THE LONELY FIGURE
The girl was leaning against the storm-ripped bole of a fallen tree. The
great figure of her companion was silhouetted against the brilliant
sky-line. He was contemplating the distance at the brink of a sheer-cut
ravine, which dropped away at his feet to giddying depths.
Nancy gazed out beyond him. For the moment he held no interest for her.
She only had eyes for the splendid picture of Nature. They were on high
ground, a great shoulder lifted them clear above their surroundings. Far
as the eye could see was a lustreless green world of unbroken forest. It
seemed to have neither beginning nor end. To the girl's imagination
there could be no break in it until the eternal snows of the Arctic were
reached.
The breadth of it all was a little overwhelming. Nancy was gazing upon
just one portion of the Skandinavia's untouched forest limits, and
somehow it left her with a feeling of protest.
She pointed with one gauntleted hand, stirred to an impulse she could
not deny.
"It's too beautiful," she said. "It isn't fair: it's not right. To think
it's all ours, and we have the right to destroy it."
The man turned. He gazed back at this unusual vision of a beautiful,
well-gowned woman in the heart of the forests. He grinned ironically,
this great, rough-bearded creature, in hard cord clothing, and with his
well-worn fur cap pressed low over his lank hair that reached well-nigh
to his shoulders.
"Why not?" he demanded roughly. "Oh, yes. It's Skandinavia's, every mile
of it. An' I guess there's hundreds an' hundreds of 'em. Ain't that what
Canada's forests are for? To feed us the stuff we're needin'? But you
don't need to worry any. We ain't cuttin' that stuff for years. Guess
the waterways out there are mostly a mean outfit that wouldn't raft a
bunch of lucifers. We need to wait permanent railroad for haulage."
Nancy accepted the statement without reply. It was impossible to stir a
man like Arden Laval to any sort of sympathy. He was hardened, crude,
first, last and all the time. He was big and brutal. His limbs were like
to the trees his men were accustomed to fell, and his hands reminded her
of the hind limbs of the mutton. She felt he had a mind that matched his
physical development.
Nancy McDonald was nearing the end of her third month of forest travel.
The Shagaunty valley lay behind her, desolated by the fierce axe of the
men who lived by their slaughter. She had seen it all. She had studied
the re-afforestation which followed on the heels of the axemen. And the
seeming puerility of this effort to salve the wounds inflicted upon
Nature had filled her with pitying contempt.
She knew the whole process of the forest industry by heart now. It
fascinated her. Oh, yes. It was picturesque, it was real, vital. The
men on the river driving down to the booms had stirred her greatest
admiration. These supermen with their muscles of iron, with the hearts
of lions, and the tongues and habits of beasts of the forest. But they
were men, wonderful men for all their savage crudity. So, too, with the
transporters and freighters handling sixty-foot logs as though dealing
with matchwood. But above all, and before all, the axemen made their
appeal.
There was nothing comparable with the rough skill of these creatures.
She had watched the flash and swing of the axe, with its edge like the
finest razor. She had seen the standing muscles like whipcord writhing
under sunburnt flesh as they served the lethal weapon. She had noted
every blow, how it was calculated to a hair's-breadth, and fell without
waste of one single ounce of power. And then the amazing result. The
fallen tree stretched out on the exact spot and in the exact direction
ready for the hauliers to bear straight away to the final transport
station.
The summer days had been filled with vital interest. And at night, weary
in body, Nancy still had time, lying in the amply, if crudely blanketed
bed provided for her in some lumber-built shanty, to contemplate the
lives of this strangely assorted race. She knew the pay of the forest
men, from the haulier to the princely axeman and river-jack. She had
seen their food, and their dwelling accommodation. She had heard such
details as were possible of telling of their recreations, and had
guessed the rest. And for all her admiration of their manhood she
pitied, in her woman's way, and felt shame for the slavery of it all.
Oh, yes. She had no illusions. She was not weakly sentimental. She
looked at it all with wide-open eyes. It was a well-paid animal life. It
was a life of eating well, of sleeping well, of gambling, and drinking,
and licence. But it was a life of such labour that only perfect
physical creatures could face.
She felt that these folks were wage slaves in the crudest meaning of the
words. There was nothing for them beyond their daily life, which was
wholly animal. Of spirituality there was none. Of future there was none.
