For the Good Name of Carcajou
The morning came clear and somewhat warmer. Beyond the serrated edges
of the woodlands covering far-away hills were masses of sunlit rolling
clouds that seemed as if they were utterly immovable and piled up as a
background to the purpling beauty of the mountains.
Madge awoke early. Outside the house the dogs were stirring, the two
young ones chasing one another over the snow and rolling over it while
the others nosed about more sedately. She heard a ponderous yawn from
Papineau, on the other side of the slender partition, and a general
scurrying of small feet and the moving of washbasins. When she came
out Mrs. Papineau had already kindled the wood in the fireplace and
was stirring the hot embers in the stove. From without she heard
sounds of lusty chopping.
She wrapped a borrowed knitted scarf about her neck and put on Hugo's
woolen _tuque_, after which she stepped out. There was a wondrous
brilliancy over the world. On trees hung icicles that took on the
appearance of gems. The cold air made her breathe so deeply that she
felt amazingly strong and well. The oldest boy's smiting with his axe
came in thumps that awakened a little echo, coming from over there
where the river narrowed down between high banks. It was very
wonderful; it gave one a desire to live; it seemed a pity that one
must so soon say good-by to all this. It--it was perhaps better not to
think of that just now.
She went indoors again. There were potatoes to be peeled and the girl,
in spite of protests, took up a knife and went to work. It was such a
pleasure to do something to help. Indeed she had been idle too long,
allowing these people to do everything for her while she crouched
disconsolately in warm corners. At present all the weariness and
weakness seemed to have left her. It was just like a fresh beginning
instead of the ending of a life. It would have made her happy to think
that, somewhere in the world, providing it were away from the city,
she might have found honest work to do in exchange for some of this
wonderful peace. If she could only have remained among these gentle
and placid people and let her existence flow on, easily, without pain
and the constant worry for the morrow. It was like some marvelous
dream from which she was compelled to awaken at once, for she realized
that there was no place for her in this household. The older children
were already of the greatest assistance to their parents, and there
was no room for her in the crowded shack. She had caused these people
some inconvenience, which they had accepted cheerfully, it was true,
but which she could not keep on inflicting on them. But for some
hours--some blessed hours, she could play at being happy and pretend
that life was sweet. She could smile now, when these people spoke to
her, and she hugged some of the little ones without apparent reason.
"You stay 'ere some more day," Mrs. Papineau told her, "an' den you
look lak' oder gal sure. Get fat an' lose de black roun' you h'eyes.
You now a tousan' time better as ven you come, you bet. Dis a fine
coontree, Canada, for peoples get strong an' hoongree an' work 'ard
an' sleep good."
"It's a perfectly beautiful and wonderful country," cried the girl,
enthusiastically. "I--I wish I could always live here."
"You one so prettee gal," commented the good woman. "Some day you fin'
one good 'usban' an' marry an' h'always lif in dis coontree. Den you
is happy and strong. Plenty mans in dis coontree want wife to 'elp an'
mak' good 'ome. It one h'awful big lan'."
Yes, there was any amount of room in this great country. And the woman
wanted her to go and find a good husband! Well, she had come far to
seek one. It--it had not been a pleasant experience. She saw herself
wandering about this wilderness looking for another man who would take
her to wife. Oh, the shame of it--the hot flashing of her cheeks when
she thought of it! No, she was now looking on all this as a pauper
looks into the shop-front displaying the warm clothing that would keep
the bitter cold from him, or as starvelings of big cities, through the
windows of great restaurants and hostelries, stare upon the well-fed
people sating themselves with an abundance of good cheer. She must
remain outside and now the end of it all was near.
They had their breakfast, during which Mrs. Papineau said that she was
becoming anxious about Hugo. Presently she would send one of the
children again. Papineau wouldn't do because he knew nothing about
sick people. She would go over there herself soon. If he was sick she
would bring him a loaf of bread. It would soon be ready to bake; the
dough was still rising behind the stove. There might be other things
to be attended to. Not more than an hour would elapse before she was
ready to go. She remarked that men were a very helpless lot whenever
they were ill, and became grumpy and took feminine tact to manage.
The feeling of anxiety that had gradually come over the girl became
deeper. If the man was ill, it was her fault. What had possessed her
to spend some of her scant store of money in that dirty little shop
for a pistol? Of course, she realized that a vague feeling of danger
had guided her--that the thing could be a means of defense or offer a
way to end her troubles. And it had only served to injure a man who,
if he had sinned against her, manifested at any rate some desire to
treat her kindly.
