A Cry in the Wilderness Part 57

"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 G.o.d, 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.

x.x.x

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 grat.i.tude 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 circ.u.mstances against my love--my love for Gordon Ewart, that was so true, so pure; pure in its depths of pa.s.sion, 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 circ.u.mstances."

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 circ.u.mstances, 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.