Their leisure was given over to their pastimes, while ahead the future
lay always threatening. Stiffening muscles, disease, age. The king of
them all in his youth, in age would be abandoned and driven forth, weary
in body, aching in limbs, a derelict in the ranks of the world's labour.
She was gravely impressed by the things she saw, by the men she met.
Her summer had been an education which had stirred feelings and
sympathies almost unguessed. It was the father, she could scarcely
remember, making himself known to her. For all the ambitions firing her,
the long, fascinating days in the forests of the Shagaunty had taught
her of the existence of an "underdog," who, in himself, was the
foundation upon which the personal ambition of the more fortunate was
achieved. Without him to support the whole edifice of civilisation must
crash to the ground, and life would go back again to the bosom of that
Nature from which it sprang.
Her realisation inspired her with an added desire. It was a desire
coming straight from an honest, unsophisticated heart. She registered a
vow that whithersoever her ambitions might lead her, she would always
remember the "underdog," and work for his betterment and greater
happiness.
"So you can only cut the stuff here within reach of our light haulage
system?" Nancy demanded at last. "The rest's gone. The real big stuff, I
mean, down below in the valley. We're just driven to the plateau where
the cut looks to me more like one in twenty than any better?"
Arden Laval left his position at the brink of the ravine. He came back
to the girl in her modish costume that seemed so out of place beside the
rough clothing that Covered his body.
"Why, I guess that's so," he said. "Still, it's a deal better than one
in twenty." He laughed. "Sure. If it wasn't the darn booms 'ud need to
go hungry."
The man's French temperament left him more than appreciative of the
beauty he beheld. But he was wondering. He was searching his shrewd mind
for the real explanation of Nancy's presence in these forests. To him it
was amazing that the Skandinavia should send this girl, this
good-looker, on a journey through their forests alone. He would
willingly have asked the question. But he remembered her written
commission, signed by Elas Peterman. So he was left with no alternative
but to yield the utmost respect.
"Y'see, mam," he went on easily. "I guess I could talk quite a piece on
this thing, but maybe you won't fancy my dope. Skandinavia's been badly
spoilt by the cut in the Shagaunty Valley. You've seen it all. Guess
you've come right through. Well, that being so, you'll understand the
Shagaunty cut's been far above average. Now we're down to average.
That's all. That's how the Skandinavia's been spoilt."
He thrust his cap back from his forehead. It was a movement of
irritation. Then he produced a plug of tobacco from his hip-pocket, and
bit off a chew.
"I've been twenty odd years lumbering," he went on a moment later. "I've
lumbered most every forest in Ontario and Quebec. There ain't more'n one
bunch of plums like the Shagaunty. Mostly the forest's full of the sort
of stuff we're handling here. These forests are average and I'd like to
say to the Skandinavia, 'you've got to figger results on the average.'
We're cutting down to the minimum because we've got to, to feed the
booms right. Well, that's goin' on if I know my job. There's patch
stuff better. I daresay there's new ground on our limits liable to hand
us Shagaunty stuff. But that's just as I say, patch stuff, an' not
average. If they want Shagaunty quality right through let 'em get out
and get limits up on Labrador. I reckon there's a hundred years cutting
up there that 'ud leave Shagaunty a bunch of weed grass. They say the
folks out on the coast are worried to death there's so much stuff, an'
so big, an' good, an' soft, an' long-fibred. The jacks out that way are
up to the neck in a hell of a good time, sure. I get it they've time to
sleep half the year, it's so easy. Well, it ain't that way here. We've
no time singing hymns around this lay-out. It's hell, here, keeping the
darn booms fed. Speakin' for my outfit I'd say they're a pretty bright
lot of boys. What a feller can do they can do, I guess. But there are
times I get mighty sick chasing to get even the minimum. An' it's all
the time kick. The Skandinavia seems to have got a grouch about now you
couldn't beat with a tank of rye whisky. You've seen it all as far as I
can show you, mam, and I'd be glad to know if you're satisfied I've done
the things you want. If I have, and you feel good about it, I'd be
thankful if you'd report the way we're workin' this camp. And if you've
a spare moment to talk other things, you might say that the boys of my
camp are mighty hard put to get the stuff, and they're as tough a gang
of jacks as ever heard tell of the dog's life of the forest."
