The Peace of Roaring River Part 19

"I tank mebbe I doze for a moment," he informed them. "How is Hugo gettin' long?"

"For the present he looks to me somewhat better," answered the doctor.

"There doesn't seem to be any immediate danger, and I'll have to start back in a few minutes. We've had a cup of tea, but you'd better make some breakfast ready."

Stefan bestirred himself and presently a potful of rolled oats was being stirred carefully for fear of burning, and bacon was sputtering in the pan. The kettle was singing again and Madge was cutting slices from a loaf left by Mrs. Papineau. The three sat down to the table and ate hungrily, abundantly, as people have to who make stern demands upon their vitality.

The doctor made a few more remarks about the treatment of his patient.

He had carefully laid on the table the little tablets of medicine, the bottle containing an antiseptic, the cotton and gauze that must be used to renew the dressing. Then he went out, breathing deeply of the sharp and aromatic air, and a moment later he and Stefan were gone, the latter promising to return at once, with a few needed supplies from the store. Madge was alone now with Hugo, who was again sleeping quietly. She read over the doctor's directions carefully while she stood by the little window, as the lamp had been extinguished.

A few minutes later she decided to place the paper in the little desk again, for safe-keeping. Without the slightest curiosity her eyes fell again upon some of the writing on loose sheets. But presently she was staring at it hard as a strong conviction made its way into her brain.

After this she went to the other shelf where some books had been placed and opened one of them, and then another. On the flyleaf was written, in bold characters, "Hugo Ennis." The writing was exactly the same as that which appeared on the scattered leaves, for she compared them carefully.

"There can be no doubt--he never wrote those letters," she decided.

"But--but I knew very well he couldn't have written them. It--it isn't like him."

The idea came again that he could have obtained some one to write for him, but it was immediately cast aside. The man would not engage in dirty work himself--far less would he get others to do it for him.

She--she had abused and insulted him--called him a liar, as far as she could remember, and again her face felt hot and burning.

Once more she sat down by the bunk, after she had given Maigan a big feed of oats, with a small remnant of the bacon grease. She felt humbled now, as if her accusations const.i.tuted some unforgivable, despicable sin. This man had never intended to do her the slightest harm. He really never knew that she was coming. And through her stupid clumsiness his life was now ebbing. The doctor's long words sounded dreadfully in her ears: general sepsis, blood poisoning, a system overwhelmed by the toxines of virulent microbes; they reverberated in her ears like so many sentences of death. Was there any hope that this outflowing life would ever turn in its course and return like an incoming tide? Would she again see him able to lift up his head, to speak in words no longer dictated by the vagaries of delirium? She would give anything to be able to ask his pardon humbly after his mind cleared again. Oh, it was unthinkable that he should die, that the end might be coming soon, and that she must go forth with that unspeakable load of misery in her heart.

Maigan restlessly kept on coming to her and placing his head in her lap, as if seeking comfort. Once she bent over and put her cheek against his jaw and furry ear. He was a companion in misery.

When she lifted up her head again to stare once more at the sufferer, with eyes heavily ringed with black, he slowly opened his own and looked at her vaguely, for at first there was not the slightest sign of recognition in them. Presently, however, the girl saw something that looked like a faint smile.

"How--how long have I been asleep?" he asked, weakly. "And have--have you been here all the time?"

She nodded, conscious that her heart was now beating with excitement, and his eyes closed again. But his hand had sought the one she had laid on the blanket and rested on it, for a few moments. It was the ever-recurring call of the man for the comfort of a woman's touch, for the protection his strength gathers from her weakness.

"You--you're ever so good and kind," he said again, in a low hoa.r.s.e voice, after which he kept still again, for the longest time.

In spite of the gray pall of clouds over the sky and the complaining of the gale-swept tops of the great trees, in spite of the vast dull roar of the great falls, that had seemed a dirge, a ray of cheer had entered the little shack. It had seemed to her like such a paltry and mean excuse for a dwelling, when she had first seen it, and had been so thoroughly in keeping with the sordid nature she had at once attributed to this man whom she believed to have brought her there with amazing lies. But now, in some way, it had become a link, and the only one, that still attached her a little to the world. It appeared to her like the one place where she had been able to obtain a little rest from her miserable thoughts. Indeed, it had now become infinitely desirable. If the man could have stood up again and greeted her it would have become a haven of unspeakable comfort, since she would realize that for once her efforts had not been in vain, and that she had helped bring him back to life. But of course she knew that she must leave it soon, that whether he died or recovered, the only trail she could follow would be one that would lead to the banks of the Roaring River, where the big air holes were. And yet, so strongly is hope implanted in the human heart, this termination of her adventure seemed to have receded into a dimmer future, like the knowledge which we have that some day all must die but which we consider pertains only to some vague and distant period that we shall not reach for a long time.

