THE LIFTED VEIL
After Dan had left the Mission House Madeline was kept busy for a while
getting breakfast for herself and Donnie. The latter had slept soundly,
and awoke much refreshed, with more of the old healthy colour in his
cheeks. He opened his eyes, and looked around. Hearing sounds in the
kitchen he tumbled out of bed, and standing in the doorway gave a
chuckle of delight when he saw that Madeline was really there, and had
not left him again. Soon he was enfolded in her arms, and his lips and
cheeks showered with fervent kisses of welcome. Then he was carried off
bodily to have his face and hands washed, and his tangled hair combed
into something approaching order. He was hungry, too, and could hardly
wait until Madeline had finished before beginning his breakfast. His
little tongue wagged incessantly as he sat at the side of the table
opposite Madeline. He asked many questions, especially about the
unconscious man lying on the cot.
"What's the matter wif 'im?" he asked. "Why is he so still? Is he
asleep?"
"He was hurt, dearie," was the quiet reply.
"Who hurt 'im, Malin?" and Donnie's eyes opened wide.
"The Indians, dear. They shot at him."
"Oh, I'm sorry. He was so dood to me. He said he loved 'ou, Malin, an'
would take me to 'ou."
"Did he say that, dearie? Are you sure?" and Madeline leaned eagerly
forward.
"Ya, me sure," was the simple response.
Madeline sat silently for a while lost in thought. Then it must he true,
she said to herself, while a sweet joy stole into her heart. She had
meditated much over what Dan had told her, and wondered if the old
trapper had said those things merely to cheer her drooping spirits. But
such words from the lips of a little child she could not doubt. Norman
must have told him. They were surely true.
After breakfast was over Madeline washed the few dishes, put them
carefully away, and then tidied up the room. This done she took her
place by Norman's side. She could see no change, nothing but that deep
heavy stupor. She felt now in her heart that he had loved her during
those terrible days when she thought he had cast her away forever. But
if he would only awake and tell her so. What joy to hear the blessed
truth from his own lips.
For some time Donnie had remained seated upon the floor, looking over
several picture books Madeline had found for him on one of the shelves.
These satisfied him for a while, but at length, wearying of this
amusement, he rose and came to Madeline's side.
"Tell me a 'tory, Malin, pleath."
"What shall it be, dearie?" was the reply, as Madeline lifted him upon
her lap.
"When 'ou was 'ittle, Malin. I like dat."
It was not so hard for Madeline to tell of her old home life now. She
remembered how she had first told it to Donnie on that terrible night
when he had been torn from her arms. How much had happened since then!
Slowly and simply she told again of her happy home across the great
water, the big house, the garden with the beautiful flowers, and the
many kind people she knew. To all this Donnie listened with wondering
ears, his little head leaning against her arm.
"There," Madeline at length said, "I've told you enough now. Are you not
satisfied?"
"I like dat 'tory, Malin. 'Ou will tell it again some time, won't 'ou?"
"Yes, dearie."
"An' 'ou will sing to me, Malin, won't 'ou?" he pleaded. "I like to hear
'ou sing. 'Ou sounds just like my mamma."
"What shall I sing, dearie? A hymn? It must be only one, and short, too,
for it might hurt him," and she nodded toward the cot.
"Oh, do 'ou fink it would?" and Donnie's eyes opened wide. "But maybe a
'ittle one wouldn't hurt 'im; dat one about de star. 'Ou sang it one
night when I was tired, an' I went to sleep."
"So I did, Donnie, and you shall have it now. But you mustn't go to
sleep, you know. I want you to watch with me and keep me company."
"All right, Malin. I won't go sleep."
In a low, sweet voice Madeline sang the simple song she had learned
years before:
"Lead me, O Thou Star of Heaven,
Guide me through the world's dark night,
Lead me to the restful haven,
Bring me to the morning light.
Star of Heaven, bright and fair,
Keep me ever in Thy care.
Brighten, O Thou Star of Heaven,
Death's dark valley deep and wide,
Lighten up the way before me,
Till I reach the other side.
Star of Heaven, lead me on,
When the light of earth is gone."
Scarcely had Madeline begun to sing ere an invisible veil lifted from
the brain of the wounded man by her side. He came forth from the blank
world of darkness, and a voice fell upon his ears which made him lie
very still. It was so sweet and familiar. He had heard it before, and it
led him into gardens of the most beautiful and fragrant flowers. And in
the centre--the fairest flower of all--stood Madeline as of old.
Presently the singing ceased, and Grey opened his eyes, and fixed them
full upon the bright scene before him.
Madeline turning, saw him, noted the look of intelligence upon his face,
and her heart bounded with joy. Grey tried to speak, but words would not
come. He gave a weary smile, and stretched out his hand. Madeline
seized it, and pressed it gently.
"Hush," she whispered. "Don't try to talk. You are weak, so go to sleep
now."