The man spoke with the fluency of real protest. He somehow felt he was
on his defence in the presence of this woman representative of his
employers. This girl was not there enduring the discomforts of the
forests for amusement. She came with authority, and she seemed to
possess great understanding. Arden Laval knew his own value. His record
was one of long service with his company. Furthermore, his outfit was
trusted with the pioneering work of the forest where judgment and
enterprise, and great experience were needed. He felt it was the moment
to talk, and to talk straight to this woman with the red hair who had
invaded his domain. So he gave full rope to his feelings.
It was some moments before the girl replied, and the man waited
expectantly. He was studying the far-off gaze of the pretty hazel eyes,
and wondering at the thought moving behind them. At length Nancy
withdrew her gaze from the forest.
"I shall certainly report the things I've seen," she said with a smile
that found prompt response in the man's dark eyes. "You've certainly
done your best to show me, and tell me, the exact position. I shall make
a point of reporting all that. Yes, I've seen it all, thank you very
much."
Then her smile suddenly vanished. The shrewd gaze of commercial interest
replaced it.
"But these Labrador folk?" she demanded. "Is that stuff just--hearsay?"
The man shook his head. He was feeling easier.
"It's God's truth, mam." He spat out a stream of tobacco juice. "I know
them forests. Say," his eyes had lost their smile, "I don't guess I
figger to know the business side of things, I don't calculate to know if
the folks on Labrador work with, or against the Skandinavia. But I do
know that if they're up against us they've got us plumb beat before we
start. They got the sort of lumber the jacks dream about when they got
their bellies full on a Saturday night, and they're going to wake up to
find it Sunday mornin'. I'm just a lumberman, and if I hadn't fifteen
years' record with the Skandinavia, and wasn't pouching two hundred and
fifty bucks, and what I can make besides, a month, why, it 'ud be me for
the coast where you can jamb the rivers in a three months' cut, and
souse rye the rest of the year till the bugs look as big as mountains.
Guess it's the summer rose garden of the lumber-jack, for all it's under
snow eight months in the year, when you can't tell your guts from an
iceflow, and the skitters, in summer, mostly reach the size of a
gasoline tank. It's a dog's life, mam, lumberin' anywhere. But they're
lap-dogs out that way."
The man's words brought the return of the girl's smile. "Yes, I spose
it's--tough," she observed thoughtfully. Then quite suddenly she spread
out her hands. "Oh, yes," she exclaimed, with a sudden vehemence, "it's
worse than tough. It's hopeless. Utterly hopeless. I've seen it. I've
watched it. I had to. I couldn't escape it. It's so desperately patent.
But it's not the life as these folk live it. It's the future I'm
thinking of. It's middle life and old age. These boys. They're
wonders--now. How long does it last, and then--what happens? I'm here on
business, hard business. But I guess this thing's got hold of me so I
can't sometimes sleep at nights. Tell me about them."
Arden Laval, one of the hardest specimens of the lumber boss, turned
away. His understanding of women was built up out of intimacy with the
poor creatures who peopled the camps he knew. This girl's burst of
feeling only stirred him to a cynical humour.
"Mam," he said, with a grin that was almost hateful, "if I was to start
in to hand you the life history of a lumber-jack you'd feel like
throwing up your kind heart, and any other old thing you hadn't use for
in your stummick. But I guess I can say right here, a lumber-jack's a
most disgustin' sort of vermin who hasn't more right than a louse to
figger in your reckonin'. I guess he was born wrong, and he'll mostly
die as he was born. And meanwhile he's lived a life that's mostly dirt,
and no account anyway. There's a few things we ask of a lumber-jack, and
if he fulfils 'em right he can go right on living. When he can't fulfil
'em, why, it's up to him to hit the trail for the pay box, an' get out.
Guess you feel good when you see a boy swingin' an axe, or handlin' a
peavy. Sure. That sort of thing don't come your way often. Neither does
it come your way to see the rest. He's mostly a sink of filth in mind
and body, and if he ain't all that at the start he gets it quick. He's a
waster of God's pure air, and is mostly in his right surroundings when
the forest does its best to hide him up from the eyes of the rest of the
world. Guess he's the best man I know--dead."
For all his grin Arden Laval was in deadly earnest. Nancy stared at the
broad back he had turned on her with his final word. And her indignation
surged.
"I don't believe it," she cried. "I can't believe it. You're just
talking out of years of experience of a life you've probably learned to
hate. Man, if that's your opinion of your fellows, then it's you who
ought never to leave the forest you claim does its best to hide up folk
from the eyes of the rest of the world. You're a camp boss. You're our
head man in these forests. You're trusted, and we know your skill. Well,
it seems to me you've a duty that goes further than just feeding the
booms right. You've a moral duty towards these men you condemn. You can
help them. It should surely be your pride to lift them out of the
desperate mire you claim they are floundering in. I'll not believe you
mean it all."
