A Cry in the Wilderness Part 39

"'"So help me G.o.d, Happy, I 'll save you from yourself an' marry you ter-morrow," says George, slow an' solemn. An' at those words, Job riz right up in bed an' hollered "Amen, amen!" till the rafters rung.'

"Mother 's told me the story over 'n over again, an' always in them same words," said Cale thoughtfully. "She used ter say she guessed Happy made a clean breast of it to George after hearin' that 'Amen'.

"Sure enough they was married the next day--late in the afternoon--when Job had a lucid spell an' cried fer joy. 'I can leave you now, Happy,'

was all he said as he give 'em his blessin'. When night come on he wandered again. He 'd had watchers more 'n three weeks, an' Keziah was all tuckered out, an' mother too. I said I 'd watch thet night, but Happy stuck to it she was goin' ter.

"'But, Happy--' says mother, with a meanin' look an' smile.

"'I know, Aunt Marthy.' She answered, sorter hesitatin'; then, settin'

the bowl of porridge she had in her hand down on the table, she beckoned mother out inter the shed an', shuttin' the door tight, flung her arms round mother's neck an' begged her ter speak ter George, an'

ask him ter let her watch jest this one night with her father.

"'He can't deny me thet, Aunt Marthy, an' if you had a daughter placed as I am, would n't you do as much fer her?'

"Mother said she 'd never ferget the scairt look on the girl's face, nor the feel of her two hands, like chunks of ice, round her neck.

"'My heart ached fer her,' mother said, 'an' I told her I 'd speak ter George, an' I knew 't would be all right.'

"An' so 't was. He was only too glad to do anything fer her ter make her feel easier in her mind; he said he 'd stretch out on the sofy in the parlor, so as to be on hand if they wanted him.

"Mother set up till twelve, an' then Happy brought her up a steamin'

bowl of catnip tea.

"'Take it, Aunt Marthy,' she said, coaxin', 'it 'll do you good.'

"'Bless your thoughtful little soul,' says mother, an' gulped it down as innercent as a lamb."

At this point Cale rose, with one stride reached the fireplace and gave the backlog a mighty kick that sent the sparks in showers up the chimney; then, seating himself again, he went on in a hard unyielding voice:

"I ain't made up my mind whether I 've fergiven her or not. I s'pose I have, seein' what the gal must have suffered after thet; but it was my innercent lovin' mother--an' how she could have done it beats all creation! But she was desp'rit.

"George got up twice in the night, but all was quiet. He even walked round the house an' stood under the winder, hopin', as he told me afterwards, to see her shadder on the curtain. The second time he went out, he saw her pull aside the square of cotton an' look out. It was nigh mornin' then and the lamp still burnin'. 'Bout half after five he crept out in his stockin' feet, milked, an' turned the cows out; then he come back, laid down, an' just after daybreak shet his eyes fer the first time.

"When he woke it was 'bout eight o'clock, an' still nary a sound in the house, fer Keziah had n't nothin' on her mind, 'cause mother took it all off. Again he slipped out of doors an' see a dull red spot on the curtain; it looked as if the light was burnin'. He thought she 'd fallen asleep. On thet, he creeps up the back stairs an' looks inter the chamber. There was mother stretched out on the cot unconscious, her face as white an' drawn as the square of cotton beside it. Job was breathin' heavy in the bed; the lamp was smellin' with the vilest smell and--Happy was gone."

"Gone!" Jamie echoed.

"Yes, gone fer good--an' ter this day I can't quite make up my mind whether I 've fergiven her or not.

"Mother come to in something less than half an hour and before the doctor got there. We braced her up with a pint of strong coffee, an', natcherly, she could n't remember nothing after she 'd took the catnip tea--_and_ the laudanum.

"George rode right an' left, to get track of her, or rather them, fer we all knew there was a man in the case after what we see. He telegraphed ter them big cities, an' hired detectives fer the dirty work; but they could n't get no clew. The folks at the Crick House said there 'd been a man there sketching but they had n't seen him sence Sunday night, when he left on foot. The gal, they said, had n't been near the house, an' Seth White told mother, it was he give her the brandy himself; so you can make what you can of it.

"'I 'm her husband, an' she belongs ter me,' was all George would say, when we tried to make him give her up an' git a bill of divorce.

