XXIX
Never, never so long as memory lasts, can I forget the separate stages of that return journey. On the first day we had dull overcast skies that threatened rain; the chill wind roughened the lakes and river, and made dismal crossings of the portages at one of which we bade goodby to André's son. We arrived the next afternoon at Roberval in a veritable deluge, the rain having set in while we were crossing Lake St. John. We left by train that evening for Chicoutimi. I remember our late arrival there, the rain still falling in torrents, and, at last, our fleeing the next morning for shelter to the great Saguenay steamer.
On that third day we made the voyage down the Saguenay. It seemed to me as if I were embarking on some Stygian flood, for we looked into a rain-swept impenetrable perspective. The dark waters were beaten into quiescence, except for the current, by the weight of falling raindrops. That was all we saw at first. Despite the Doctor's assumed cheerfulness and his brave attempts to cheer us, we felt depressed. At last came the cessation of rain; the heavy clouds rolled upwards; the perspective cleared and showed the mighty river narrowed to a gorge with the dark outposts of Capes East and West looming vast, desolate, repellent before us.
And always there continued that darkness around, above, beneath us, till, farther down, we swept into the deeper shadow of Capes Trinity and Eternity. In passing them, the pall of some impending calamity fell upon my spirit. I could not emerge from it, try as I might.
Was anything about to happen to the man I loved, to him who was waiting there in the wilderness to entertain Death as his next guest? Should we four friends, who were making this journey, ever be together in the future?
The Doctor kept a watchful eye on me. When the steamer drew to the landing at Tadoussac, I saw him and Jamie remove their hats and stand so, bareheaded, till the boat moved away. Mrs. Macleod and I, watching them, said to each other that they were thinking of André and his voyage of seventeen years ago, when he set out from Tadoussac to see the "New Jerusalem" by that far western lake.
We were glad to take the Montreal express at Quebec which we saw under lowering skies and in a bitter northeast wind. Jamie had telegraphed to Cale from Roberval; he and little Pete were at the junction to meet us. His joy at our return was unmistakable, but his welcome was unique.
"Wal, Mis' Macleod, I guess 't is 'bout time fer you an' Marcia ter be gettin' back ter the manor. Angélique an' Pete have got tied up already—gone off honey-moonin' to Sorel. I could n't hinder it no longer. Marie 's took a notion to visit her 'feller', as they say here, in Three Rivers, an' me an' Pete is holdin' the fort."
How we laughed; we could not help it at Cale's plight. That laugh did us a world of good. Cale, after shaking hands with each of us, stowed us away in the big coach.
"I 'll come over again fer the traps, Doctor."
"All right, Cale. I can be of some use, even if I don't stay but one night at Lamoral. By the way, just leave these things of mine in the baggage-room; it will save taking them over. I have my handbag."
"We ain't got so much grub as we might have, but I guess we can make out to get along, Marcia," said Cale, anxiously.
"Oh, I 'll manage, Cale; don't worry. We 'll stop in the village for provisions, and it won't take me long to straighten things out."
"Of course you did n't think we were coming down on you like the Assyrians of old," said Jamie, taking his seat beside Cale.
"Why, no. I cal'lated you 'd be here likely enough in ten days. I guess Angélique and Pete would n't have got spliced quite so soon if they 'd thought you 'd come this week. They cal'lated ter be home by the time you got here."
We were glad to find something at which we could laugh without pretence. Cale's description of the wedding in the church, at which he was best man; of his inability to understand a word of the service; of Pete's embracing him instead of Angélique when it was all over, and of little Pete dissolving in tears on his return to empty Lamoral and wetting Cale's starched shirt front before he could be comforted, was something to be remembered.
"I must write this up for Ewart," said Jamie, that evening when we sat once again around a normal hearth.
"He will enjoy it; no one better," said the Doctor who was busy looking up New York sailings. "Look here, Boy, you say you want a week, at least, in New York?"
"Yes. I have never seen the place, and I don't want to go home without knowing something about it."
"Well, in that case, I will make a proposition to you. Suppose you sail from New York instead of Montreal? You can have a week there, sail on the sixteenth and be in London on time, provided you leave here to-morrow night."
"To-morrow night?" I echoed dismally.
"Yes, it will have to be to-morrow night—or leave out New York. Better decide to go, Mrs. Macleod, for then I can entertain you for two days before I leave for San Francisco and, in any case, put my house at your disposal."
Both Mrs. Macleod and Jamie hesitated; I felt they were considering me, not wishing to leave me alone in Lamoral.