The man turned away as a black-clothed figure emerged from the trees,
and came to a stand at the brink of the ravine some hundred and more
yards to the east of them. Nancy, too, beheld the lonely figure and she,
too, became interested in its movements.
The lumber boss laughed shortly, roughly, and raised an arm, pointing as
he turned a grinning face to the girl.
"See him, there?" he cried. "Say, mam, with all respect, I'd say to you,
if you're feeling the way you talk, and look to get the sort of stuff
you'd maybe fancy hearing, that's the guy you need to open out to. As
you say, I'm the head camp-boss on the Skandinavia's limits. I've had
nigh twenty years an' more experience of the lumber-jack. An' I'm
tellin' you the things any camp-boss speakin' truth'll tell you. That's
all, I don't hate the boys. I don't pity 'em. But I don't love 'em.
They're just part of a machine to cut lumber, and it don't matter a hoot
in hell to me what they are, or who they are, or what becomes of 'em. I
ain't shepherdin' souls like that guy. It ain't in me, anyway. I just
got to make good so that some day I ken quit these cursed forests and
live easy the way I'd fancy. When that time comes maybe I'll change.
Maybe I'll feel like that guy standin' doping over that spread of forest
scene. I don't know. And just now I don't care--a curse."
But Nancy was no longer listening. The lonely, black-coated figure Laval
had pointed out absorbed all her interest. His allusion to the man's
calling had created in her an irresistible desire.
"Who is he? That man?" she demanded abruptly.
Laval laughed.
"Why, Father Adam," he replied. There was a curious softening in his
harsh voice, which brought the girl's eyes swiftly back to him.
"Father Adam? A priest?" she questioned.
Laval shook his head. He had turned again, regarding the stranger. His
face was hidden from the searching eyes of the girl.
"I just can't rightly say," he demurred. "Maybe he is, an' maybe he
ain't. But," he added reflectively "he's just one hell of a good man.
Makes me laff sometimes. Sometimes it makes me want to cry like a kid
when I think of the things he's up against. He's out for the boys. He's
out to hand 'em dope to make 'em better. Oh, it ain't Sunday School
dope. No. He's the kind o' missioner who does things. He don't tell 'em
they're a bum lot o' toughs who oughter to be in penitentiary. But he
makes 'em feel that way--the way he acts. He's just a lone creature,
sort of livin' in twilight, who comes along, an' we don't know when he's
comin'. He passes out like a shadow in the forests, an' we don't see him
again till he fancies. He's after the boys the whole darn time. It don't
matter if they're sick in body or mind. He helps 'em the way he knows.
An', mam, they just love him to death. There's just one man in these
forests I wouldn't dare blaspheme, if I felt like it--which I don't. No,
mam, my life wouldn't be worth a two seconds buy if I blasphemed--Father
Adam. He's one of God's good men, an' I'd be mighty thankful to be like
him--some. Gee, and I owe him a piece myself."
"How?"
Nancy's interest was consuming.
"Why, only he jumped in once when I was being scrapped to death. He
jumped right in, when he looked like gettin' killed for it. And," he
laughed cynically, "he gave me a few more years of the dog's life of the
forest."
The girl moved away from her support.
"I want to thank you, Mr. Laval, for the trouble you've taken, and the
time you've given up to me." The hazel eyes were smiling up into the
man's hard face. "I don't agree with some of the things you've just been
telling me; I should hate to, anyway. I don't even believe you feel the
way you say about your men. Still, that's no account in the matters I
came about. The things I've got to say when I get back are all to your
credit. I'm going over now to talk to--Father Adam. And you needn't come
along with me. You see, you've fired my curiosity. Yes, I want to hear
the stuff I fancy about the--boys. So I'll go and talk to your--shepherd
of souls. Good-bye."
Nancy's eyes were bright and smiling as she gazed up into the lean,
ascetic face of the man in the black, semi-clerical coat. His garments
were worn and almost threadbare. At close quarters she realised an even
deeper interest in the man whose presence had wrought such a magical
change in the harsh tones of the camp-boss. He was in the heyday of
middle life, surely. His hair was long and black. His beard was of a
similar hue, and it covered his mouth and chin in a long, but patchy
mass. His eyes were keen but gentle. They, too, were very dark, and the
whole cast of his pale face was curiously reminiscent.
