masterful woman, to be sure. Madge had
arisen from a chair and Mrs. Papineau addressed her. A glance at the
man's countenance had left the girl appalled. His features were drawn,
the brown tint of his face had changed to a characterless gray, his
eyes looked sunken and brighter, as if some fever brought a flame into
them.
"Sure you no in h'awful beeg 'urry for to go 'ome, Mees?" asked the
hostess. "Dis man heem real seek. Heem no fit for valk all vay back to
Carcajou now. To-morrow my man take you. Papineau he no forgif me if I
let Monsieur Hugo go aff an' heem so seek."
"Why, of course! I'm not in any special hurry. To-morrow will do just
as well. He--he mustn't think of going to-day and--and it doesn't
matter in the least. It--it makes no difference at all."
"Do you really think that you can manage to stay here for another
day?" the young man asked her, as he dropped rather heavily on a bench
by the table. "I don't think there 's really much the matter with me,
really, and I'm sure I could manage it if you're anxious to get away.
But perhaps to-morrow...."
"Mrs. Papineau has been ever so kind to me," answered the girl,
slowly. "That sort of thing is such a comfort, especially when--when
one isn't used to it. Nobody ever took such care of me over there in
New York. I've had plenty to eat and a nice warm place to sleep in. I
haven't been used to much luxury where--where I came from. And--and
you mustn't mind me. It will always be time enough to go, but--but I
won't know how to thank this--this kindly woman."
Hugo didn't know whether these words held a reproach to him, but they
sounded very hopeless and sad. The girl had sat down again, on a low
stool near the fire. A chimney had been built in a corner, to
supplement the stove, and she was looking intently at the bright
flames leaping up and the fat curling smoke that rose in little
patches, as bits of white bark twisted and crackled. Mrs. Papineau had
gone back to the stove at the other end of the room, where she and her
eldest girl had been washing dishes. In the rising sparks of the logs
on fire Madge saw queer designs, strange moving forms her eyes
followed mechanically. She felt that she was merely waiting--waiting
for the worst that was yet to come, but the heat was grateful.
"If that's the case we might as well postpone the trip for a day,"
Hugo acknowledged, somewhat shamefacedly. "I don't often get played
out but for some reason I'm not quite up to the mark to-day."
"You keep still an' rest yourself a bit," Mrs. Papineau ordered,
coming back to him and feeling his pulse gravely, whereat she made a
wry face. She informed him that he undoubtedly had a fever and must
remain absolutely quiet while she brewed him a decoction of potent
herbs she had herself picked and stored away.
Madge looked at Hugo again, anxiously, feeling that her careless
handling of that little pistol was undoubtedly responsible for his
illness. Their eyes met and he managed to smile.
"A mere man can do nothing but obey when a woman commands, Miss
Nelson," he declared, with a weak attempt at jocularity. "I'm sure
it's dreadful stuff she's going to make me swallow. Still, I'm glad of
a short rest."
He drew his chair a little nearer, and, speaking in a lower voice,
went on:
"I'll tell you, Miss Nelson. We--we perhaps owe one another some
explanations. It happens that I've found something. It's the queerest
thing ever happened. I'd like to explain...."
"What is the use, Mr. Ennis?" she replied, her voice revealing an
intense discouragement. "And besides, you are ill now. It--it doesn't
really matter what has happened, I suppose. I couldn't expect anything
else, I dare say. I was a fool to come, to--to believe what I did.
And--and I'm ashamed, it--it seems as if the least little pride that
was left me has gone--gone for ever. Please--please don't say anything
more. It distresses me and can't possibly do any good."
She turned away from him to stare into the fire again and watch the
little tongues of flame following threads of dry moss, till her face,
which had colored for a moment, became pale again and her lips
quivered at the thoughts that had returned to her. Uppermost was that
feeling of shame of which she had spoken. She had realized that she
had come to this man she had never met, ready to say: "Here I am,
Madge Nelson, to whom you wrote in New York. If you really want me for
your wife I am willing. In exchange for food, for rest, for a little
peace of mind I am ready to try to learn to love you, to respect and
obey you, and I will be glad to work for you, to keep your home, to do
my duty like a diligent and faithful wife." But the man had looked at
her with eyes genuinely surprised, because he had not really expected
her. And of course she had found no favor in his sight. She was an
inconvenient stranger whom he did not know how to get rid of, and on
the spur of the moment he had found recourse in clumsy lies. By this
time he had probably thought out some fables with which he expected to
soothe her. At any rate he must despise her, in spite of the fact that
he seemed to try to be civil and even kind. The important thing was
that the end had come. In her little purse six or seven dollars were
left, not enough to take her even half the distance to New York, to
the great city she had learned to hate and fear. For nothing on earth
would she have accepted money from Hugo. At least that shred of pride
remained. It was therefore evident that but one way, however dark, was
open before her, since the end must come.
