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 ma.s.s 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 s.p.a.ces, of the regions which in their greatness bring forth the st.u.r.dier 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 a.s.sistance. She had said that every bit of pride had been torn from her, but he knew that this was not altogether true. The flashing of her eyes and the indignation of her voice had contradicted her words efficiently. She would probably resent his offer, refuse to accept anything from him. Yet, if he managed to persuade her that he was guiltless, it was possible....

But here his thoughts were interrupted by Mrs. Papineau, who insisted on inspecting his wound again and made a wry face when she looked at it.

"I beg you pardon for to tell de truth, Monsieur Hugo," she said, "but I tink you one beeg fool man for come here to-day. I tink maybe you get bad seek wid dat h'arm. You stay 'ere to-day an' for de night. I make you a bed in dis room on de floor, by Jacques an' Baptiste an'

Pierre. My man Philippe 'e come to-morrow, maybe to-night, an' I send heem to Carcajou so he telegraph to de _docteur_ for see you, eh?"

"You're awfully good, Mrs. Papineau," answered the young man, with the obstinacy of his kind. "I'm perfectly sure I'll be all right to-morrow, or the next day at the most. And I'll come back and see how Miss Nelson is getting on. I think I'll move now so I'll say good-by.

I'm a lot better now. I suppose it's on account of that stuff you made me drink; it was bad enough to be fine medicine. I hope the rest will do you some good also, Miss Nelson. You're looking a lot better than yesterday."

Mrs. Papineau first thought of preventing his exit by main force but felt compelled to let him have his way. She lacked the courage of her convictions and allowed him to depart, with his dog running ahead with the toboggan. She peered at him through one of the small panes and saw that he was walking fairly easily.

"Maybe heem be all right soon," she confided hopefully to Madge, while she mixed dough in a pan. "But heem one beeg fool man all de same."

"I--I can hardly believe that," objected the girl. "Why do you think so?"

"All mans is beeg fools ven dey is 'urted or seek, my dear. Dey don't know nodings 'ow to tak' care for heemselves. Dey don't never haf sense dat vay. Alvays tink dey so strong noding happen, ever. But just same Hugo Ennis one mighty fine man, I say dat sure. I rather de ole cow die as anyting 'appen to heem."

Without interrupting her work, and later as she toiled, at her washtub, the good woman launched forth in lengthy praise of Hugo. From her conversation it appeared that he had helped one or two fellows with small sums of money and good advice. In the autumn he had fished out an Indian who had upset his boat while netting whitefish in rough weather, on the lake, and every one knew that Stefan's life had been saved by him. At any rate the Swede said so, for Hugo never liked much to speak of such things. And then he was a steady fellow, a hard worker, good at the traps and not afraid of work of any kind. And then he was friendly to everybody. Had Madge noticed how gentle he was with the little children? That was always a sign of a good man.

"Yes, mees," she concluded. "Some time I tink heem de bes' man as ever lif. Heem Hugo not even 'urt one dog, or anyting."

So he wouldn't hurt even a dog! Madge repeated these words to herself.

Then why had he played such a sorry joke on a woman who had never injured him? She wondered whether he would be sorry, afterwards, if--if he ever chanced to learn what had become of her--after everything was all over. It might be that he had just been a big fool, as the Canadian woman had called him, and never reflected on the possible consequences of his action. But then he should have had the manhood to acknowledge his fault and beg her pardon, instead of resorting at once to clumsy lies and pretending utter ignorance. In many ways such conduct seemed inconsistent with the man, now that she had had further opportunity of seeing him. And then there was no doubt that he looked very ill. She was really very sorry for her share in that accident, and yet--and yet men had been shot dead for smaller offenses than he had meted out to her. He might have been killed, of course, and her quickened imagination caused her to see him stretched stark upon the floor of that little cabin, on those rough boards that smelled of resiny things. And then people would have come and she would have been accused of his murder, of course. It would have been her weapon that had done it, and they would have found motive enough for the deed in the story she would have been compelled to relate.

They wouldn't have believed in any accident. And then, instead of being able to end everything in some air hole of Roaring River, she would have been dragged to some jail to eke out her days in a prison, if she had not been hanged.

The next day she awaited his coming somewhat anxiously. She felt that she must know how he was before--before taking that last step. After all he had tried to be considerate, except in the matter of those amazing lies. During the afternoon Mrs. Papineau, growing anxious, sent little Baptiste over to enquire after him. The small boy returned, saying that he had seen two squirrels and a rabbit on the tote-road, and the track of a fox, and that he had found Hugo sitting by the fire. And Hugo had declared that he was all right and--and perhaps he wasn't pleased, because he spoke very shortly and had told him to hurry home. So Baptiste had left, and on his way he had seen partridges sitting on a fir sapling, and if he'd had a gun, or even some rocks....