"Don't think of me," I said. "The sooner this parting from you and Jamie is over the better it will be for me." I fear I spoke too decidedly.
"Marcia, my dear, I don't see how I can leave you here alone."
"I 'm used to being alone." I answered shortly to hide my emotion.
"Yes, better cut it short," Jamie said with a twitch of his upper lip. "We 'll accept your invitation, Doctor Rugvie—you 're always doing something for us; we 've come to expect it; I hope we shan't end by taking it for granted."
"Nothing would please me better than that, Boy. You are a bit over-tired, to-night; better go to bed now, and do all there is to be done in the morning. I must go then."
"What, can't you wait to go with us?" Jamie demanded.
"No; I must be in New York to-morrow evening. I will meet you at the station the next day."
"I believe I am a bit fagged—and I know mother is. That portage business is a strain on the best legs. But you were game, Marcia, no mistake."
"Help me to be 'game' now—and go to bed. I 'll follow just as soon as I set the bread to rise."
"It's too bad that I must leave you to this, Marcia," said Mrs. Macleod regretfully, as she kissed me good night—for the second time at Lamoral.
"Oh, I can do all there is to be done."
I returned her kiss. I was beginning to love this gentle, reticent Scotchwoman.
"I don't want any good night from you, Marcia," said Jamie gruffly. "Oh, I hate the whole business!" He flung out of the room, and I rose to follow him and Mrs. Macleod.
"Stay with me a little while, Marcia; you are not so tired as they are. Who knows whether I shall see you for a whole month or more?" The Doctor spoke earnestly.
"You expect to be gone so long?"
"Perhaps longer—it depends on what I find awaiting me. You permit another?" He reached for a cigar.
"Let me light it for you."
I performed the little service for him, which he loved to accept from me, and then sat down in Jamie's corner of the sofa.
The Doctor puffed vigorously for a while. Then he spoke, suddenly looking at me:
"After all, it is Ewart that makes Lamoral, is n't it, Marcia?"
"Yes," I replied promptly. I was so glad to speak his name here in his own home. I was hoping his friend would feel inclined to talk of him.
"I have never had an opportunity to realize this before; it is the first time I have been here without him."
"I remember Jamie said, the night before you came last November, that I should n't know the house after Mr. Ewart took possession."
The Doctor turned to me, smiling almost wistfully, r so it seemed to me.
"His presence makes the difference between the house and the home. Is n't that what Jamie meant?"
"Yes, I am sure it is. Mr. Ewart himself calls the old manor 'home' now." I smiled at my thoughts. Had he not said, "My home is henceforth where you are"?
"And I, for my part, am thankful to hear him use that word. Marcia, Ewart has been, in a way, a homeless man."
"I thought so from the little he has said."
"He was orphaned early in life. Has he ever spoken to you of his wife?" The question was put casually, but I knew intentionally.
"Only once."
"And once only to me, his friend—several years ago. He has suffered. I have known no detail, but whatever it was, it went deep."
I was willing to follow his lead a little further and, although I realized the ice was thin, I ventured.
"I wonder if you have ever heard any gossip—"
"Gossip? What gossip?" The Doctor's words were abrupt, his tone resentful.
"Something Jamie heard here in the village, and because he did not believe it, he told me, when I first came, that if I ever heard it I should not believe it either—"
"About Ewart?" He ceased to puff at his cigar.
"Yes; about his having been married and divorced, and that he has a child living, a boy whom he is educating in England."
"That's all fool-talk about the boy." The Doctor spoke testily. "I don't mind telling you that he was married, as of course you know, and lost his wife. I don't mind telling you that he was divorced from her; I suppose that is a matter of public record somewhere. I don't know who she was—or what she was; he is loyal to that memory. But there is no boy in the case."
He tossed his cigar into the fire and began tapping the floor rapidly with the tip of his boot.
"I inferred, of course, from a remark he made to me then, that there was a child mixed up in the affair—"
"All this must be the foundation for the rumors, then?" I said.
"Yes; but if Ewart has a child, and I am convinced he has—"
"You are?" I asked in amazement, thereby proving to the Doctor that I had never given credence to this part of the report.
He nodded emphatically, looking away from me into the fire. "If he has a child, I know it to be a girl—no boy."
"I had n't thought of that."
"I see you have n't," he said dryly; then, clearing his throat, he turned squarely to me, speaking deliberately, as if hoping every word would carry conviction.
"Marcia, if Ewart has a child, as I am convinced he has, it is a daughter,—" with a quick turn of his head he faced me, speaking distinctly but rapidly,—"and that daughter is you."