But that unutterable weariness was still upon her. She was not pressed
for time, thank goodness. She had been given food in abundance and
unwonted warmth and, for some hours, the wonderful sharp tingling air
of the forest had driven the blood more swiftly through her veins.
Moments had come during which it had seemed a blessing merely to
breathe and a marvelous gift to be free from pain. But she was not so
very strong yet. In another day, or perhaps two, she might feel better
able to take that last leap. It would be that river--the Roaring
River. That--that little gun made horrid jagged wounds. On her way to
Papineau's she had noticed any number of great air-holes in the ice.
In such places she had even heard the rumbling of the water on its
rushing journey towards the sea. It seemed an easy, restful, desirable
end to all her troubles. She would slip away by herself and these dear
kindly people would never know, she hoped. Like so many others, she
had gambled and lost, and perhaps she deserved to lose. Who could say?
If she had sinned in coming to this place she would bear the
punishment bravely. It would surely be very swift; there would be but
a gasp or two from the stunning chill of the icy water, after which
must come swift oblivion. The world was indeed a very harsh and
dangerous place. She would be glad to leave it; there could be nothing
to regret.
She raised her eyes once more and looked about her. The heat from the
birchen logs and the sizzling jack-pine penetrated her. Somewhere she
had read or heard that, to those condemned, a few last comforts were
usually proffered. It would be easier to find the end after a few more
hours of this blessed peace. It would have been more gruesome to meet
it while suffering from hunger with the very marrow of one's bones
freezing and one's teeth chattering. She was glad enough to sit still
on that rough stool. She did not want to be taken back, even to that
little village of Carcajou. The little children had made such good
friends with her, and would have climbed all over her had their mother
not reproved them; the very dogs had come up and rubbed against her,
and put their muzzles in her lap. Two of them were but half-grown
pups. And best of all the big-hearted and full-bosomed mother of the
family always spoke in words that were so friendly, even affectionate.
It had been a wonderful vision of a better world from which she did
not want to awaken too soon.
In the meanwhile Hugo had been compelled, not without a wry face, to
swallow the bitter potion Mrs. Papineau had prepared for him.
"I think I'll be going," he remarked.
"You rest one leetle time yet," ordered the housewife. "You haf noding
for to do. Feel better soon when you rest after de medicine. You no
'urry."
Perhaps nothing loath he had sat down again, with his chair tilted
back a little till the back rested on the table. Madge was sitting
nearly in front of him, with her back slightly turned, and he could
see the tightly pinned mass of the hair he had seen flooding her
shoulders in his shack, and the comely curve of her neck as she leaned
forward, staring into the fire. For a time this drove away the pain
that was in his wounded arm and the hot, throbbing feeling of
discomfort that it gave him. What irked him was the realization of the
tragedy brought to this girl somehow and the understanding of all that
she must have suffered.
Hugo had not always lived in the wilderness. He also had been of the
town during a period of his life, until the longing had come for the
greater freedom of the open spaces, of the regions which in their
greatness bring forth the sturdier qualities of manhood.
He was thinking of the scorn that had been in her voice when she had
told him of the fierce impulse that had bidden her escape from the
bondage of carking poverty and care. It had only resulted in bringing
disappointment and the shame, the outraged womanhood that had burned
upon her cheeks. And this appealed to him with an irresistible force
since that effort on her part showed that she at least possessed
courage and the readiness to go far afield in search of an avenue of
escape. Weaker souls would long ago have given up the fight.
He had just tried to begin an explanation and find the truth out from
her, but she had shaken her head and said it was useless. She did not
understand; how could she? Yet he had been sorely disappointed. It had
scarcely been a rebuff on her part for she had spoken gently enough,
in that low despairing voice of hers. He must wait another and better
occasion and hope that he would be able to clear himself of
wrongdoing.
At this time a man's practical nature suggested to him the thought
that she must be very poor--that she had perhaps expended her last
resources in coming to Carcajou. If this was the case, what would it
avail for him to take her back to the railway? What would happen to
her then? He could not allow her to depart without finding out how
such matters stood, and he wondered in what manner he could make her
accept some money and how he could make amends to her for the injury
she had sustained at some unknown individual's hands. But the more he
puzzled his brain the less he could discover any efficient way of
coming to her assistance. She had said that every bit of pride had
been torn from her, but he knew that this was not altogether true. The
flashing of her eyes and the indignation of her voice had contradicted
her words efficiently. She would probably resent his offer, refuse to
accept anything from him. Yet, if he managed to persuade her that he
was guiltless, it was possible....
