Chapter XIII Just in Time
The walk from Diomé’s log hut to Uncle Caleb’s farm was a long one, but the clear, bright sunshine of December had succeeded the pitiless sleet and blinding snow. Lake and river had hardened in the icy breath of the north wind. An iron frost held universal sway, as Wilfred and Maxica drew near to Acland’s Hut.
The tinkle of a distant sledge-bell arrested Maxica. Had some miscount in the day brought them face to face with the bridal party?
They turned away from the well-known gate, crept behind the farm buildings, and crossed the reedy pool to Forgill’s hut.
With the frozen snow full three feet deep beneath their feet there was roadway everywhere. Railings scarcely showed above it, and walls could be easily cleared with one long step. The door of the hut was fastened, but Wilfred waited behind it while Maxica stole round to reconnoitre.
He returned quickly. It was not the bridal party, for there was not a single squaw among them. They were travellers in a horse-sledge, stopping at the farm to rest. He urged Wilfred to seize the chance and enter with them. The presence of the strangers would be a protection. They took their way through the orchard trees, and came out boldly on the well-worn tracks before the gate. It excited no surprise in the occupants of the sledge to see two dusky figures in their long, pointed snow-shoes gliding swiftly after them; travellers like themselves, no doubt, hoping to find hospitality at the farm.
Yula and Kusky went bounding over the intervening space.
There were two travellers and a sledge-driver. The dogs considered them, and did not bark. Then Kusky, in frantic delight, endeavoured to leap into the sledge. It drew up. The driver thundered on the gate.
“What cheer?” shouted a voice from the sledge.
It was the usual traveller’s inquiry, but it thrilled through Wilfred’s ears, for it was—it could not be—yet it was the voice of Mr. De Brunier.
Kusky was already on Gaspé’s knee devouring him with his doggie caresses.
“Is it a dream, or is it real?” asked Wilfred, as with one long slide he overtook the sledge, and grasped a hand of each.
“I didn’t know you, coming after us in your seven-league boots,” laughed Gaspé, pointing to the long, oval frame of Wilfred’s snow-shoes, reaching a foot or more before and behind his boot.
But Wilfred did not answer, he was whispering rapidly to Mr. De Brunier.
“Wilfred, mon ami,” (my friend), pursued Gaspé, bent upon interrupting the low-voiced confidence, “it was for your sake grandfather decided to make his first inquiries for a farm in this neighbourhood. Batiste was so ambiguous and so loath to speak of your journey when he came after Louison’s post, we grew uneasy about you. All the more glad to find you safe at home.”
“At home, but not in home,” answered Wilfred, significantly laying his finger on his lips, to prevent any exclamation from his bewildered friend.
“All right,” said Mr. De Brunier. “We will enter together.”
Pête, who was already opening the gate, bade them heartily welcome. Hospitality in the lone North-West becomes a duty.
Wilfred dropped behind the sledge, slouched his fur cap well over his eyes, and let Maxica fold his blanket round him, Indian fashion.
Pête led the way into the kitchen, Wilfred followed behind the sledge-driver, and the Cree was the last to enter. A long row of joints were roasting before the ample fire, giving undoubted indications of an approaching feast.
“Just in time,” observed Mr. De Brunier with a smile, which gained a peculiar significance as it rested on Wilfred.
“Ay, and that you are,” returned old Pête; “for the missis is gone to be married, and I was on the look-out for her return when I heard the jingling of your sledge-bells. The house will be full enough by nightfall, I reckon.”
Wilfred undid the strap of his snow-shoes, gave them to Maxica, and walked softly to the door of his uncle’s room.
He opened it with a noiseless hand, and closed it behind him.
Mr. De Brunier’s retort about the welcome which awaited uninvited guests on a bridal night kept Pête from noticing his movements.
The logs crackled and the sparks flew on the kitchen hearth. The fat from the savoury roast fell hissing in the pan, and the hungry travellers around it seemed to have eyes for nothing else.
Wilfred crept to his uncle’s bed. He was asleep. The boy glanced round. He threw off his wraps. His first care was to find his uncle’s comb and brush. It was a luxury unknown since his departure from Hungry Hall. He was giving a good tug at his tangled locks, hoping to make himself look a little more like the schoolboy who had once before roused the old man from his sleep, when a cough and an exclamation sounding like, “Who is there?” told him his uncle was awake.
“O uncle, you surely have not forgotten me—me, your nephew, Wilfred! Got home at last. The pony threw me, and I was utterly lost. An Indian guided me here,” he answered, tumbling his words one upon another as fast as he could, for his heart was beating wildly.
Caleb Acland raised himself on one elbow and grasped Wilfred by the wrist. “It is he! It is flesh and blood!” he ejaculated. “The boy himself Pête! Pête!” He felt for the stick left leaning against his bed, and stamped it on the floor.
A great sob burst unawares from the poor boy’s lips.