But this circ.u.mstantial narrative was interrupted by the barking of the dogs. The sun was about setting. Madge looked out of the window, while Mrs. Papineau rushed to the door. It was a man arriving with a toboggan and two big dogs.

"Dat my man Philippe coming," announced the woman, happily.

She held the door open, letting in a blast of cold air, and the man entered, tired with long tramping. From the toboggan he removed a load of pelts, dead hares that would serve chiefly for bait, his blankets and the indispensable axe. Mrs. Papineau volubly explained the guest's presence and he greeted her kindly.

"You frien' of Hugo Ennis," he said. "Den you is velcome an' me glad for see you, _mademoiselle_."

He was a pleasant-faced, stocky and broad-limbed man of rather short stature, and his manner was altogether kindly and pleasant. The simplicity and cordiality of his manner was entirely in keeping with the ways of his family. It was curious that all the people she had met so far seemed to have come to an agreement in speaking well of Ennis.

The man sat down, after the smallest of the children had swarmed all over him, and took off his Dutch stockings, waiting for the plenteous meal and the hot tea his wife was preparing. Meanwhile, to lose no time, he began to skin a pine marten.

"Plent' much good luck dis time," he said, turning to Madge. "Five _vison_, vat you call mink, and a pair martens. Also one fox, jus'

leetle young fox but pelt ver' nice. You want for see?"

She inspected the pelts and looked at the animals that were yet unskinned, realizing for the first time how men went off in the wilds for days and weeks and months at a time, in bitterest weather, to provide furs for fine ladies.

The darkness had come and the big oil lamp was lighted. The children played about her for a time and gradually sought their couches in bunks and truckle-beds. The man was relating incidents of the trapping to his wife, who nodded understandingly. Beaver were getting plentiful along the upper reaches of the Roaring; it was a pity that the law prevented their killing for such a long time. He had seen tracks of caribou, that are scarce in that region; but they were very old tracks, not worth following, since these animals are such great travelers.

During this conversation Madge would listen, at times, and turn towards the door. She had a vague idea that Ennis might come, since the boy's account had been somewhat rea.s.suring. When she finally went to bed behind an improvised screen in a corner of the big living-room, she was long unable to sleep, owing to obsessing thoughts that wouldn't be banished. Over and over again she reminded herself of all that had happened. It stood to reason that the man had written those letters; how could it be otherwise? The proofs in her hands were too conclusive to permit her to pay any heed to his denials. The amazing thing was that when one looked at him it became harder and harder to believe him capable of such wrongdoing.

As she tossed in her bed she began to be a.s.sailed with doubts. These worried her exceedingly. He had firmly a.s.serted his innocence.

Supposing that he was telling the truth, what then? In such a case, impossible as it seemed, she had accused him unjustly, and her conduct towards him had been unpardonable. And then she had refused to listen to him, when he had sought to begin some sort of explanation. Why shouldn't one believe a man with such frank and honest eyes, one who wouldn't harm even a dog and was loved and trusted by little children?

Of course, it was quite unintentionally that she had wounded his body, but if he chanced to be innocent she had also wounded his feelings, deeply, in spite of which he had seemed sorry for her, and had been very kind. He had promised to come again to give her further help. If he was guilty it was but a sorry attempt to make slight amends. If he was not at fault, it showed that he was a mighty fine man. Madge felt that she would rather believe in his innocence, in spite of the fact that if he could prove it she would be covered with confusion.

"It seems to me that I ought to have given him that opportunity he was seeking," she told herself, rather miserably.

Before she fell asleep she decided that on the morrow she would walk over to his shack if he did not turn up in the forenoon. He might be in want of care, in spite of what the small boy had said. If he was all right she would sit down and question him. The letters she had received were in her bag; she would show them to him. Now that she thought of it, the curious, ill-formed, hesitating character of the writing seemed utterly out of keeping with the man's apparent nature.

He ought to have written strongly and boldly, it seemed to her.

Gradually she was becoming certain that his word of honor that he had never penned them, or caused some one else to do it for him, would suffice to change the belief she had held. Yes--she would go there, even before noon. If she met him on the road they could as well speak out in the open air. And if she could be sure that she had been mistaken in regard to him, she would beg his pardon, because he had tried to be good to her, with little encouragement on her part.

She--she didn't want him to think afterwards--when everything would be ended, that she had been ungrateful and unjust. Of course, the great effort had failed; nearly everything was ended now and there were no steps that could be retraced. Someone had been very wicked and cruel, that was certain. But she didn't care who it was; it could make no difference. She really hoped it was not Hugo Ennis.

In the darkness her tense features relaxed and her body felt greater ease. Finally her eyes closed and she slept.

CHAPTER IX

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 ma.s.ses 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 part.i.tion, 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 l.u.s.ty 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.