But the thought that he might not be guilty returned to her,
insistently. It was on her part a change of thought that was not due
to carefully reasoned considerations, to any deep study of conditions,
for when she tried to argue the matter out she became involved in a
thousand contradictions and her head would begin to ache in dizzy
fashion. Rather it was some sort of instinct, one of the conclusions
so often and quickly reached by the feminine mind and apt, in spite of
everything, to prove accurate and reliable.
"Mrs. Papineau," she said, suddenly, "I think I will go over there
now. I--I have rested long enough and the fresh air will be good for
me. I will come back very soon, I suppose, but if--if Mr. Ennis should
be ill you will find me there."
Her proposal was assented to without the slightest objection. The good
woman insisted on furnishing her with footwear better suited to the
tote-road than the boots she wore. On the trail the snow would be
fairly well beaten down and there would be little need of snowshoes if
she picked her way carefully. She could not lose her way. Still, it
might be as well for one of the children to go with her. People who
were not used to the woods sometimes strayed off a trail and got in
trouble.
Under escort of the second oldest girl Madge started, briskly. She had
covered but a short distance before she wondered that she felt so
strong and well. The plain substantial food she had eaten and the
bright, stimulating air were filling her with a new life. She walked
along quite fast, for she was now anxious to see this man again. If
she had been wrong she wanted to make amends. But what if he were very
ill? She thought of the lonely little shack and the lack of any
comfort and care within it. He might be lying there helplessly, with
only a dog for a companion. At every turn of the little road she
looked ahead, keenly, thinking that perhaps she might meet him on his
way to the Papineau's. As she hurried on she felt that the house had
perhaps been too warm and it was splendid to be walking beneath the
snow-laden trees, to see the little clouds of her breath going out
into the frosty air and to hear the crackling of the clean snow under
her feet.
The child was walking sturdily at her side and told her of some
Christmas presents Hugo had brought. It was evident that to the
children of that family he was a very wonderful being, a sort of Santa
Claus who had done his full duty and one to be forever after welcomed
with joyous shrieks. And father said he was a very good shot, and
Stefan Olsen, the big man, thought there was no one like him. And he
could sing songs and tell stories, wonderful stories. Madge, as she
listened to the girl, suddenly wondered whether it was not possible
that the loneliness of such a life might not in some way have
disturbed the man's mind, at least temporarily. Wasn't it possible for
one, in such a case, to do queer things and never remember anything
about them afterwards? No one better than she knew what a terrible and
maddening thing loneliness was. She recollected distracting hours
spent in little hall-bedrooms while she tried to mend, after an
exhausting day's work, the poor clothing that wore out so terribly
soon, and how at times she had felt that she must be becoming crazy.
"But no! He couldn't have done it. He--he's a very quiet sensible man,
I should think, and--and he wouldn't hurt even a dog," she repeated to
herself.
They were journeying quite fast over the trail that snaked along
through the woods, bending here and there in order to avoid boulders
and stumps and fallen trees but always coming in sight of the frozen
river again. At times Madge trudged through rather deep snow. Also she
stubbed her toes upon rocks and stumbled over branches broken off by
the great gales of winter. But it really wasn't very hard. And the
child kept on chattering about Monsieur Hugo and asking eager
questions about the big city. Was it true that as far as one could see
there were houses standing right up against one another for miles and
miles, and that people swarmed in them as do the wild bees in hollow
trees? It was natural for bees to do such things, and for ants, and
for the minnows in shoals down in the river, but why did people have
to crowd in such a way? How could they breathe?
Finally they came in sight of the shack and the child gave a swift
glance.
"No smoke, mees," she said. "Heem go away, or mebbe heem seek."
Madge hurried along faster for an instant, and then stopped short.
What if neither of the child's conclusions was correct? If she went
over there and knocked at the door he might come out, looking rather
surprised. She had told him that she had come to Carcajou, looking for
an unknown husband, for a man she was willing to accept under certain
conditions, just because her life had become intolerable. He might
lift his brow and perhaps ask her quite civilly to come in. But what
would he think? Would he imagine that she was running after him and
trying to compel him to marry her? It was not alone the frost that
brought color to her cheeks now. No, it would never do.
"I think I will wait here," she told the little girl. "Will you please
go and find out if Mr. Ennis is there, and whether he is all right
again? I'll sit down on this log and wait till you come back."