"I just had to come along over, sir," she said. "I was with Mr. Laval,
and he told me of the work--the great work you do in these camps. Maybe
you'll forgive me intruding. But you see, I've come from our
headquarters on business, and the folk of these camps interest me. I
kind of feel the life the boys live around these forests is a pretty
mean life. There's nothing much to it but work. And it seems to me that
those employing them ought to be made to realise they've a greater
responsibility than just handing them out a wage for work done. So when
I saw you come out of the forest and stand here, and Mr. Laval told me
about you, I made up my mind right away to come along and--speak to you.
My name's McDonald--Nancy McDonald."
It was all a little hasty, a little timidly spoken. The dark eyes
thoughtfully regarding the wonder of red hair under the close fitting
hat were disconcerting, for all there was cordiality in their depths.
At Nancy's mention of her name, Father Adam instantly averted his gaze,
and dropped the hand which he had taken possession of in greeting. It
was almost as if the pronouncement had caused him to start. But the
change, the movement, were unobserved by the girl.
"And you are--Father Adam?" she asked.
The man's gaze came quickly back.
"That's how I'm known. It--was kind of you to come along over."
In a moment all the girl's timidity was gone. If the man had been
startled when she had announced her name, he displayed perfect ease now.
"Do you know," Nancy went on, with a happy laugh, "I almost got mad with
Laval for his cynicism at the expense of the poor boys who work under
his orders. But I think I understand him. He's a product of a life that
moulds in pretty harsh form. He doesn't mean half he says."
"I'd say few of us do--when we let our feelings go." Father Adam smiled
back into the eyes which seemed to hold him fascinated. "You see,
Laval's much what we all are. He's got a tough job to put through, and
he does his utmost. He's a big man, a brave man, a--yes, perhaps--a
harsh man. But he couldn't do his job as he's paid to do it if he
weren't all those things." He shook his head. "No, I guess we can't play
with fire long without getting a heap of scars." He shrugged. "But after
all I suppose it's just--life. We've got to eat, and we want to live. We
don't need to judge too harshly."
"No. That's how I feel about the boys--he so condemned."
The girl turned away gazing pensively over the forest. Father Adam was
free to regard her without restraint. With her turning the whole
expression of his eyes had changed. Incredulous amazement had replaced
his smiling ease.
"Would you care to come along through the woods to my shanty, Miss
McDonald?" he said, almost diffidently, at last. "Maybe I've a cup of
coffee there. And I'd say coffee's the most welcome thing on earth in
these forests. It's a pretty humble shanty but, if you feel like
talking things, why, I guess we can sit around there awhile."
The girl snatched at the invitation.
"I was just hoping you'd say something that way," she laughed readily.
"I'd give worlds for a cup of coffee, and I guess the folks in the
forests of Quebec know more about coffee in half a second than we city
folk know in a year. Which way?"
"It's only a few yards. You'd best follow me."
* * * * *
The girl stood amazed. She was even horrified. She was gazing in through
the opening of the merest shelter, a shelter built of green boughs with
roof and sides of interlaced foliage. True it was densely interlaced,
but no sort of distorted imagination could have translated the result
into anything but a shelter. Habitation was out of the question. She
stared at the primitive, less than aboriginal home, of the priestly man.
She stared round her at the undergrowth upon which were spread his brown
coarse blankets airing. She looked down at the smouldering fire between
two granite stones upon which a tin of coffee was simmering and emitting
its pleasant aroma upon the woodland air. It was too crude, too utterly
lacking in comfort and even the bare necessites of existence.
The man emerged from the interior bearing two enamelled tin cups. He
realised the amazement with which Nancy was regarding his home, and
shook his head with a pleasant laugh as he indicated two upturned boxes
beside the fire.
"You'd best sit, and I'll tell you about it," he said. "It's not exactly
a swell hotel, is it? But it's sufficient."
The girl silently took her seat on one of the boxes. Father Adam took
the other. Then he poured out two cups of coffee, and passed a tin of
preserved milk across to the girl. There was a spoon in it. After that
he produced a small tin of sugar and offered that.
"You see, it's all I need," he said, in simple explanation. "When the
rain comes I mostly get wet, except at nights when I get under my rubber
sheet. But, anyway, there's plenty of sun to dry me. Oh, winter's
different. I cut out a dug-out then, and burrow like the rest of the
forest creatures. But, you see, this thing suits me well. I'm never long
in one place. I've been here two weeks, and I pull out to-morrow."
