A Cry in the Wilderness Part 27

"That's what puzzles me," said Jamie. The Doctor turned to him.

"How do you look at it, Boy, you, with your twenty-three years? The world where such things happen is n't much like that world of Andre's Odyssey, is it?"

Jamie answered brightly, but his voice was slightly unsteady:

"Yes, it's the same old world; it's a wilderness, you know, for all of us, only there are so many paths through it, across it, and up and down it--paths and trails and roads that cross and recross; so many that end in swamp and bog; so many that lead nowhither; so many that are lost on the mountain. And so few guideposts--I wish there were more for us all! You may bet your life that man--whether the girl's husband or lover--has had to tread thorns until his feet bled before he could clear his way through. Those five hundred dollars, in yearly deposits, he intends shall be guideposts, and he trusts you to put them up in the wilderness where they will do the most good.--I 'd hate to be that man!

Would you mind telling me, Doctor, how she attempted to make way with herself?"

"Tried to drown herself from one of the North River piers."

"And her child too," said Jamie musingly; "there came near being two graves in _his_ wilderness." He thought a moment in silence. "Make the home on the farm with the money, Doctor Rugvie; use the interest in helping others who have lost their way in the wilderness."

"Good advice, Boy, I 'll remember to act on it." The Doctor spoke gratefully, heartily. His glance rested affectionately upon the long figure on the sofa. Was he wondering, as I was, how Jamie at twenty-three could reach certain depths which his particular plummet could never have sounded? I intended to ask him what he thought of Jamie's outlook on life, sometime when we should be alone together.

"Mrs. Macleod," he said, "do you think with your son?"

She hesitated. It is her peculiarity that a direct question, the answer to which involves a decision, fl.u.s.ters her painfully.

"I shall have to think it over, like Mr. Ewart," she replied.

"And you, Marcia," he turned to me. Out of my knowledge I answered unhesitatingly:

"It's not of the child I 'm thinking; she could n't accept the money knowing for what it is paid. Nor am I thinking about those women who need 'guide-posts', Jamie. I 'm thinking of that other woman who lived in the bas.e.m.e.nt and took in washing and ironing, the one who rescued that other from her misery and cared for her with your help, Doctor Rugvie--should n't she be remembered? She, who is living? If I had that money at my disposal, I would found the farm home and put that woman at the head of it. You may be sure she would know how to put up the guideposts--and in the right places too."

I spoke eagerly, almost impulsively.

The Doctor looked at me comprehendingly--he knew that I knew that it was of Delia Beaseley he had been speaking--and smiled.

"Another idea, Marcia, also worth remembering and acting upon with Jamie's."

I turned suddenly to Mr. Ewart, not knowing why I felt impelled to; perhaps his silence, his noticeable unresponsiveness to his friend's proposition, impressed as well as surprised me; at any rate I looked up very quickly and caught the look he gave me. It half terrified me.

What had I said to offend him? The steel gray eyes were almost black, and the look--had it possessed physical force, I felt it would have crushed me. It was severe, indignant, uncompromising. I was mystified. The look was more flashed at me than directed at me for the s.p.a.ce of half a second--then he spoke to Jamie.

"You are right, Jamie, about the wilderness; we 'll talk this matter over sometime together before John goes,"--I perceived clearly that Mrs. Macleod and I were shut out of future conferences,--"and I know we can make some plan satisfactory to him and to us all. Count on me, John, to help you in carrying out the best plan whatever it may be. In any case, it will mean that we are to have more of your company, and that's what I want." He spoke lightly.

Doctor Rugvie smiled, then his features grew earnest again.

"Gordon, I want to put a question to you, and after you to Jamie."

"Yes; go ahead."

"I have given you the mere outlines of a bare and ugly episode of New York city. That man, or those two men, or that dual ent.i.ty, has never ceased to perplex me. How does it look to you, knowing merely the outlines?"

"As if the woman had been dealing with two different men," he replied almost indifferently.

The Doctor looked at him earnestly, and I saw he was puzzled by his friend's att.i.tude. "That may be--one never can tell in such cases," he answered quietly; but I could feel his disappointment.

"That's queer, Ewart," said Jamie, gravely; "to me it looks as if two men had done a girl an irreparable wrong." Perhaps we all felt that the conversation had been carried a little too far in this direction.

The Doctor turned it into other channels, but it lagged. I felt uncomfortable, and wished I had insisted upon going up to my room when the subject of the farm was broached. After all, we had come to no decision, and I doubted if the Doctor was much the wiser for all our opinions.

Marie's entrance with the porridge relieved the tension somewhat, and I was glad to say good night as soon as I had finished mine.

XIII

Doctor Rugvie had opened an easy way of approach for me to ask him what I would, but that question put by Mr. Ewart in regard to the child, whether it was a boy or a girl, seemed to block the way, for a time at least, impa.s.sably. If I were to make inquiry now of the Doctor concerning my ident.i.ty and ask the name of my father, naturally he would infer, after Mr. Ewart's remark, that the question of the property was my impelling motive. My reason told me the time was ripe to settle this personal question, but something--was it intuition? I believe in that, if only we would follow its lead and leave reason to lag in chains far behind it--seemed to paralyze my power of will in making any move to ascertain my paternal parentage. And yet I had dared to respond to that demand in Jamie's advertis.e.m.e.nt "of good parentage"!

"Well, I am myself," I thought, half defiantly, "and after all, it's not what those who are dead and gone stood for that counts. It's what I stand for; and what I am rests with my will to make. They 'll have to accept me for what I am."

I was in the kitchen, concocting an old-fashioned Indian pudding and showing Angelique about the oven, as these thoughts pa.s.sed through my mind. At that moment Jamie opened the door and looked in.

"I say, Marcia--awfully busy?"

"No, not now; what do you want?"

"You--I 'm lonesome. Come on into the living-room--I 've built up a roaring fire there--and let's talk; n.o.body 's around."

"Where 's Doctor Rugvie?"

"Gone off with Cale to the farm. He 'll get pneumonia if he does n't look out; the place is like an ice-house at this season."

I slipped the pudding into the oven. "Now look out for it and keep enough milk in it till it wheys, Angelique." I turned to Jamie.

"Where's Mr. Ewart?"

"Oh, Ewart's off nosing about in Quebec for some old furniture for his den. Pierre drove him to the train just after breakfast. He told mother he would be back in time for supper."

"That's queer," I said, following him through the bare offices, one of which was to be the den, into the living-room where stale cigar smoke still lingered. "Whew! Let's have in some fresh air."

I opened the hinged panes in the double windows; opened the front door and let in the keen crisp air.

"There, now," I closed them; "we can 'talk' as you say in comfort. I did n't air out early this morning, for when I came in I found Mr.

Ewart writing. He looked for all the world as if he were making his last will and testament. I beat a double-quick retreat."

"I 'll bet you did. I 'd make tracks if Ewart looked like that." He drew up two chairs before the fire. "Here, sit here by me; let's be comfy when we can. I say, Marcia--"

He paused, leaning to the fire in his favorite position: arms along his knees, and clasped hands hanging between them. He turned and looked at me ruefully.

"We all got beyond our depth, did n't we, last night?"

"I thought so."

"The Doctor 's a dear, is n't he?"

"He 's the dearest kind of a dear, and I could n't bear to see him snubbed by your lord of the manor."

Jamie nodded. "That was rather rough. I don't understand that side of Ewart--never have seen it but once before, and I would n't mind, you know, Marcia," he lowered his voice, "if I never saw it again. It made no end of an atmosphere, did n't it?"