The child looked rather puzzled but she ran down the path that led to
the cabin. Madge saw her stopping in front of the door, at which she
knocked. She heard her call out and then wait, as if listening. At
once came Maigan's voice. He was barking but the sound was not an
angry one. Rather it sounded plaintively. Finally the girl pulled the
door open, after fumbling at the latch, and the dog ran out, barking
again and rolling in the snow. Then he sniffed the air and discovered
Madge, at once running towards her and pushing his muzzle in her hand.
She stroked his head and he ran back, going but a few steps and
turning around to see if she followed. She rose slowly, a sense of
fear coming over her, and hesitatingly went down the path also. At
this moment the child came out, looking frightened, and hastened over
to her.
"Heem seek--very seek," she cried, and Madge found herself running
now, with her heart beating and her breath coming fast. The terrifying
idea came to her that perhaps he was dead. But as she entered the
place the man rose painfully on his bunk. His face was amazingly pale
and his features drawn--hardly recognizable.
"Sorry, must beg your pardon--I intended to come over," he told her,
hoarsely. "It--it's some silly sort of a fever. I--I'll be better
pretty soon. It's that blessed arm of mine, I think, and--and I'm
frightfully thirsty. If--if you'll ask the kid...."
Madge peered about her, but there was no water in sight. Even if there
had been any she knew it would have frozen solid in the fireless shack
whose interior had struck a chill through her. She seized a pail.
"Where does one get it?" she asked. "Or do you have to melt ice?"
"There's a spring. It's halfway down to the pool. Never quite freezes
over. Let that girl go for it, Miss Nelson. Or--or I may go myself in
a minute. Only waiting till--till my teeth stop chattering. Then I can
light--light the fire and--and make hot tea. It--it's such a stupid
nuisance and--and I'm giving you a lot of bother."
But Madge ran out of the shack and down to that spring, where the
clear water seemed to be boiling out of the ground, since a little
cloud of steam rose from it. But it was just pure icy water and she
filled the pail and hurried back with it. When she returned the child
was efficiently engaged in making a fire in the little stove. The man
had sunk down on his bunk again and she went up to him. His teeth were
no longer chattering, but his cheekbones now bore patches of deep red.
When she ventured to touch his hand, she found that it was burning
hot. At this an awful, distressing, unreasoning fear came upon her.
She--she had killed this man, for--for he certainly was going to die,
she thought. Even in the big hospital she had never seen a face more
strongly stamped with the marks of impending death. It was frightful!
She gave him water which he drank greedily, calling for more. She had
to hold the cup, since his hand shook too badly. Dully, feeling
stricken with a great desolation, she prepared some tea and gave it to
him. She had found some biscuits in a box but he refused to eat
anything. Presently he was lying flat again on his bunk, with his eyes
closed, and when she spoke he made no answer. But he was breathing,
she noted. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. It might do him a great deal
of good, she thought.
The child had thrown herself down on the floor, next to Maigan, who
was stretched out at length, enjoying the welcome heat of the stove.
From time to time the animal lifted his head and looked towards his
master anxiously. He knew that something was all wrong, but now that
these other people had come everything would doubtless be made all
right.
For some time Madge kept still, sitting down on a stool she had drawn
to the side of the bunk. She had the resigned patience innate in so
many women, but presently she could stand it no longer. Something must
be done at once. Valuable time was passing and no help was being
obtained. Things simply couldn't go on this way!
Rising again she called the child.
"We must go and get a doctor at once," she whispered, breathlessly.
"I--I'm horribly afraid. Come outside with me."
She caught the little girl's arm in her impatience, and took her out.
"Your--your friend, Monsieur Hugo, is dreadfully ill, do you
understand, child? I heard your mother say that one could telegraph
from Carcajou for a doctor. We've got to do it! How long would it take
me to get there?"
The girl was evidently scared, but she looked at Madge with some of
the practical sense of one versed with the difficulties of life in the
wilds.
"If you 'lone you never get dere. If Maigan work for you maybe
three-four hour," answered the child. "Heem go a leetle way den turn
back for de shack. No leave master."