But here his thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Papineau, who insisted
on inspecting his wound again and made a wry face when she looked at
it.
"I beg you pardon for to tell de truth, Monsieur Hugo," she said, "but
I tink you one beeg fool man for come here to-day. I tink maybe you
get bad seek wid dat h'arm. You stay 'ere to-day an' for de night. I
make you a bed in dis room on de floor, by Jacques an' Baptiste an'
Pierre. My man Philippe 'e come to-morrow, maybe to-night, an' I send
heem to Carcajou so he telegraph to de _docteur_ for see you, eh?"
"You're awfully good, Mrs. Papineau," answered the young man, with the
obstinacy of his kind. "I'm perfectly sure I'll be all right
to-morrow, or the next day at the most. And I'll come back and see how
Miss Nelson is getting on. I think I'll move now so I'll say good-by.
I'm a lot better now. I suppose it's on account of that stuff you made
me drink; it was bad enough to be fine medicine. I hope the rest will
do you some good also, Miss Nelson. You're looking a lot better than
yesterday."
Mrs. Papineau first thought of preventing his exit by main force but
felt compelled to let him have his way. She lacked the courage of her
convictions and allowed him to depart, with his dog running ahead with
the toboggan. She peered at him through one of the small panes and saw
that he was walking fairly easily.
"Maybe heem be all right soon," she confided hopefully to Madge, while
she mixed dough in a pan. "But heem one beeg fool man all de same."
"I--I can hardly believe that," objected the girl. "Why do you think
so?"
"All mans is beeg fools ven dey is 'urted or seek, my dear. Dey don't
know nodings 'ow to tak' care for heemselves. Dey don't never haf
sense dat vay. Alvays tink dey so strong noding happen, ever. But just
same Hugo Ennis one mighty fine man, I say dat sure. I rather de ole
cow die as anyting 'appen to heem."
Without interrupting her work, and later as she toiled, at her
washtub, the good woman launched forth in lengthy praise of Hugo. From
her conversation it appeared that he had helped one or two fellows
with small sums of money and good advice. In the autumn he had fished
out an Indian who had upset his boat while netting whitefish in rough
weather, on the lake, and every one knew that Stefan's life had been
saved by him. At any rate the Swede said so, for Hugo never liked much
to speak of such things. And then he was a steady fellow, a hard
worker, good at the traps and not afraid of work of any kind. And then
he was friendly to everybody. Had Madge noticed how gentle he was with
the little children? That was always a sign of a good man.
"Yes, mees," she concluded. "Some time I tink heem de bes' man as ever
lif. Heem Hugo not even 'urt one dog, or anyting."
So he wouldn't hurt even a dog! Madge repeated these words to herself.
Then why had he played such a sorry joke on a woman who had never
injured him? She wondered whether he would be sorry, afterwards,
if--if he ever chanced to learn what had become of her--after
everything was all over. It might be that he had just been a big fool,
as the Canadian woman had called him, and never reflected on the
possible consequences of his action. But then he should have had the
manhood to acknowledge his fault and beg her pardon, instead of
resorting at once to clumsy lies and pretending utter ignorance. In
many ways such conduct seemed inconsistent with the man, now that she
had had further opportunity of seeing him. And then there was no doubt
that he looked very ill. She was really very sorry for her share in
that accident, and yet--and yet men had been shot dead for smaller
offenses than he had meted out to her. He might have been killed, of
course, and her quickened imagination caused her to see him stretched
stark upon the floor of that little cabin, on those rough boards that
smelled of resiny things. And then people would have come and she
would have been accused of his murder, of course. It would have been
her weapon that had done it, and they would have found motive enough
for the deed in the story she would have been compelled to relate.
They wouldn't have believed in any accident. And then, instead of
being able to end everything in some air hole of Roaring River, she
would have been dragged to some jail to eke out her days in a prison,
if she had not been hanged.
The next day she awaited his coming somewhat anxiously. She felt that
she must know how he was before--before taking that last step. After
all he had tried to be considerate, except in the matter of those
amazing lies. During the afternoon Mrs. Papineau, growing anxious,
sent little Baptiste over to enquire after him. The small boy
returned, saying that he had seen two squirrels and a rabbit on the
tote-road, and the track of a fox, and that he had found Hugo sitting
by the fire. And Hugo had declared that he was all right and--and
perhaps he wasn't pleased, because he spoke very shortly and had told
him to hurry home. So Baptiste had left, and on his way he had seen
partridges sitting on a fir sapling, and if he'd had a gun, or even
some rocks....
But this circumstantial narrative was interrupted by the barking of
the dogs. The sun was about setting. Madge looked out of the window,
while Mrs. Papineau rushed to the door. It was a man arriving with a
toboggan and two big dogs.
