A Cry in the Wilderness Part 58

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 a.s.s 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.

x.x.xI

The ordering of the house kept me busy the next forenoon, but after dinner I told Cale I was going over to Mere Guillardeau's to tell her about her brother.

"I may go as far as the village, Cale. Don't expect me till just before supper."

"All right."

I told but half of the truth. I determined to carry out a part of what I planned on that voyage down the Saguenay. If there were anything to learn from Mere Guillardeau, that would throw light on that "forest episode" connected with my mother, I wanted to know what it was.

I found the old woman alone, at her loom.

"Ah, mademoiselle, you are come to tell me of Andre, my brother? You are more than welcome. And how goes it with Andre and my nephew? Did he send me a pair of moccasins for my old feet, such as he sent by the seignior last year?"

She left her work and, still holding my hand, drew me to the little porch, where we sat down on a bench beneath a ma.s.s of wild cuc.u.mber vines.

I kept her hand in mine--that old hand, which for nearly one hundred years had wrought and toiled, dug, planted, watered, hoed, milked the cow, cut the wood, woven cloth and carpets, harvested her tobacco!

That prehensile thing which, in its youth, clasped the hand of her "mate" at the altar, cooked for him, sewed for him, piecing together the skins from the wilds, when he was at home from the trappers'

haunts; and, meanwhile, it had found time to rock the cradle for her seven children and sew the shrouds for six of them!

To me it was a marvellous thing--that hand!

I looked at it, while I was trying to find words to tell her of Andre.

It was thin to emaciation, misshapen from hard work--a frail mechanism, but still powerful because of the life-blood coursing within it. The dark blue veins were veritable bas-reliefs.

"Dear Mere Guillardeau, we have had such a lovely summer with Andre--dear old Andre, so young in heart."

"It was ever like that. Is he well, my brother?"

"I hope it may be well with him soon."

The old woman looked at me earnestly with her small deep-set eyes, faded with having looked so long on the sunshine and shadows of life.

"He is dead, my brother?"

"No, not yet. Mr. Ewart wanted me to tell you just as it is." I gave her the details.

She sat quietly, her hand still in mine. Into her faded eyes there crept a shadow of some memory.

"I have not seen him for many years, mademoiselle."

"Was that when he made his voyage to Chicago?"

"Yes. On his return he spent the winter with me. We had comfort together. We could talk of old times; we knew Canada when we were young--that was long ago." She sat quiet, thoughtful. Then she spoke again.

"You will tell me when the seignior sends word?"

"Oh, yes; at once."

"I will pray for him. I will have ma.s.ses said for his soul."

"Your grandfather was born in the seigniory of Lamoral, so Andre said."

"Yes; and my father, and I, and my brothers and sisters. My grandfather's seignior was French. Afterwards, the English seigniors had no love for the place. It is our seignior, the Canadian, who cares for it. He carries it on his heart--and us, too, mademoiselle. You know this land is mine now?"

"Yes; I am so glad for you. It should have been yours long ago."

"Yes, it is mine now for a little while; afterwards it will be my daughter's."

"Do you know the old manor well? Have you ever lived there?"

"Yes, I have lived at the manor house."

"When was that, mother?"

"Let me think.--It was ten years, counting by seedtime and harvest, before Andre spent that winter with me. It was a hard one; he helped me as a brother should. It was then he was shriven. I was in one of the pews in our church, waiting my turn. There were hundreds come for the shriving. The priest stood in the aisle, the great middle aisle, and all the time there were two kneeling besides him, one confessing, the other waiting his turn."

"Did they have no confessional?"

"We confessed in the aisle, mademoiselle, before all the world,--we all knew we were sinners,--and the crowd was so great. Andre, too, I saw by the side of the priest, whispering in his ear."

"Andre! What could his simple life show for sin?"

"He is human like the rest of us, mademoiselle."

She took her pipe from her pocket. It reminded me of Andre. I filled and lighted it for her, and placed it between her still strong teeth.