Hugo was sleeping quietly now and the girl's hand upon his pulse detected a feeble and swift flowing of the blood-current which, in spite of its weakness, was an improvement. But the great thing was that another day had come and he was still living, and his breathing came quietly. If--if she had loved the man, she never would have been able to go through all this without a breaking down of her little strength. As Stefan had said, and as Mrs. Papineau had also intimated, it was fortunate for her that she did not love him. Indeed, it was ever so much better. She was glad indeed that he had recognized and praised her, and then his voice had never expressed the slightest sign of reproach. She was happy that he had found comfort in her presence beside his couch and--and had been able to smile at her.

Madge opened the door to let Maigan out. The air was full of feathery ma.s.ses of snow blown from treetops. Sheltered as she was from the wind, the cold was no longer so penetrating. In the east the gray was tinted through the agency of long rifts in which dull shades of red broke through and were reflected even upon the white at her feet. It was not a cheery world just then, since the sun did not shine and the great fronds of evergreens loomed very dark, but the vastness of the wooded valley sloping down beneath her and stretching beyond the limits of her vision impressed her with a sense of greatness and of power. It was a tremendously big, strong and inexorable world, in which was being fought the unending and apparently unjust battle of the mighty against the weak, of the wolves and lynxes against the deer and hares, of a myriad furred and sharp-fanged things against the feebler and defenseless things of the forest. But also it was a world capable of bringing forth majestic things; able and willing to reward toil; in which, despite all of nature's unceasing cruelty, there could reign happiness and the accomplishment of a heart's desire.

All this was not clearly shaped in Madge's mind. She was merely undergoing a vague and potent influence that penetrated her very soul.

She closed the door again very softly, and when she sat again it was with a strange feeling of contentment, or at any rate a surcease of bitter thoughts, which affected her gently, like the heat of the little stove.

Maigan soon scratched at the door again, and through the frosted gla.s.s Madge saw Mrs. Papineau approaching. She was looking rather tired and dismal. It was evident, from her panting, that she had hurried, but now she was coming very slowly, as if afraid to hear bad news. But when she finally came in and looked at Hugo, her fat face took on some of its wonted cheerfulness.

"Heem no look so bad now," she a.s.serted. "Who know? Mebbe get all right again, eh? What Docteur Starr heem say before he go?"

Madge was compelled to give her a long account of how the night had pa.s.sed and to describe every move and relate every word of the doctor.

"Dat's good," approved Mrs. Papineau. "Now you go to our 'ouse an' get to bed an' 'ave sleep. If de children make noise tell 'em I slap 'em plenty ven I get back, sure. You need bad for to sleep--h'eyes look tired an' red."

She explained that Papineau had been obliged to go off after some traps that were not very far away, and would return by midday. She insisted upon the need of Madge to impress the children with the virtues of silence. They had already been informed that if they did not keep still when the lady returned they would be given to the _loup-garou_ and other mythical and traditional terrors of _habitant_ childhood.

"Me stay 'ere all day. Den you come back an' stay de night, if you lak'. You tell me vat I do."

The good lady found her endeavors useless, however. Hadn't the doctor said that incessant care might perhaps, with luck, bring about a recovery? And Hugo had been better--he had spoken--he might speak again and want something she might get him. Moreover, the dressing was to be changed very soon and the drainage tubes were to be flushed out once in so often with the solution the doctor had left. To have gone away then would have been desertion; she never entertained the thought for an instant.

Hence she attended to these things, in the presence of Mrs. Papineau, who looked quite awed at the proceedings. Generally the man seemed quite unconscious of what she did, and there was little complaint from him; just a few moans and perhaps a slight drawing away when she hurt him slightly in spite of her gentle handling. Finally Madge consented to rest a little, providing she was not forced to leave the shack. In the absence of other accommodation Mrs. Papineau had spread a heavy blanket on the floor, with odds and ends of spare clothing. It was only after the good woman had solemnly promised to awaken her in case there was the slightest need that the girl at last lay down, feeling dead tired but without the slightest desire to sleep, as she thought.

But it did not take a very long time before her eyes closed and she was deep in slumber that was heavy and dreamless. Maigan came and curled up beside her. He thoroughly approved of her.

It was only after midday that she awoke, startled, as if conscious of having been remiss in her duty, and raised herself quickly to a sitting posture.

"Is--is everything all right?" she asked, anxiously.

Upon being rea.s.sured she tried to lie down again, at Mrs. Papineau's urging, but sleep refused to come. Indeed, she felt greatly rested.