"You pull out? Where to?"
"Why, I just pass on to some other camp. The boys are pretty widely
scattered in these forests. You'd never guess the distances I sometimes
make. Even Labrador. But it doesn't much matter. I've a good smattering
of physic, and the boys are always getting hurt one way and another. I'd
hate to feel I couldn't go to them wherever they are. Maybe if I built a
better house I'd not want to leave it. It would be hard getting on the
move. You see, I get their call any old time. Maybe it comes along on
the forest breezes," he said whimsically. "Then I have to be quick to
locate it, and read it right."
The girl had helped herself to milk and sugar, and sipped the steaming
coffee. But she was listening with all her ears and thinking feverishly.
This strange creature, with his deprecating manner, and smiling, sane
eyes, filled her with a sense of shame at his utter selflessness.
She nodded.
"You mean they--always want help?"
"Sure. Same as we all do."
Father Adam sipped his coffee appreciatively.
"But tell me," he said. "It's kind of new the Skandinavia sending a
woman along up here. It's your first trip?"
Nancy set her cup down.
"Yes."
"They're a great firm," Father Adam went on, reflectively. "I mean
the--extent of their operations."
Nancy smiled.
"I like the distinction. Yes, they're big. You don't like
their--methods?"
It was the man's turn for a smiling retort.
"Their methods?" he shook his head. "I don't know, I guess they pay
well. And their boys are no worse treated than in other camps. They
employ thousands. And that's all to the good."
"But you don't like them," Nancy persisted. "I can hear it in your
voice. It's in your smile. Few people like the Skandinavia," she added
regretfully.
"Do you?"
Like a shot the challenge came, and Nancy found herself replying almost
before she was aware of it.
"Yes. Why shouldn't I? They've been good to me. More than good, when
those who had a right to be completely deserted me. No. I mustn't say
just that," she hurried on in some contrition. "They provided for me,
but cut me out of their lives. Maybe you won't understand what that
means to a girl. It meant so much to me that I wouldn't accept their
charity. I wouldn't accept a thing. I'd make my own way with the small
powers Providence handed me. So I went to the Skandinavia who have only
shown me the best of kindness. Well, I'm frankly out for the Skandinavia
and all their schemes and methods in consequence. It's not for me to
look into the things that make folks hate them. That's theirs. My
loyalty and gratitude are all for them for the thing they've done for
me. Isn't that right?"
"Surely," the man concurred. "But your coffee. It's getting cold," he
added.
Nancy hastily picked up her cup.
"Why am I telling you all this?" she laughed. "We were going to talk of
the--boys."
"We surely were." Father Adam laughed responsively. "But personal
interest I guess doesn't figure to be denied for long. We sort of get
the notion we can shut it out. But we can't. We try to guess there's
other things. Things more important. Things that matter a whole lot
more." He shook his head. "It's no use. There aren't. I guess it doesn't
matter where we look. Self's pushing out at every angle, and won't be
denied. It would be hypocrisy to deny it, wouldn't it? It's the biggest
thing in life. It's the whole thing."
"And it's such a pity," Nancy agreed slyly. "Just think," she went on,
"I've got a hundred notions for the good of the world. These boys for
instance. I'd like to make their lives what they ought to be. Full of
comfort and security and--and everything to make it worth while. Instead
of that my first and whole concern is to make good for Nancy McDonald.
To do all those things for her. It's dreadful when you think of it,
isn't it?" She sighed. "I want to do good to the--the 'underdog,' and
all the time I'm planning for myself. I want to fight all the time for
those who hold opportunity out to me. It doesn't really matter to me why
the Skandinavia is disliked. They give me opportunity. I reckon they've
been good to me. So I'm their slave to fight for them, and work for
them, whatever their methods. Yes. It's too bad," she laughed frankly.
"I can't deny it. I'd like to, but--I can't."
"No."
Father Adam set down his empty cup, and sat with his arms resting on his
parted knees. His hands were clasped.
"You remind me of someone," he said, in his simple disarming fashion.
"Queerly enough it's a man. A strong, hard, kindly, good-natured man. I
found him without a thought but to make good. And I knew he would make
good. Then it came my way to show him how. I offered him a notion. The
notion was fine. Oh, yes--though I say it. It was the sort of thing if
it were carried to success would hand the fellow working it down to
posterity as one of his country's benefactors. The notion appealed to
him. It stirred something in him, and set fire to his enthusiasm. He
jumped for it. Why? Was it the thought of doing a great act for his
country? Was it for that something that was all good stirring in him?