It was said, the unheard-of. He had used his knife when I was off my guard. I was powerless to shrink from it, to protest against its use. All I could do was to bear.
I heard one of the dogs whine somewhere about the house. I know I counted the vagrant sparks flying up the chimney. I heard the kitchen clock striking. I counted—ten. I remembered that I had forgotten to wind it, and must do so when I made the bread. I moistened my lips; they were suddenly parched. Then I spoke.
"Why have you told me this?" I failed, curiously, to hear my own voice, and repeated the question.
"Marcia, it had to be said—it was my duty."
"Why?"
"Why?" He turned to me with something like anger flashing in his eyes. "Because I don't choose to have you make a wreck of your life, as I told you only the other day—"
"But if I choose—" I did not know what I was saying. I was merely articulating, but could not tell him so.
"If you choose! Good God—don't you see your situation? Marcia, dear girl, come to yourself—you are not yourself."
Without another word he rose quickly, and went out. I heard him go into the kitchen. He came back with a third of a glass of water.
"Take this, Marcia."
I obeyed. The bitter taste is even now, at times, on my tongue. Soon I was able to hear my own voice.
"Thank you." I felt his finger on my wrist.
"You are better now?"
"Yes." I passed my hand across my eyes to clear my sight. I heard a heavy long-drawn sigh from the man standing in front of me.
"Does he know?" was my first rational question.
"Ewart know? Marcia, Marcia—think what you are saying! Ewart is a gentleman—the soul of honor—"
"No, of course, he does n't. I did n't think.– Why have n't you told him instead of me?"
"Why? I tell you because you are a woman; because it is your right to withdraw from a situation that is untenable; you must be the first to know."
"I see; I am beginning to understand."
"Marcia, this is a confession. I blame myself for much of this. I am guilty of procrastinating in a matter of duty. Listen, my dear girl; you remember that night in February when you met me at the junction?"
"Oh, yes, I remember—I wish I could forget." I felt suddenly so tired.
"I heard all this in Ewart's voice when he bade me look out for you. I saw all this in your face when you greeted him on his return. I did not know then of your connection with Cale, with that sad affair of twenty-seven years ago; but, from the moment I knew your birthday, from that night when Cale's story fitted its key to mine, from the moment I learned the truth from Delia Beaseley about you, from the moment I examined those papers in my possession, I should have spoken; should have written you at least; should have warned—but I waited to make more sure."
"Are you sure?"
I put that question as a drowning man catches at a floating reed.
"No, I dare not say I am sure until Ewart himself confirms black and white—sees that certificate; but I must warn you just the same. It is my duty."
I drew a longer breath. He was not wholly sure then. There was a reprieve, meanwhile—
What "meanwhile"? I could not think; but I was aware that the Doctor was speaking again, thinking for me. I listened apathetically.
"Marcia, I have to leave to-morrow morning. I must leave you with Cale. Thank God, you have him near you! It has been impressed upon me that you must be told all this before Ewart gets back. You are a woman—and your womanhood will dictate, will show you the way out. Come to me, come to my home—I shall not be there; come now, with Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I will wire Ewart that you are with us for a little while. Get time to breathe, to think things out, to conquer, before he comes—"
"No." I spoke with decision. I made a physical effort to speak so. "I shall remain where I am—for a while. I have Cale. When I go, he goes with me; but, oh, don't, don't say any more—I cannot bear it!"
My words were half prayer, half groan. I felt suddenly weak, sick throughout my whole body.
"I wish I might bear this for you, dear girl. I had to say it. I could not let you go on—"
"I know, I know, you did your duty—but don't say anything more."
I held out my hand. "I shall be up in the morning and get your breakfast; it's so early for you to start. The others won't be up."
"I wish you would," he said eagerly. "I must satisfy myself that you are up and about before I go, otherwise—" He hesitated.
"Don't worry. I shall be about just the same—only now—"
"I know; you want to be alone—you can bear no more. Good night." He left the room abruptly.
XXX
Mechanically I covered the dying fire with ashes; lighted my candle; snuffed out those in the sconces, and went out into the kitchen. I wound the clock and set my bread to rise. I heard one of the dogs whining in the dining-room; he had been unintentionally shut in. I let him out. He showed his gratitude in his dog's way and followed me, unbidden, upstairs to my room.
I entered, and shut the door softly not to rouse Jamie and Mrs. Macleod. I heard the dog settle on the threshold. Somehow, the sound helped me to bear. It was something belonging to him that was near me in my trouble.
I sat down on the side of my bed—sat there, I think, all night. A round of thought kept turning like a mill-wheel in my head:—"The man I love is my father—Mr. Ewart, my father, is the man I love."