"Dat my man Philippe coming," announced the woman, happily.
She held the door open, letting in a blast of cold air, and the man
entered, tired with long tramping. From the toboggan he removed a load
of pelts, dead hares that would serve chiefly for bait, his blankets
and the indispensable axe. Mrs. Papineau volubly explained the guest's
presence and he greeted her kindly.
"You frien' of Hugo Ennis," he said. "Den you is velcome an' me glad
for see you, _mademoiselle_."
He was a pleasant-faced, stocky and broad-limbed man of rather short
stature, and his manner was altogether kindly and pleasant. The
simplicity and cordiality of his manner was entirely in keeping with
the ways of his family. It was curious that all the people she had met
so far seemed to have come to an agreement in speaking well of Ennis.
The man sat down, after the smallest of the children had swarmed all
over him, and took off his Dutch stockings, waiting for the plenteous
meal and the hot tea his wife was preparing. Meanwhile, to lose no
time, he began to skin a pine marten.
"Plent' much good luck dis time," he said, turning to Madge. "Five
_vison_, vat you call mink, and a pair martens. Also one fox, jus'
leetle young fox but pelt ver' nice. You want for see?"
She inspected the pelts and looked at the animals that were yet
unskinned, realizing for the first time how men went off in the wilds
for days and weeks and months at a time, in bitterest weather, to
provide furs for fine ladies.
The darkness had come and the big oil lamp was lighted. The children
played about her for a time and gradually sought their couches in
bunks and truckle-beds. The man was relating incidents of the trapping
to his wife, who nodded understandingly. Beaver were getting plentiful
along the upper reaches of the Roaring; it was a pity that the law
prevented their killing for such a long time. He had seen tracks of
caribou, that are scarce in that region; but they were very old
tracks, not worth following, since these animals are such great
travelers.
During this conversation Madge would listen, at times, and turn
towards the door. She had a vague idea that Ennis might come, since
the boy's account had been somewhat reassuring. When she finally went
to bed behind an improvised screen in a corner of the big living-room,
she was long unable to sleep, owing to obsessing thoughts that
wouldn't be banished. Over and over again she reminded herself of all
that had happened. It stood to reason that the man had written those
letters; how could it be otherwise? The proofs in her hands were too
conclusive to permit her to pay any heed to his denials. The amazing
thing was that when one looked at him it became harder and harder to
believe him capable of such wrongdoing.
As she tossed in her bed she began to be assailed with doubts. These
worried her exceedingly. He had firmly asserted his innocence.
Supposing that he was telling the truth, what then? In such a case,
impossible as it seemed, she had accused him unjustly, and her conduct
towards him had been unpardonable. And then she had refused to listen
to him, when he had sought to begin some sort of explanation. Why
shouldn't one believe a man with such frank and honest eyes, one who
wouldn't harm even a dog and was loved and trusted by little children?
Of course, it was quite unintentionally that she had wounded his body,
but if he chanced to be innocent she had also wounded his feelings,
deeply, in spite of which he had seemed sorry for her, and had been
very kind. He had promised to come again to give her further help. If
he was guilty it was but a sorry attempt to make slight amends. If he
was not at fault, it showed that he was a mighty fine man. Madge felt
that she would rather believe in his innocence, in spite of the fact
that if he could prove it she would be covered with confusion.
"It seems to me that I ought to have given him that opportunity he was
seeking," she told herself, rather miserably.
Before she fell asleep she decided that on the morrow she would walk
over to his shack if he did not turn up in the forenoon. He might be
in want of care, in spite of what the small boy had said. If he was
all right she would sit down and question him. The letters she had
received were in her bag; she would show them to him. Now that she
thought of it, the curious, ill-formed, hesitating character of the
writing seemed utterly out of keeping with the man's apparent nature.
He ought to have written strongly and boldly, it seemed to her.
Gradually she was becoming certain that his word of honor that he had
never penned them, or caused some one else to do it for him, would
suffice to change the belief she had held. Yes--she would go there,
even before noon. If she met him on the road they could as well speak
out in the open air. And if she could be sure that she had been
mistaken in regard to him, she would beg his pardon, because he had
tried to be good to her, with little encouragement on her part.
She--she didn't want him to think afterwards--when everything would be
ended, that she had been ungrateful and unjust. Of course, the great
effort had failed; nearly everything was ended now and there were no
steps that could be retraced. Someone had been very wicked and cruel,
that was certain. But she didn't care who it was; it could make no
difference. She really hoped it was not Hugo Ennis.
In the darkness her tense features relaxed and her body felt greater
ease. Finally her eyes closed and she slept.