Again he smiled, and gave her such a look of love and gratitude that she
trembled with emotion, while a deep blush suffused her cheeks. She
longed for Norman to speak, to hear the truth from his own lips. She
read it in his eyes, however, and was happy. But she did not wish to
excite him in his present condition, and knew that a deep refreshing
sleep would be the best thing for him.
"My head!" Grey faintly murmured, as he lifted his hand to the wound.
"Yes, I know," she replied. "Go to sleep, and it will feel better."
With a deep sigh of extreme weariness he closed his eyes in a slumber
which Madeline knew was natural and refreshing.
"Thank God! Oh, thank God!" she breathed to herself. "The veil is
lifted. He knew me, and did not turn away from me in disgust."
She sat watching him for a few minutes, and then some subtle influence
caused her to turn her face toward the door. It was partly open, for the
morning was mild, and the room warm. And as she looked out upon the
world beyond in a half-abstracted manner, she became aware that someone
was approaching the house. Then she started, placed Donnie upon the
floor, rose to her feet, and took a few steps forward. Her face, which
but a few moments before had flushed with joy, was now as white as
death. The person coming toward her was the Indian woman, Nadu. She
recognised her in an instant, and her first impulse was to close and
securely fasten the door. But something seemed to hold her spellbound.
She was unable to move and stood perfectly still, fascinated by that
slowly advancing figure.
Nadu walked with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and her head covered
with the old scarf. She was moving as in a dream, heeding nothing about
her. Was she coming to visit for the last time the house in which she
had passed so many happy days, to look upon the scenes so familiar to
her? Was she thinking of the missionary and his wife who would never
live there again, the two who had been so kind to her, and who had
taught her about the nobler things of life? Was there any feeling of
remorse in her heart for the woman she had sent so ruthlessly through
the swirling rapids? She reached the door, placed a foot upon the
threshold, and lifted her head. As she did so a look of wonder, quickly
succeeded by a wild fear, leaped into her eyes. She started back and
threw out her arms as if to drive away the scene, while from her lips
came a piercing shriek of terror. There before her stood the white
woman. It could not be, she was drowned in the rapids, and was this her
ghost returned to confront her? The teaching she had received at the
Mission House and the years she had spent among white people could not
altogether eradicate from Nadu's mind the ingrained superstition of her
race. The roaring of the wind, the roll of thunder and the rippling of
the stream were to her so many voices of the unseen spirits. Only in
times of extreme passion were the voices silent. She heeded nothing
then, but rushed madly forward like some impetuous torrent. Only when
the violent force had been exhausted did the voices return as before. So
on this day her passion of jealousy and hatred was subdued by the sight
of her old friend and teacher lying cold in death. And then to be
confronted by this spirit, as she thought, of the very one she wished to
banish from her mind was most startling. Pain, hardship and even death
she would have suffered without a complaint. But this vision of the
supernatural, this spirit of the woman she had sent to her death, was
more than her sturdy stoicism could endure. Sinking to her knees upon
the floor, she buried her face in her hands to blot out that strange
sight. And as she knelt there Madeline stepped forward and laid her hand
gently upon the bowed woman's shoulder. The touch caused Nadu to shrink
back with a gurgling, inarticulate cry.
"Don't be afraid," Madeline said, half surmising the cause of the Indian
woman's fear. "I won't hurt you. I forgive you."
Lowering her hands and lifting her head Nadu looked slowly up, while her
eyes scanned the white woman's face intently for an instant. Then she
reached out fearfully a trembling hand and touched Madeline's dress.
"You not dead?" she gasped. "You not speerit?"
"No, no," came the laughing reply. "Do I seem like a dead person? Get
up, and take a good look at me."
Realising how she had been mistaken, Nadu quickly regained her feet,
while the old expression of hatred leaped back into her eyes.
"Don't look at me that way!" Madeline cried, laying her hand upon the
woman's arm. "Why do you hate me? I have not hurt you. Why do you want
to kill me?"
"White woman steal Bill's heart, savvey?" came the quick response.
"Steal Bill's heart!" repeated Madeline. "What do you mean?"
"White woman no savvey?" and Nadu gave a sarcastic laugh. "No savvey
Siwash Bill at Hishu?"
In an instant the truth flashed upon Madeline's mind. Why had she been
so dull of comprehension? she wondered. She recalled now the squaw man's
numerous advances, and his protestations of love that night she had
fainted at the door of Old Meg's house. So here was the secret of it
all. The Indian woman believed it was her fault, which caused the hatred
to burn like a wild, consuming fire.
"Look at me, Nadu," she commanded, drawing closer, "and know that I am
telling you the truth. I did not try to steal the heart of your husband.
It is a lie! He came to me, but I would not listen. He is bad, bad! You
see that man lying there?" and she pointed to the constable. "I knew him
a long time ago. I never forgot him. See? Why should I want Siwash
Bill?"