It was maddening.
The mill-wheel turned and turned with terrible rapidity. I held my head in both hands. Towards morning, when the light began to break, I looked about me. At sight of the familiar interior, the wheel in my head turned more slowly—stepped for a moment. In the silence I could think; think another thought: "The Doctor is not sure—"
I rose, steadying myself by holding on to the footboard.
"Not sure—not sure." The mill-wheel was at work again. "Not sure—not sure."
"Of course not." I spoke aloud. The sound of my own voice gave me poise. The wheel turned slowly. In another moment my whole being was in revolt. I spoke again:
"It is not true. Not until he tells me, will I believe. The Doctor is mistaken; black and white can lie—even after twenty-seven years. The man I love—and I cannot help loving him—is not the man who is responsible for me in this world."
All my woman's nature cried out against this blasphemy of circumstances against my love—my love for Gordon Ewart, that was so true, so pure; pure in its depths of passion, true in its patience sanctified through endurance.
"I will go to Cale. He will know. He will tell me. He will see it cannot be true. This love Mr. Ewart feels for me is not, never has been, a father's love. No two human beings could be so drawn the one to the other, as we have been, with that tie between them. It is preposterous on the face of it. It is a monstrosity, born of conflicting circumstances."
The energy of life was returning. I undressed. I bathed face and head and arms. I dressed again in fresh garments. I opened the door; the dog rose, wagging his tail. I slipped noiselessly down the back stairs and found that Cale had been before me. The fire was made; the water in the kettle boiling.
I made the coffee; worked over my bread; fried the bacon; broke the eggs for the omelette; whisked up some "gems" and put them into the oven. The mill-wheel no longer turned. When Cale came in, I sent him upstairs with a pitcher of hot water for the Doctor.
"Seems like home ter see you round again, Marcia," he said, as he took the pitcher.
"It seems good to be at home again." I tried to speak cheerfully.
Doctor Rugvie gave me one long searching look, when he took his place at the breakfast table. Then he paid his attention to the omelette which he ate with evident relish. We talked of this and that. I went out into the hall with him.
"Goodby, Marcia." He put out his hand. "Wire me just a word from time to time—I have left the California address on the library table."
"Goodby—I shall not forget."
That was all. But I drew a long breath of relief when I could no longer see the carriage. I feel sure he, too, drew another.
All the forenoon I was busy packing, helping Mrs. Macleod and Jamie. I gave myself not a moment's rest; I dared not. Only once, just after dinner, and three hours before they were to leave for Montreal, I went up to my room to be alone for a minute or two; to gain strength to go through the rest of the time, before parting with my friends.
I had been there not five minutes when Mrs. Macleod rapped.
"Come in," I said a little wearily.
She entered and came directly to where I sat by the window. She put her arms around me,—motherly-wise as I fancied,—and spoke to me:
"Marcia, my dear, I cannot leave you without telling you I have seen it all. I speak as an older woman to a younger. Dear child, I wish you joy; you deserve all that is in store for you—and there is so much for you, so much here in the old manor. I am so happy for you and with you, my dear."
I lifted my face to hers and she kissed me.
"I don't like to leave you here; it goes against me—there is no woman near you; and you cannot remain in the circumstances, you know, my dear, after Mr. Ewart returns. I only wish you would come with us. But that would never do; Mr. Ewart would be my enemy for life, and I could not blame him."
"Cale will be here," I said. "I have been wanting to tell you something."
I told her of my relation to him; what it meant to me. I told, and to her amazement, of my connection with her of whom both the Doctor and Cale had spoken—and I told it all with a flood of tears, my head on her shoulder, her arms around me.
And she thought I was crying for that Past!
Those tears saved my brain.
When she left me, I had given her my promise that if ever I should need a home, I would make hers mine.
"But you will hardly need it, my dear. Mr. Ewart will make this the one spot on earth for you—and it is right that your future should compensate for your past."
Jamie whistled all day; it got at last on my nerves. When I begged him to stop, he looked at me reproachfully and said never a word, which was unlike Jamie Macleod who has a Scotch tongue—a long and caustic one on occasion.
He steadily refused to say goodby to me, or more than, "I shall see you in Scotland next summer—you and Ewart; give my love to him."
He put his hand from the coach window, and said in a low voice:
"I made such an ass of myself, Marcia, you know how. Forgive me, won't you?"
I forced a smile for answer. There is such a thing as the comedy of irony.
When they drove away, I turned to the empty house—empty except for the dogs—with a sigh of relief. It was good to be alone.