"Wal," said Cale sententiously, looking hard at the Doctor, "there 's two ways of lookin' at thet, but it took him some time ter see it; an'

it war n't till he 'd travelled fer four months, east, north, south, an' west as fur as the Rockies, thet he come home an' settled down to farmin' again; but it would n't work. He war n't the same man; lost his interest, an' was lettin' things go ter the dogs. He never took ter drink, thet I know of. But there war n't no use talking ter him.

He was his own master an' would n't be interfered with.

"It might have been nine months after he 'd come home, mebbe 't was a year, I don't remember, when he come to me one day with a telegram in his hand--it had come up on the stage--an' handed it to me with the face of a man ready ter face death or of a dead man jest come ter life, I could n't say which.

"'Read it,' says he, shakin' like a man in drink; 'I can't.' An' I read:

"'I am dyin' and alone among strangers; will you come to me fer the sake of my child.' There was an address thet made George groan, fer he 'd been all over thet great Babel of New York, an' knew jest the kind of place she was in.

"Wal, he went; an' three days afterwards he come home with the dead body of the woman, as was his wife an' yet was n't--jest accordin' as you look at it--an' a live child thet was hers an' not his 'n, whichever way you look at it.

"Sech things ain't nothin' new to you, I s'pose?" Cale turned to the Doctor.

"What became of the man?" said the Doctor, without answering his question. During this recital his eyes never left Cale's face.

"Dunno."

"You don't know! What do you mean by that, Cale?" said Jamie.

"I mean," he answered slowly, "thet George Jackson never did nothin' by halves. He come ter me one day--the day after the funeral--an' said he was goin' away. An' he did; sold out an' went away."

"Did the child live?" Doctor Rugvie's voice broke the silence somewhat sharply. I caught the flight of his thought; I am sure Jamie did also.

"Yes, lived ter be a blessing ter all she come nigh. She war n't more 'n three days old when he brought her home to Keziah. Happy was dead when he found her; more 'n thet he never told us. He left something for them with Lawyer Green--he told me he should do it. They lived on thet in part; it helped ter support 'em, fer they was in a tight place.

Thet was how Job's luck came at last, poor soul--little enough it was.

He kept on fer years, I heard, but was always weak-minded after he was told what had happened. They said he always used ter call the baby 'Happy', an' could n't bear her out of his sight. Then, when she was 'bout fourteen, he turned against her, an' kept thinkin' it was Happy herself; kept harpin' on her marriage to George, an' flingin' of what she 'd done inter her face, till the child could n't stand it no more.

She never knew the whole truth, they said, till she was fifteen; then somebody was willin' ter tell her"--Cale smiled grimly--"as _they_ see it, an' it 'bout finished what Job begun. I heard she never tasted a morsel of food for two days. The last I heard about her was, she was keepin' the district school. It's been most ten years now sence I heard anything; you don't often meet a man from our way up in Manitoba or the river basin of British Columbia, an' I never was no hand at writin'. Sometime I mean ter look her up. I ain't been able ter do fer her as I 'd ought ter, fer I had bad luck fer too many years--them pesky western wildcat banks cleaned me out twice."

"By what name was the child christened?" asked the Doctor.

"Never was christened thet I know of."

"Oh, Cale, if only they had been happier!" It was Jamie who spoke with almost a groan.

"Wal, thet's the mystery of it," was his quiet answer. Gathering his loose-jointed frame together, he rose. "Guess I 'll go an' look after the hosses; it's goin' ter be a skinner of a night." At the door he turned.

"I know I ain't told you nothin' livenin', but it's life, an' I could n't tell it no other way. It ain't jest the thing ter air fam'ly troubles, but it's all past; an' what I 've told, I 've told ter my friends, an' I 'll thank _you_ ter let what I 've said be 'twixt us four."

We sat in silence for a while after he had left the room. I was wondering how I could make excuse to get away from them all, get away by myself and have it out with myself, when Jamie broke the silence:

"Doctor Rugvie, I 've been putting two and two together. You know what you told us the last time you were here about that New York episode?

Do you suppose Cale's story is the key to that?"

"Possibly it might be, if those episodes were not of common occurrence--there are so many all the time."

"I know; but this fitted in almost every detail. I would n't ask him how long ago all this happened."

"Nor I," was the Doctor's reply, and his answer gave a glimpse of his thought. "I will when it comes right."

"Dear old Cale," I murmured. I felt it inc.u.mbent on me to say something, lest my unresponsiveness be noticed.

The Doctor rose and took a cigar from the box on the mantel, saying almost to himself: