The Peace of Roaring River Part 22

She did not realize yet that in her soul a new longing had come, that would not be denied.

She returned slowly to the shack where Hugo sat in an armchair brought all the way from Carcajou on Stefan's sled. His arm was still in a sling. It was fortunate that it was the left one, for he was very busily engaged in writing.

The girl waited for some time, leaning against the doorpost and watching some chipping sparrows that had recently arrived and were thinking hard about nest-building in the neighboring bushes.

The weeds and gra.s.ses and wild flowers were beginning to peep out of the ground, with the haste that is peculiar to northern lands where life is strenuous during the few months of warm fair weather. The tender hues of the burgeoning birches and poplars, streaked with the gleaming silver of their trunks, were casting soft notes upon the strong greens of the conifers and the indigo of their shadows. In the spray of the falls, to her left, a tiny rainbow seemed to dance, and the loud song of the rushing waters was like the call of some great loving voice. She reflected that she would have to go again to a place in which many people lived. It would not be like a city. The same trees and the same waters and the same flowers would be there, very close at hand. Not a single house ab.u.t.ted against another. In the gardens there would be old-fashioned flowers such as she had been familiar with at home, before she had sought the town. Dr. Starr had described it all. Ten minutes' walk would take one beyond the habitations of men, into woodlands and fields and by a lake that extended into a far wilderness, upon which one could drive a canoe and feel as if one owned a great and beautiful world, for men were seldom on it and above the surface it was peopled chiefly by great diving birds and broods of ducklings. It all sounded, and doubtless was, perfectly ideal.

But presently Hugo had finished his writing and was leaning back in his chair.

"Do you think you would like some of those nice fresh eggs Mrs.

Papineau's little girl brought this morning?" she asked him. "And would you like me to close the door now?"

"Thanks, Miss Nelson," he said, "I'm sure I should enjoy them ever so much. They're a rather scarce commodity with us. Too many weasels and skunks and other chicken-eaters to make it a healthy country for hens.

As to the door I'll be glad to have you close it if you feel cold. But it's delightful for me to be sitting here all wrapped up in blankets and taking in big lungfuls of our forest air. It--it makes a fellow feel like a two-year-old."

She was about to break the eggs into a pan when she noticed the letter lying on the table.

"Would you like me to get you an envelope, for it?" she asked.

"If you'll be so kind," he a.s.sented, gravely.

She would have offered to put the paper in the envelope for him also, but he managed it easily enough and closed the flap.

"That's done," he said. "I wonder what will come of it?"

To this she could not reply, so she prepared the eggs and brought them to him, with his tea and toast.

"They're going to be ever so good," he said, taking up a fork, after which he stared out of the still-opened door.

"If you don't eat them now, they'll be cold in a minute," she warned him.

"Oh, I'd forgotten! I must beg your pardon since you took so much trouble about them."

He ate them slowly, as if performing some hard and solemn task. When he had finished his meal, Madge cleared the table.

"Is there anything else you would like?" she asked. "One of your books?"

"No, I--I don't think I want to read, just now. I--I am feeling rather--rather disturbed for the moment."

"What's the matter?" she inquired, solicitously.

"It's this--this habit I've gotten into," he said, "of having a--a nurse at my side. It seems very strange that she will soon be gone.

I've learnt to depend so much on.... And Stefan is coming to take you away to Carcajou--and then over there to Dr. Starr's. Then I believe I'm to go and stay with the Papineaus, till I can handle a frying-pan and an axe. The--the prospect is a dismal one."

She took a little step towards him but he had bent over the letter and was directing it. When this was done he stared at it for a moment and, unsteadily, handed it to the girl, with the writing down.

"I--I would like you to deliver this for me," he told her. "It is ever so important and--and our post-office isn't very reliable, I'm afraid.

But I know I can trust you."

She looked at him in surprise and then she looked at the envelope. To her intense amazement she read:

Miss Madge Nelson,

Roaring River.

"What does this mean?" she asked, bewildered.

"I--I'm afraid you will have to read it to find out," he answered.

She opened the door and rushed out. One fear was in her heart. She dreaded to find money in it. How dared he offer to pay for what she had done? She would lay the envelope on the table, with its contents, and quietly say--well, what could she say?

