The Peace of Roaring River

The old cat scratching at her door startled her. The profound silence that followed appeared to irk her badly. After a long time there was the shriek of the night-freight’s whistle and the great rumbling of the arriving train, the grinding of brakes, shouts that sounded harshly, various loud thumps as cars were shunted off to the siding. And then the train started again, groaning and clattering and heaving up the grade through the cut, after which the intense stillness returned and she lay awake, her eyes peering through darkness, her senses all alert and her nerves a-quiver, until nearly the coming of dawn.

But the men who had gone out, before scattering to their homes, had reached a unanimous conclusion. It was true that excitement was rare in Carcajou, but this was a matter of upholding the fair reputation of the mill and four or five dozen shacks and frame houses that constituted the village. It was decided that a committee must go over to the Falls and investigate.

“I won’t say but what Hugo Ennis he’s been mostly all right, fur’s we know,” acknowledged Phil Prouty of the section gang. “But then he warn’t brought up in these here parts an’ he can’t be allowed to flout the morals o’ this community in any sich way. If it’s like we fears, the gal’ll have ter pack off an’ him promise ter behave or leave the country. Them’s my sentiments. We better go to-morrow.”

At this, however, there were some objections. It might be that on the next day the young woman would return. Then their trip would be useless. And then two days later would be Sunday, on which there would be less interference with their occupations, especially as it was the off day in church, where the services were held but twice a month. It was voted to start then at an early hour. There was a strong team of horses used to lumbering that could be trusted to manage the old tote-road, drawing Sam Kerrigan’s big sleigh.

“Hosses used ter do it,” asserted the latter, “and they kin do it again.”

“Maybe Stefan’d take you up with them dogs of his, Kilrea,” suggested one of the men, grinning.

“No! And by the way, byes. Ye don’t want ter let that there Swede know nothin’ of this. He’s too thick with Hugo, he is, and we don’t want him around raisin’ any ruction if there happens to be a bit o’ loud talk. He’d be liable to raise a rumpus, he would.”

This appeared to be excellent strategy and it met with unanimous approval. The men dispersed to their respective shacks and houses, to discuss the matter further with their wives, in case any of them were still awake. One or two of the sturdier ladies at once volunteered to lend further dignity to the proceedings with their presence and could not be dissuaded from joining the Carcajou Vigilantes.

In the meanwhile the unconscious objects of all these plans were happily unaware of the fate in store for them. Madge, with a little child that had snuggled into her arms, had found a forgetfulness that was a blessing. In spite of her weariness and of the emotions she had undergone, the good food and pure air had produced some effect upon her. She slumbered perhaps more deeply and restfully than she had for many long months. And Hugo Ennis, in pain, tossed in his bunk, his mind racked with uneasy thoughts and his wounded shoulder throbbing, till he slept also.

CHAPTER VIII

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.