She went indoors again. There were potatoes to be peeled and the girl, in spite of protests, took up a knife and went to work. It was such a pleasure to do something to help. Indeed she had been idle too long, allowing these people to do everything for her while she crouched disconsolately in warm corners. At present all the weariness and weakness seemed to have left her. It was just like a fresh beginning instead of the ending of a life. It would have made her happy to think that, somewhere in the world, providing it were away from the city, she might have found honest work to do in exchange for some of this wonderful peace. If she could only have remained among these gentle and placid people and let her existence flow on, easily, without pain and the constant worry for the morrow. It was like some marvelous dream from which she was compelled to awaken at once, for she realized that there was no place for her in this household. The older children were already of the greatest a.s.sistance to their parents, and there was no room for her in the crowded shack. She had caused these people some inconvenience, which they had accepted cheerfully, it was true, but which she could not keep on inflicting on them. But for some hours--some blessed hours, she could play at being happy and pretend that life was sweet. She could smile now, when these people spoke to her, and she hugged some of the little ones without apparent reason.

"You stay 'ere some more day," Mrs. Papineau told her, "an' den you look lak' oder gal sure. Get fat an' lose de black roun' you h'eyes.

You now a tousan' time better as ven you come, you bet. Dis a fine c.o.o.ntree, Canada, for peoples get strong an' hoongree an' work 'ard an' sleep good."

"It's a perfectly beautiful and wonderful country," cried the girl, enthusiastically. "I--I wish I could always live here."

"You one so prettee gal," commented the good woman. "Some day you fin'

one good 'usban' an' marry an' h'always lif in dis c.o.o.ntree. Den you is happy and strong. Plenty mans in dis c.o.o.ntree want wife to 'elp an'

mak' good 'ome. It one h'awful big lan'."

Yes, there was any amount of room in this great country. And the woman wanted her to go and find a good husband! Well, she had come far to seek one. It--it had not been a pleasant experience. She saw herself wandering about this wilderness looking for another man who would take her to wife. Oh, the shame of it--the hot flashing of her cheeks when she thought of it! No, she was now looking on all this as a pauper looks into the shop-front displaying the warm clothing that would keep the bitter cold from him, or as starvelings of big cities, through the windows of great restaurants and hostelries, stare upon the well-fed people sating themselves with an abundance of good cheer. She must remain outside and now the end of it all was near.

They had their breakfast, during which Mrs. Papineau said that she was becoming anxious about Hugo. Presently she would send one of the children again. Papineau wouldn't do because he knew nothing about sick people. She would go over there herself soon. If he was sick she would bring him a loaf of bread. It would soon be ready to bake; the dough was still rising behind the stove. There might be other things to be attended to. Not more than an hour would elapse before she was ready to go. She remarked that men were a very helpless lot whenever they were ill, and became grumpy and took feminine tact to manage.

The feeling of anxiety that had gradually come over the girl became deeper. If the man was ill, it was her fault. What had possessed her to spend some of her scant store of money in that dirty little shop for a pistol? Of course, she realized that a vague feeling of danger had guided her--that the thing could be a means of defense or offer a way to end her troubles. And it had only served to injure a man who, if he had sinned against her, manifested at any rate some desire to treat her kindly.

But the thought that he might not be guilty returned to her, insistently. It was on her part a change of thought that was not due to carefully reasoned considerations, to any deep study of conditions, for when she tried to argue the matter out she became involved in a thousand contradictions and her head would begin to ache in dizzy fashion. Rather it was some sort of instinct, one of the conclusions so often and quickly reached by the feminine mind and apt, in spite of everything, to prove accurate and reliable.

"Mrs. Papineau," she said, suddenly, "I think I will go over there now. I--I have rested long enough and the fresh air will be good for me. I will come back very soon, I suppose, but if--if Mr. Ennis should be ill you will find me there."

Her proposal was a.s.sented to without the slightest objection. The good woman insisted on furnishing her with footwear better suited to the tote-road than the boots she wore. On the trail the snow would be fairly well beaten down and there would be little need of snowshoes if she picked her way carefully. She could not lose her way. Still, it might be as well for one of the children to go with her. People who were not used to the woods sometimes strayed off a trail and got in trouble.

Under escort of the second oldest girl Madge started, briskly. She had covered but a short distance before she wondered that she felt so strong and well. The plain substantial food she had eaten and the bright, stimulating air were filling her with a new life. She walked along quite fast, for she was now anxious to see this man again. If she had been wrong she wanted to make amends. But what if he were very ill? She thought of the lonely little shack and the lack of any comfort and care within it. He might be lying there helplessly, with only a dog for a companion. At every turn of the little road she looked ahead, keenly, thinking that perhaps she might meet him on his way to the Papineau's. As she hurried on she felt that the house had perhaps been too warm and it was splendid to be walking beneath the snow-laden trees, to see the little clouds of her breath going out into the frosty air and to hear the crackling of the clean snow under her feet.