And then she began to feel very hungry and had a meal of bread and tea, with a few dried prunes. It was not a very fine repast, but Madge was amazed to see what a lot she could eat. When she rose from the table she felt conscious that in some way she had gained strength, in spite of her weariness. After this she renewed the dressings again, taking the greatest pains with them. It was getting dark when Mrs.

Papineau left her, utterly indifferent to the howling of wolves on the distant ridges. She had offered to remain but Madge knew that her presence was needed at home, owing to the little ones. Moreover, the girl was getting accustomed to her weird surroundings.

In the faithful Maigan there was a protector. Besides, she still counted among the living; she was engaged in work that called for and brought out all her womanhood. In spite of her fears for the man the longing for his recovery was becoming mingled with a vague confidence, with the idea of a possibility that something might happen that would gradually develop in some sort of promise for a future that would not be all sorrow and toil. It was perhaps simply a temporary forgetfulness of self when confronted with what was a greater and stronger interest. The girl Madge had become less important when compared to the dying man. She was merely an instrument wherewith destiny helped to shape certain indefinite ends. Her own turn had not yet come, and her personality was submerged in a simple acquiescence in plans and decrees she could not understand.

It appeared that the dreariness of the long hours had lessened. The imminent threat of the day before was no longer so vivid and racking, for the man kept on breathing with fair ease, and his pulse was perhaps a little stronger. She was wondering why Stefan had not returned as he had promised, when the now familiar sound of dogs and sled fell again on her ears. To her joy and surprise she found that it was the doctor, returning with the Swede.

"Managed to get away after all," explained the former. "It's the devil's own thing to think there's a chap somewhere that a fellow might perhaps help, and then be obliged to let him go because others are calling for you. Women are desperately fond of asking their husbands if they would save them or their mothers first, in case of need. It's the deuce and all of a question to answer. But we fellows who practice on the edge of the wilderness are all the time confronted by beastly questions of that sort. How is he?"

"I really think he's better," she hastened to inform him, and described how the sick man had spoken and been quite lucid for some moments. Dr. Starr went in and stopped at the side of the bunk, looking down with his chin resting on his hand.

To Madge he had seemed to be a man of few words, rather stern in his manner and apt, as she thought, to view humanity from a very materialistic point of view. His recent speech was the longest she had heard from him. In a somewhat cynical vein he had referred to some hard problems the lone pract.i.tioner has to solve at times.

"At any rate, he seems to be holding his own," he finally admitted. "I can't see that he is a bit worse. It seems to me that you're a pretty capable nurse. Some brains and lots of good strong will."

He looked away from her as he talked and began to rub his hands together.

"Tell you what," he said, turning again to her. "This night might be the decisive one, and I think I'll stick it out here again. I'll catch the freight back in the morning, as I did to-day. We'll have a look at the wound now, and see how those drains are working. Did you follow my orders? But I think I needn't ask. Put more water on the stove, Stefan."

Madge had been holding the lamp for him, and when the doctor pa.s.sed his hand over Hugo's forehead the eyes opened and the man blinked.

Also there seemed to be a relaxing of the tense, hollow-cheeked face.

"She--she's saving my life," he whispered, hoa.r.s.ely. "She's tireless and--and kindness itself. Don't--don't let her get played out."

He put out a brown hand that had rapidly become very thin and touched the girl's arm, after which he lay back, exhausted by his slight effort. The doctor went to work again, baring the wound, injecting fluids, adjusting the drains, and as he busied himself he always found the girl at his side, with all that he needed ready at his hand.

"That'll do for a while," he finally said. "The drainage is good. He isn't absorbing much poison now, that's sure. If we can keep up his strength he's going to pull through, I hope. Get us a bite of supper, Stefan, I'm as hungry as a bear."

[Ill.u.s.tration: He put out a brown hand and touched the girl's arm]

During the night the doctor dozed off again, at times, like a man well versed in conserving his energy. But whenever he awoke he found Madge wide awake, intently observing the patient or busy with something for his comfort. The sky had cleared again and the great trunks were again cracking in the frost of the bright and starlit night. Dr. Starr had been staring for some moments at the girl. He shivered a little and drew his stool nearer the stove. Stefan was again snoring on the floor.

"Come over here," he told Madge in a low voice, "bring your seat with you. I want to get something off my mind."

"You needn't answer if you don't wish to," he told her, "but--but there's something rather tragic about that little face of yours. I don't think it's idle curiosity, but I'd like to know. I might as well confess that I've been questioning that fellow Stefan about you, but the sum of his knowledge is best represented by zero. I can a.s.sure you that I don't want to intrude and that I won't be a bit offended if you tell me it's none of my business."

"What do you want to know?" asked Madge, rather frightened, although she did not know why.