With the thing in her hand she walked down the path to the edge of the falls, where she sat down on an old big trunk of birch fallen many years ago and partly covered with moss. For one or two long minutes she held it in her lap, gazing at the rushing waters without seeing them. A strange fluttering was at her heart, a curious trepidation that was akin to intense fear caused her neck to throb, but her face was very pale. Finally, with a swift gesture, she tore the envelope open and read:

MY GOOD LITTLE NURSE:

Those other letters were not from me but this one is: you saw me write it. It carries a thousand thanks for your kindness and devotion to your helpless patient. During those dreadfully long hours your presence was a blessing; it could soothe away the pain and bring hope and comfort. In a couple of weeks more I shall be as strong as ever, but I know that without you Roaring River will never be the same. You came here bravely, ready to marry a decent man who would help you bear the burdens of this world, which had proved too heavy for you. Of course the man must be honest and worthy of your trust. After all that you underwent from the first moment of your being left alone on the tote-road I cannot wonder at your desire to go away. But I feel that without you I could never have pulled through and that by this time the prospect of a life spent without you is unbearable.

I am not begging you humbly for your love. I don't want to owe it to your pity for the man who was so ill, to the deep charity and the kindness of a sweet and unselfish nature. That is why I couldn't speak out my longing for you and the love that fills my heart, lest I might surprise you into a hasty consent. I could not have restrained my emotion and I know I would have begged and implored--and that might have made it very hard and painful for you to refuse.

Please return to me after you have read and thought this over. If we are to remain but friends you will extend one hand to me and I shall know what it means. I daresay I shall survive that hurt as I survived the other. Have no fear for me.

But if you feel in your heart that you can give me all I long for, that you are willing to become my wife, then stretch both of those little hands to me, since it will take the two to carry such a precious gift.

Your hopeful and grateful patient, HUGO.

After she had finished she tried to read the paper again, but it was too hard to see. For a moment she stared at the Roaring Falls through the misty veil of their spray. Thrusting the letter into her bosom she found her feet, suddenly, and ran to the little shack. Hugo had risen and was standing in the doorway, his heart beating fast and his face very pale. As Madge came near she uplifted both hands, but she could hardly see him. Once more her eyes were suffused with tears, but it was as if the glory of a wondrous sunlit world had been too strong for them. She was smiling happily, however, when he took both little hands into his right.

"I--I hurried back," she panted. "Neither--neither did I feel that--that I could live without you--without this wonderful peace of beautiful Roaring River, and--and the love that it has brought to me!"

A few moments later they heard Big Stefan's familiar shout from the tote-road. The toboggan could no longer be used and he had driven over a s.h.a.ggy old horse that had pulled a reliable buckboard.

"Dot's yoost great!" he roared, as he saw Hugo standing outside the shack. "I tank I'm more pleased as if I find a dozen goldmines, you bet! De leetle leddy she safe you all right--all right. But now I take her avay to Meester Doctor Starr, like he telt me to. De doctor he gif me a bit letter for you, ma'am. I find it soon."

Two letters on a single day was heavy mail for Roaring River. Madge tore the last one open and read:

My Dear Miss Nelson:

Stefan has promised to bring you to us to-morrow. I want you to come, for my wife and the kiddies are awaiting you. From my latest study of conditions at Roaring River I have gathered that you may not stay with us as long as I had first hoped, but at any rate it will be long enough to do a little fixing and arranging of feminine garments. My instinct tells me that your visit to us will be short since our patient, if you tarry too long, may come and steal you away. He will have to come anyway for, just as I'm the nearest doctor to you, so my friend Jamieson is the nearest parson.

With every best wish, Very sincerely yours, DAVID STARR.

Madge handed the letter over to Hugo who quickly looked it over.

"Wonderful fellow is Starr," he declared.

Stefan took his friend Hugo up in his arms, in spite of protests on the latter's part that he wanted to try to walk. The young man was a light load, indeed, at this time. He was placed on the seat of the buckboard and, with Stefan carefully leading the horse and Madge walking alongside, was taken up to Papineau's.

The woodlands were very different now, thought the girl. When she had arrived the great land was plunged in slumber under its mantle of snow. The few birds there were at the time were voiceless, like the partridges that only find a peep when fluffy broods follow them, or some of the larger fowl which only hoot or shriek. The sound-calls of the wilderness had been those of struggling waters, of cracking trees, of snow-ma.s.ses violently displaced. But now birds were in full song everywhere, carrying trifles of stick and floss and gra.s.s wherewith to build their nests. Formerly there had been the uneasy groans and sighs of a gigantic restless sleeper. Now there was the chant of a heart-free nature engaged again in vigorous toil, in wresting the recurrent glory of surging life and hope from the powers of darkness and bitter, benumbing cold. It was a resurrection!