The child was walking st.u.r.dily at her side and told her of some Christmas presents Hugo had brought. It was evident that to the children of that family he was a very wonderful being, a sort of Santa Claus who had done his full duty and one to be forever after welcomed with joyous shrieks. And father said he was a very good shot, and Stefan Olsen, the big man, thought there was no one like him. And he could sing songs and tell stories, wonderful stories. Madge, as she listened to the girl, suddenly wondered whether it was not possible that the loneliness of such a life might not in some way have disturbed the man's mind, at least temporarily. Wasn't it possible for one, in such a case, to do queer things and never remember anything about them afterwards? No one better than she knew what a terrible and maddening thing loneliness was. She recollected distracting hours spent in little hall-bedrooms while she tried to mend, after an exhausting day's work, the poor clothing that wore out so terribly soon, and how at times she had felt that she must be becoming crazy.

"But no! He couldn't have done it. He--he's a very quiet sensible man, I should think, and--and he wouldn't hurt even a dog," she repeated to herself.

They were journeying quite fast over the trail that snaked along through the woods, bending here and there in order to avoid boulders and stumps and fallen trees but always coming in sight of the frozen river again. At times Madge trudged through rather deep snow. Also she stubbed her toes upon rocks and stumbled over branches broken off by the great gales of winter. But it really wasn't very hard. And the child kept on chattering about Monsieur Hugo and asking eager questions about the big city. Was it true that as far as one could see there were houses standing right up against one another for miles and miles, and that people swarmed in them as do the wild bees in hollow trees? It was natural for bees to do such things, and for ants, and for the minnows in shoals down in the river, but why did people have to crowd in such a way? How could they breathe?

Finally they came in sight of the shack and the child gave a swift glance.

"No smoke, mees," she said. "Heem go away, or mebbe heem seek."

Madge hurried along faster for an instant, and then stopped short.

What if neither of the child's conclusions was correct? If she went over there and knocked at the door he might come out, looking rather surprised. She had told him that she had come to Carcajou, looking for an unknown husband, for a man she was willing to accept under certain conditions, just because her life had become intolerable. He might lift his brow and perhaps ask her quite civilly to come in. But what would he think? Would he imagine that she was running after him and trying to compel him to marry her? It was not alone the frost that brought color to her cheeks now. No, it would never do.

"I think I will wait here," she told the little girl. "Will you please go and find out if Mr. Ennis is there, and whether he is all right again? I'll sit down on this log and wait till you come back."

The child looked rather puzzled but she ran down the path that led to the cabin. Madge saw her stopping in front of the door, at which she knocked. She heard her call out and then wait, as if listening. At once came Maigan's voice. He was barking but the sound was not an angry one. Rather it sounded plaintively. Finally the girl pulled the door open, after fumbling at the latch, and the dog ran out, barking again and rolling in the snow. Then he sniffed the air and discovered Madge, at once running towards her and pushing his muzzle in her hand.

She stroked his head and he ran back, going but a few steps and turning around to see if she followed. She rose slowly, a sense of fear coming over her, and hesitatingly went down the path also. At this moment the child came out, looking frightened, and hastened over to her.

"Heem seek--very seek," she cried, and Madge found herself running now, with her heart beating and her breath coming fast. The terrifying idea came to her that perhaps he was dead. But as she entered the place the man rose painfully on his bunk. His face was amazingly pale and his features drawn--hardly recognizable.

"Sorry, must beg your pardon--I intended to come over," he told her, hoa.r.s.ely. "It--it's some silly sort of a fever. I--I'll be better pretty soon. It's that blessed arm of mine, I think, and--and I'm frightfully thirsty. If--if you'll ask the kid...."

Madge peered about her, but there was no water in sight. Even if there had been any she knew it would have frozen solid in the fireless shack whose interior had struck a chill through her. She seized a pail.

"Where does one get it?" she asked. "Or do you have to melt ice?"

"There's a spring. It's halfway down to the pool. Never quite freezes over. Let that girl go for it, Miss Nelson. Or--or I may go myself in a minute. Only waiting till--till my teeth stop chattering. Then I can light--light the fire and--and make hot tea. It--it's such a stupid nuisance and--and I'm giving you a lot of bother."

But Madge ran out of the shack and down to that spring, where the clear water seemed to be boiling out of the ground, since a little cloud of steam rose from it. But it was just pure icy water and she filled the pail and hurried back with it. When she returned the child was efficiently engaged in making a fire in the little stove. The man had sunk down on his bunk again and she went up to him. His teeth were no longer chattering, but his cheekbones now bore patches of deep red.

When she ventured to touch his hand, she found that it was burning hot. At this an awful, distressing, unreasoning fear came upon her.

She--she had killed this man, for--for he certainly was going to die, she thought. Even in the big hospital she had never seen a face more strongly stamped with the marks of impending death. It was frightful!