No. I guess it was because he was a strong, physical, and spiritual, and
mental force concentrated on big things, primarily inspired by Self.
Personal achievement. It seems to me the good man always does what's
real and worth while in the way of helping himself."
"Yes. I think I understand." The girl nodded. "And this strong physical,
and spiritual, and mental force? Have I heard of him? Is he known? Has
he achieved?"
"He's carrying on. Oh, yes." Father Adam paused. Then he went on
quickly. "You don't know him yet. But I think you will. He's out on the
coast of Labrador. He's driving his great purpose with all his force
through the agency of a groundwood mill that would fill your Skandinavia
folk with envy and alarm if they saw it. He's master of forests such as
would break your heart when compared with these of your Skandinavia. His
name's Sternford. Bull Sternford, of Sachigo."
At the mention of Sachigo, Nancy's eyes widened. Then she laughed. It
was a laugh of real amusement.
"Why, that's queer. It's--I'm going right on there from here. I'm going
to meet this very man, Sternford. They tell me I've just time to get
there and pull out again for home before winter freezes them up solid.
So he is this great man, with this great--notion. Tell me, what is he
like?"
"Oh, he's a big, strong man, as ready to laugh as to fight."
Father Adam smiled, and stooped over the fire to push the attenuated
sticks of it together.
"May I ask why you're going to Sachigo?" he asked, without looking up.
Just for a moment Nancy hesitated. Then she laughed happily.
"I don't see why you shouldn't," she cried. "There's no secret.
Skandinavia intends to buy him, or crush him."
The man sat up.
"And you--a girl--are the emissary?"
Incredulity robbed the man of the even calmness of' his manner.
"Yes. Why not?"
The challenge in the girls's eyes was unmistakable.
"You won't buy him," Father Adam said quietly. "And you certainly won't
crush him."
"Because I'm a girl?"
"Oh, no. I was thinking of the Skandinavia." The man shook his head. "If
I'm a judge of men, the crushing will be done from the other end of the
line."
"This man will crush Skandinavia?"
The idea that Skandinavia could be crushed was quite unthinkable to
Nancy. It was the great monopoly of the country. It was--but she felt
that this lonely creature could have no real understanding of the power
of her people.
"Surely," he returned quietly. "But that," he added, with a return of
his pleasant smile, "is just the notion of one man. I should say it's no
real account. Yes, you go there. You see this man. The battle of your
people with him matters little. It will be good for you to see him.
It--may help you. Who can tell? He's a white man, and a fighter. He's
honest and clean. It's--in the meeting of kindred spirits that the
great events of life are brought about. It should be good for you both."
"I wonder?" Nancy rose from her chair.
The man rose also.
"I think so," he said, very decidedly.
The girl laughed.
"I hope so. But--" She held out her hand. "Thank you, Father," she said.
"I'll never be able to think of the things I'm set on achieving without
remembering our talk--and the man I met in the forest. I wish--but
what's the use? I've got to make good. I must. I must go on, and--do the
thing I see. Good-bye."
Father Adam was holding the small gauntleted hand, and he seemed loth to
release it. His eyes were very gentle, very earnest.
"Don't worry to remember, child. Don't ever think about--this time. It
won't help you. You've set your goal. Make it. You will do the good
things you fancy to do, though maybe not the way you think them. It
seems to me that 'good' mostly has its own way all the time. You can't
drive it. And the best of it is I don't think there's a human creature
so bad in this world, but that in some way God's work has been furthered
through his life. Good-bye."
* * * * *
For some moments the lonely figure stood gazing down the woodland
aisles. The deep, shining light of a great hope was in his eyes. A
wonderful tender smile had dispersed the shadows of his ascetic face. At
length, as the girl's figure became completely swallowed up in the
twilight of it all, he turned away and passed into the foliage shelter
which was his home.
He was squatting on his box, and the small canvas bag containing his
belongings was open beside him. Its contents were strewn about. He was
writing a long letter. There was several pages of it. When he had
finished he read it over carefully. Then he carefully folded it and
placed it in an envelope, and addressed it. It was addressed:
MR. BULL STERNFORD,
Sachigo, Farewell Cove,
Labrador.