A Cry in the Wilderness Part 62

He put out his hand. "Marcia, I can't defend myself; all you say is true--but I think you will come to see different, sometime. We 're all human an' liable to make mistakes, big ones, an' I can't see as you 're an exception."

The simple dignity of this speech impressed me even in those circ.u.mstances. I put my hand in his.

"'Sometime', Cale? It has always been 'sometime' with me. It is going to be 'never again' now; no more mistakes on my part."

"You _will_ write me a word--sometime, won't you, Marcia?"

"I won't promise, Cale. I want to be alone. After all, I am only going away from here as I came--to find work and a livelihood. Goodby."

I think he understood. He did not bid me goodby, but went away down the platform, walking slowly, stooping a little, his head drooping, as if all courage had failed him. And my heart was hardened.

x.x.xIII

I watched him and little Pete drive away down the highroad; watched them out of sight. Then I sat down on the bench outside the waiting-room to think, "What next?"

I had no intention of going to Spencerville. My trunk would be safe there with the address of a neighbor of my aunt. What I most wanted was to be alone and time to think, time to regain strength for the struggle before me.

I don't know that for ten minutes I thought at all. I suppose I must have, for I remembered that at this hour Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were to sail; that the Doctor was on his way to San Francisco. That Cale could do nothing by telegraphing them. And what would he telegraph?

The ticket-agent and baggage-master locked the office door and came over to me.

"I 'm going up the road a piece; the train is twenty minutes late. You won't mind sitting here alone?"

"Oh, no. It is a lovely evening."

"No frost to-night." He went off on the highroad in the opposite direction from Richelieu-en-Bas.

The evening promised to be fine; the sun set clear in the sky.

Somewhere in the distance, I heard a night hawk's harsh cry.

The dusk fell; still I sat there, not thinking much of anything. I had my hand-bag with me and my warm coat. I opened my bag and took out an apple; I had eaten nothing since breakfast and felt faint. The apple was an Astrachan. I found myself calculating what it cost--this one apple. I must begin to count the cost again of every morsel, although I had all my wages with me. But ten weeks of sickness--and where would they be!

I put my teeth into the apple-- A thought: the apple-boat--it was to leave soon--the week was up!

I rose from the bench, not stopping to take a second bite; took my hand-bag; threw my coat over my shoulder, and started down the road to Richelieu-en-Bas.

It was rapidly growing dark. One mile, two miles, three miles--the night was there to cover me. I was thankful. Five miles, six miles--I was entering the long street of the village. The lindens and elms made the road black. I strained my eyes to see the lights. That from the cabaret was the first--then a green one above the water, several feet it looked to be. It must be the apple-boat!

It was just the time in the evening when the men flock to the cabaret.

As I drew near it, I heard the sound of the graphophone. I listened, not stopping in my walk.

"_O Canada, pays de mon amour!_"

I stopped then; and it seemed as if my heart stopped at the same time.

Oh, it had been "_Canada, land of my love_" in the deepest sense--and now!

I went on to the boat; crossed the trestle. At the sound of my footstep on the deck, the woman put her head up the companionway.

"Who 's there?"

"Some one who wishes to speak with you alone; I was here the other day."

"I know your voice, but I don't know your name. You can talk; my husband is, at present, yonder in the cabaret; he will be in by half-past ten. We sail to-night if the wind holds good."

"To-night?"

"Yes; and what is that to you?" she asked suspiciously.

"May I come into the cabin?"

"But, yes. Come."

I sat down on the stool she placed for me. I was tired with the long walk.

"I have been called away from here, where I have been at service--"

"You--at service?" she asked in surprise.

"Yes; and I am going away to find another place. Will you take me with you in the boat? May I go with you to your home, wherever it is?"

She looked at me suspiciously. "I don't know--my husband--"

"I will pay you well, whatever you ask--"

"It is n't that,"--she hesitated,--"but I don't know who you are."

"I am myself," I said wearily; "I am tired of my place, and they don't want me to leave. I want to go--I am too tired to stay--"

"Too hard, was it?"

"Everything was too hard. I come from Spencerville, just over the line; you know it?"

"Oh, yes. My cousin settled there when the new tannery was built last year."

"All my family lived there. I am now alone in the world. I have sent my trunk on--but I want a complete rest before I go out to service again. I thought I could get it with you. I don't want to let the family know I have gone. The family are all away at present."

"Where have you been at work?"

"At the old manor of Lamoral, three miles away."

"I have heard of it; they bought ten barrels of apples last year." She seemed to be thinking over some matter foreign to me, at that moment.

"Won't you take me? I am so tired."