She gave him water which he drank greedily, calling for more. She had to hold the cup, since his hand shook too badly. Dully, feeling stricken with a great desolation, she prepared some tea and gave it to him. She had found some biscuits in a box but he refused to eat anything. Presently he was lying flat again on his bunk, with his eyes closed, and when she spoke he made no answer. But he was breathing, she noted. Perhaps he had fallen asleep. It might do him a great deal of good, she thought.

The child had thrown herself down on the floor, next to Maigan, who was stretched out at length, enjoying the welcome heat of the stove.

From time to time the animal lifted his head and looked towards his master anxiously. He knew that something was all wrong, but now that these other people had come everything would doubtless be made all right.

For some time Madge kept still, sitting down on a stool she had drawn to the side of the bunk. She had the resigned patience innate in so many women, but presently she could stand it no longer. Something must be done at once. Valuable time was pa.s.sing and no help was being obtained. Things simply couldn't go on this way!

Rising again she called the child.

"We must go and get a doctor at once," she whispered, breathlessly.

"I--I'm horribly afraid. Come outside with me."

She caught the little girl's arm in her impatience, and took her out.

"Your--your friend, Monsieur Hugo, is dreadfully ill, do you understand, child? I heard your mother say that one could telegraph from Carcajou for a doctor. We've got to do it! How long would it take me to get there?"

The girl was evidently scared, but she looked at Madge with some of the practical sense of one versed with the difficulties of life in the wilds.

"If you 'lone you never get dere. If Maigan work for you maybe three-four hour," answered the child. "Heem go a leetle way den turn back for de shack. No leave master."

There came upon Madge a dreadful feeling of helplessness. The man looked terribly ill; she felt that he was probably going to die. This great wilderness suddenly grew as wicked in her eyes as that of the city. Nay, it was even worse. She remembered how ill she had become and how she had struggled to fight off the sickness, in a little lone room of a top floor. But as soon as people had come she had been bundled away to the hospital. A wagon had come, with a doctor in a white coat, and they had clattered off. The people in the hospital had seemed interested, indifferent, friendly, according to their several dispositions, but she had been taken care of, and fed, and washed, and some of the nurses had sweet faces, after all, and after a time she had recovered. All this had seemed rather terrible at the time, but what was it compared to this lying desperately ill in a freezing hut, too feeble to procure even the cup of water craved by a dry tongue and lips that were parched?

"I can surely walk that distance," she cried, but the child shook her head again.

"You no good for walk far," she a.s.serted. "You jus' fall down dead.

Twelve mile and snow deep some place. Moch cole as freeze you quick when tired."

"Then what's to be done?" asked Madge, entering the house again, followed by the child. "I think I ought to try to get to Carcajou."

"Please don't," said the man, hoa.r.s.ely, looking as if he had awakened suddenly, and lifting himself up on one elbow painfully. "I'll--I'll be all right to-morrow, sure--surest thing you know, and--and I'll take you down myself, with old--old Maigan."

"Please hurry back to your house and tell your mother to come over as soon as she can," Madge told the child. "Perhaps your father could go.

I didn't think of it at first."

"Now you spik' lak' you know someting," said the girl, with refreshing frankness. "I 'urry all right. Get modder quick."

She started, her little legs flying over the snow, and Madge closed the door again.

She put a little more wood in the stove and sat down by the bunk. The man's eyes were closed again. It was strange that he had heard her so distinctly, and that he had gathered the impression that she wanted to get to Carcajou on her own account. And--and he had said he would take her himself. Again his first thought had been to do something for her, to be of service to her.

One of his hands was lying outside the blankets, and instinctively Madge placed her own upon it. She was frightened to feel how hot it was. The pulse her fingers sought was beating wildly. She felt glad that she was there. The man didn't care for her and she--well, she supposed that she disliked him, but she wasn't going to let him die there alone in a corner, like a wounded animal in some obscure den among the rocks. For the moment her own troubles were pretty nearly forgotten, for there was something for her to do. She had been but a useless by-product of humanity in the great melting pot of the world and had proved incapable of rising above the dross and making even a poor place for herself. But this man was young and strong and able, bearing all the marks of one destined to be of use. He had looked splendid in his efficient and st.u.r.dy manhood and therefore there was something wrong, utterly wrong and against the course of nature in his being about to be snuffed out before her very eyes, just because she had dropped that abominable pistol. It--it just couldn't be!

She leaned forward again and looked upon his face, that was ashen under the coating of tan. Once he opened his eyes and looked at her, but the lids closed down again and once more she became obsessed by the idea that she might have been very unjust to him, that she had perhaps insulted and wronged him. All at once the face she was looking at became blurred, but it was because she saw it through a mist of gathering tears. It had been easy, when she had bought that pistol, to think of killing a man; now it seemed frightful, abominable, and the resentment she had felt against the man was turning against herself in spite of the fact that it had been an accident, just a miserable accident.