There came upon Madge a dreadful feeling of helplessness. The man
looked terribly ill; she felt that he was probably going to die. This
great wilderness suddenly grew as wicked in her eyes as that of the
city. Nay, it was even worse. She remembered how ill she had become
and how she had struggled to fight off the sickness, in a little lone
room of a top floor. But as soon as people had come she had been
bundled away to the hospital. A wagon had come, with a doctor in a
white coat, and they had clattered off. The people in the hospital had
seemed interested, indifferent, friendly, according to their several
dispositions, but she had been taken care of, and fed, and washed, and
some of the nurses had sweet faces, after all, and after a time she
had recovered. All this had seemed rather terrible at the time, but
what was it compared to this lying desperately ill in a freezing hut,
too feeble to procure even the cup of water craved by a dry tongue and
lips that were parched?
"I can surely walk that distance," she cried, but the child shook her
head again.
"You no good for walk far," she asserted. "You jus' fall down dead.
Twelve mile and snow deep some place. Moch cole as freeze you quick
when tired."
"Then what's to be done?" asked Madge, entering the house again,
followed by the child. "I think I ought to try to get to Carcajou."
"Please don't," said the man, hoarsely, looking as if he had awakened
suddenly, and lifting himself up on one elbow painfully. "I'll--I'll
be all right to-morrow, sure--surest thing you know, and--and I'll
take you down myself, with old--old Maigan."
"Please hurry back to your house and tell your mother to come over as
soon as she can," Madge told the child. "Perhaps your father could go.
I didn't think of it at first."
"Now you spik' lak' you know someting," said the girl, with refreshing
frankness. "I 'urry all right. Get modder quick."
She started, her little legs flying over the snow, and Madge closed
the door again.
She put a little more wood in the stove and sat down by the bunk. The
man's eyes were closed again. It was strange that he had heard her so
distinctly, and that he had gathered the impression that she wanted to
get to Carcajou on her own account. And--and he had said he would take
her himself. Again his first thought had been to do something for her,
to be of service to her.
One of his hands was lying outside the blankets, and instinctively
Madge placed her own upon it. She was frightened to feel how hot it
was. The pulse her fingers sought was beating wildly. She felt glad
that she was there. The man didn't care for her and she--well, she
supposed that she disliked him, but she wasn't going to let him die
there alone in a corner, like a wounded animal in some obscure den
among the rocks. For the moment her own troubles were pretty nearly
forgotten, for there was something for her to do. She had been but a
useless by-product of humanity in the great melting pot of the world
and had proved incapable of rising above the dross and making even a
poor place for herself. But this man was young and strong and able,
bearing all the marks of one destined to be of use. He had looked
splendid in his efficient and sturdy manhood and therefore there was
something wrong, utterly wrong and against the course of nature in his
being about to be snuffed out before her very eyes, just because she
had dropped that abominable pistol. It--it just couldn't be!
She leaned forward again and looked upon his face, that was ashen
under the coating of tan. Once he opened his eyes and looked at her,
but the lids closed down again and once more she became obsessed by
the idea that she might have been very unjust to him, that she had
perhaps insulted and wronged him. All at once the face she was looking
at became blurred, but it was because she saw it through a mist of
gathering tears. It had been easy, when she had bought that pistol, to
think of killing a man; now it seemed frightful, abominable, and the
resentment she had felt against the man was turning against herself in
spite of the fact that it had been an accident, just a miserable
accident.
Long minutes, forty or fifty of them, went by as she waited and
listened. But presently Maigan, that had laid his head in her lap and
was looking at her pitifully, as if he had been begging her to help
the man he loved, rose suddenly and dashed to the door, barking. It
proved to be Papineau and his wife, who was very breathless.
The man came in, looked at Hugo and rushed out again. He took the time
to exchange his toboggan for Hugo's, which was lighter and to which he
hitched his three powerful dogs. Madge went to him.
"You'll hurry, won't you?" she cried. "I--I'm afraid, I'm horribly
afraid. Don't--don't come back without a doctor will you?"
"You bet de life, mees, I make dem dog 'urry plenty moch. Yes, ma'am,
you bet!" he repeated, calmly, but looking at her with the strong
steely eyes that seemed peculiar to these men of the great North.
He ran with his team up the path. When he reached the tote-road the
girl saw that he had jumped on the sled, which was tearing away to the
southward.