Nadu's eyes turned toward the cot, and for the first time she saw the
sleeping man lying there. She remained silent for a few minutes, and
then a new light shone in her eyes as she turned them upon Madeline's
face.
"You no love Bill?" she asked. "You no steal his heart?"
"I tell you, no," was the emphatic reply. "You are wrong. You have tried
to kill me when I did nothing to you. It is that man, Bill, who is bad;
oh, he is terrible!"
Madeline hardly expected to convince this woman that what she said was
true. It was, therefore, a great surprise when Nadu suddenly dropped
upon the kitchen floor, seized Madeline's right hand in hers, and
pressed it to her lips.
"Me sorry. Me sorry," she moaned. "Nadu once happy here. But Bill take
Nadu away. Nadu savvey now."
Then she sprang to her feet with a look of wild determination in her
face.
"Me hate heem! Me hate heem!" she cried, while her hands clinched hard.
"Heem bad, ugh!"
With that she turned and hurried out of the house, leaving Madeline
standing gazing wonderingly after her. She felt that Nadu's hatred would
now be turned toward Siwash Bill. What course her anger would take she
could not tell, but a sigh of relief escaped her lips as she realised
that she herself was no longer the object of this strange woman's
revengeful moods.
She was still standing there when Buckskin Dan crossed the threshold. He
glanced at Madeline, and then toward the cot. His eye brightened as he
noted the natural expression upon Norman's face.
"So the change has come fer the better, miss," he said.
"Yes, and he is sleeping quietly now," was the reply. "But you have been
away most of the morning. I did not think a funeral, especially here,
would take so long."
"Set down, miss, while I tell ye all about it, an' then ye must give me
an account of when yon laddie come to."
Grey slept for the remainder of the day, and did not awake again until
early the next morning. He started up and looked around. Daylight was
streaming into the room, and the objects within were quite discernible.
He saw Dan lying on the floor a short distance away, and wondered what
he was doing there. Then slowly his mind cleared and the past stood out
vividly before him. He remembered the stand they had made behind the
columns of stone, and how he had rushed forward to rescue the old man.
But where was Madeline? He had a faint idea that she had been close by
his side, had held his hand, and spoken to him. But he now believed it
was all a dream. He wished to get up, for he felt strong enough for
that. He was also hungry, and longed to explore the room to see what it
contained in the way of food. But he did not wish to disturb the old
trapper, who must be very tired. So he lay quietly on the cot, thinking
and wondering about many things.
At length Dan opened his eyes, and with an ejaculation of annoyance
sprang to his feet.
"Wall, I'll be blowed," he exclaimed. "I only intended to rest a bit
thar on the floor, an' didn't I go fast asleep."
His delight knew no bounds when he saw Grey's improved condition, and he
set hastily to work getting breakfast. But occasionally he cast his eyes
in the direction of Madeline's room, and when at length he heard her
moving across the floor toward the door he slipped quickly and quietly
out of the kitchen into the fresh morning air.
"Guess I'm better out here," he chuckled with delight. "They don't want
an old humbug hangin' around at sich a critical time like this. I'll
jist slip over to whar the Injuns are camped, an' have a few words with
'em. I've been thinkin' things over a bit lately, an' want thar help.
They're a queer lot of varmints, but they kin help us to git outer this
hole."
When he returned a half hour later the jubilant expression had left his
face, and his furrowed brow was troubled. He noted the happy scene in
the Mission House, Norman and Madeline sitting close to each other, with
Donnie playing near by.
"They're gone!" he exclaimed. "Them Injuns, the mean wretches, have
cleared out."
"Well, what does it matter, Dan?" Grey replied. "We don't need them
now, do we?"
"Don't need 'em? Don't need 'em, do ye say? It's jist the time we do
need 'em. Jist as soon as ye git a little more strength into yer body
we've got to hike outer this back to Hishu. I wanted them Injuns to go
with us, fer I'm thinkin' thar'll be trouble up yon with Siwash Bill an'
his gang. With them Injuns at me back I'd soon settle thar hash. But now
they've hiked off to the interior--both Hishus an' Big Lakes--to hold a
great pot-latch. Blame their dusky skins. They're jist as troublesome
an' unsartin as a hull nest of fleas."
"But we can face them, Dan," Grey insisted. "I feel stronger every
minute, and I have good cause for it, too, have I not? Oh, Dan, this is
the happiest day of my life. The veil is not only lifted from my mind,
but the veil so dark and terrible which separated Madeline and me is
lifted, too. Come, banish that gloom from your face, and be happy with
us for to-day. We've had enough darkness and hardship together of late,
Dan, so let us enjoy the sunshine and joy for a few hours at least.
To-morrow we can start back to Hishu. I do not fear those vile serpents
now, though, they were ten to one."
"Very wall, pardner," and Dan scratched his head doubtfully. "I don't
want to spile yer pleasure to-day. So I'll jist think me thoughts, an'
hold me tongue fer a change."