Within the shack Mrs. Papineau busied herself in many ways, placing
things in order and fussing about the stove, upon which she had placed
a pot containing more herbs she had brought with her. Every few
minutes she interrupted her work in order to take another look at
Hugo. Once or twice Madge saw a big tear roll down her fat cheeks,
which she swiftly wiped off with her sleeve. A little later she
managed to make the man swallow some of her concoction. He appeared to
obey unconsciously, but when she spoke to him he just babbled
something which neither of the women understood. Finally the
Frenchwoman sat down at the side of Madge, snuffling a little, and
began to whisper.
"Big strong man one day," she commented, "an' dis day seek an' weak
lak one leetle child. Eet is de way so strange of de Providence. It
look lak de good Lord make one fine man, fines' Heem can make--a man
as should get de love of vomans an' leetle children--an' den Heem mak
up his min' for to tak heem avay. An' Heem good Lord know why, but I
tink I better pray. Maybe de good Lord Heem 'ear an' tink let heem lif
a whiles yet, eh?"
And so the woman knelt down and repeated prayers, for the longest
time, speaking hurriedly the invocations she had all her life, known
by heart, and ending each one with the devout crossing of her breast.
Then Madge, for the first time in a very long while, remembered words
she had so often heard in the little village church at home, which
promised that whenever two or three were gathered together in the name
of the Lord, He would be among them. Yes, she had heard that assurance
often in the place of worship she could now see so vividly, in which
the open windows, on summer days, let in the droning of the bees and
the scent of honeysuckle outside. So she knelt beside the other woman
and began to pray also, haltingly, in words that came well-nigh
unbidden because they were the call of a heart in sore travail which
had long forgotten how to pray for itself. And it seemed as if the
great Power above must surely be listening.
Finally Mrs. Papineau rose. She was compelled to go back home and see
that the children were fed. She promised she would return in a short
time. The doctor would certainly not come before night, perhaps not
even until early morning, for he would be compelled to make a journey
on the train. Papineau would wait for him, of course. As soon as he
had sent the message he would give the dogs a good feed and they would
be ready for the return. Then when the doctor turned up, Papineau
would rush him to Roaring River, and--and if the Lord was willing he
might be able to do something, providing....
But she had to interrupt herself to wipe away another big tear. She
placed a hand upon the girl's shoulder, seeking to encourage her a
little, and started off, her heavy footsteps crackling over the snow.
Then silence came again, but for the hurried breathing of the sick man
and the occasional sighs of Maigan, who refused food offered to him.
Madge forced herself to eat a little, dimly realizing that for a time
there might be need of all her strength. After this she sat down
again, feeling crushed with the sense of her helplessness and with the
thought of the terribly long hours that must elapse before the doctor
could arrive.
Once Hugo seemed to awaken, as if from a sleep. The hand that had lain
so still seemed to grope, searchingly, and she placed her own upon
it.
"Take you over--all right--to-morrow," he said. "It--it's a pity,
because--because you're so--so good and kind, now," he muttered.
"She--she thinks I--I'm the dirt under her feet. Ain't--ain't you
there, Stefan?"
His eyes searched the room for a moment. Then, with a look of
disappointment, his head sagged down on the pillow again and he lay
quiet for a long time, till he began to mutter words that were
disconnected and meaningless to her.
The noon hour came and went, with a glowing sun that shone brightly
over the snow and tinted the mist from the great falls with the colors
of the rainbow. But Madge did not see it, for within the little shack
the panes were dimmed by the frost. The stove crackled and spat, with
the sudden little explosions of wood fires. Close to it one felt very
warm but the heat did not extend far, since the cold seemed to be
seeking ever to penetrate the room, making its way beneath the door
and through some of the chinked spaces between the logs. It affected
Madge now as a sort of enemy, this cold that seemed to be on the watch
for victims. It was one of the things that were always rising up in
order to crush struggling men and women.
Another hour elapsed, that had been cruelly long, when Maigan suddenly
leaped up and stood before the door, with hair bristling all over him
and standing like a ridge along his back. He scratched furiously and
looked back, as if demanding to be let out, and kept up a long,
ominous growl that was very different from his usual bark.
Madge went to the door, feeling very uneasy. She opened it, after
slipping her hand under Maigan's collar. Upon the tote-road she saw a
large sled that had been drawn by a pair of strong, shaggy horses,
which a man was blanketing. From where she stood she heard confused
voices of men and women, all of whom were strangers to her. They
seemed to be consulting together. Finally they came down the path
towards the shack, nine or ten of them, walking slowly and looking
grim and unfriendly. Maigan was now barking fiercely and Madge had to
struggle with him to prevent his dashing out towards them.