“Don’t!” said the old man in alarm. “What are you crying for, lad? What’s happened? I don’t understand. Give me your hand! That’s cold enough—death cold. Pête! Pête! what are ye about? Have you grown deaf that you can’t hear me?”
He pulled Wilfred’s cold fingers under the blankets and tried to chafe them between his swollen hands.
“I’m not crying,” protested Wilfred, brushing his other hand across his eyes. “It is the ice melting out of me. I’m thawing all over. It is because I have got back uncle, and you are glad to have me. I should have been dead but for the Cree who brought me home. I was almost starving at times. I have wandered in the snow all night.”
“God bless the boy!” ejaculated the old man, thundering on the floor once more.
“Here, Pête! Pête! Something quick to eat.”
Pête’s head appeared at the door at last.
“Whatever do you want now, master?” he demanded in an injured tone. “I thought I had put everything ready for you, as handy as could be; and you said you wouldn’t call me off, with the bride expected every minute, and the supper to cook, as you know.”
“Cook away then,” returned his master impatiently. “It is the hour for the fatted calf. Oh, you’ve no eyes, none! Whom have I got here? Who is this?”
Pête backed to the door in wide-eyed wonder. “I’m struck of a heap!” he gasped, staring at Wilfred as if he thought he would melt away into vacancy.
“Where were you that you did not see him come in?” asked his master sharply.
“Where?” repeated Pête indignantly. “At your own gate, answering a party of travellers—men who’ve come down to buy land; and,” he added, changing his tone, “there is a gentleman among them says he must speak to you, master, your own self particular, this very night.”
“It is Mr. De Brunier, uncle. He took me in, and sent me to the hunters’ camp, where Mr. Bowkett was to be found,” interposed Wilfred.
This name was spoken with an effort. Like many a noble-minded boy, Wilfred hated to tell of another. He hesitated, then went on abruptly: “I thought he would be sure to bring me home. Well, I got there. He did not seem to know me. He was all for fiddling and dancing. They were a rough set, uncle, a very rough set. Father would not have liked to have seen me with such men. I got away again as quickly as I could. The Cree who had saved me before guided me home at last.”
“What is that? Did you say Bowkett, Hugh Bowkett?” repeated the old man. “Why, your aunt was married to him this morning.”
When Pête disappeared into his master’s room, Maxica, who had seated himself on the kitchen floor, rose suddenly, and leaning over Mr. De Brunier, asked, “Who in this place is friend to the boy without a father?”
“I can answer your question for myself, but no further, for I am a stranger here,” replied Mr. De Brunier.
“We are four,” said Maxica, counting on his fingers. “I hear the voice of the man at the gate—the man who spoke against the white boy with a forked tongue; the man who drove him out into the frosty night, that it might kill him. We have brought the marten to the trap. If it closes on him, Maxica stays to break it.”
“Come outside, where we can talk freely,” answered Mr. De Brunier, leading the way.
Gaspé and the sledge-driver were left to the enjoyment of the roaring fire. They were considering the state of Kusky’s feet. Gaspé was removing the icicles from his toes, and the man of the sledge was warmly recommending boots, and describing the way to make them, when the shouts at the gate told them the bridal party had arrived. The stupid Pête, as they began to think, had vanished, for no one answered the summons. Gaspé guessed the reason, and sent the man to open the gate. He silenced the dogs, and drew back into the corner, with instinctive good breeding, to make himself as little in the way as possible.
The great farm-house kitchen was entrance-hall as well. Every door opened into it. On one hand was the dining-room, reserved chiefly for state occasions; on the other, the storeroom. The family sleeping rooms were at the back. Like a provident housewife, Aunt Miriam had set the tables for her marriage feast, and filled the storeroom with good things, before she went to church. Pête, with a Frenchman’s genius for the spit, could manage the rest.
The arrival of one or two other guests at the same moment detained the bridal party with their noisy greetings.
When Aunt Miriam entered the kitchen, leaning on her bridegroom’s arm, Gaspé was almost asleep in his dim corner.
Out ran Pête, effervescing with congratulations, and crossing the heartiness of the bridal welcome with the startling exclamation, “The boy, Mrs. Bowkett!—the boy’s come home!”
The bridegroom looked sharply round. “The boy,” he repeated, seeing Gaspé by the fire. “There he is.”
Up sprang Gaspé, bowing to the bride with all the courtly grace of the chivalrous De Bruniers of Breton days.
Aunt Miriam turned her head away. “O Pête!” she groaned, “I thought—I thought you meant—”
Bowkett did not let her finish her sentence, he hurried her into the dining-room. Behind him came his bright-eyed sister, who had played the part of bridesmaid, and was eager for the dancing and the fun, so soon to commence. At her side walked Forgill in his Sunday best, all important with the responsibility of his position, acting as proxy for his old master. He had given the bride away, and was at that moment cogitating over some half-dozen sentences destined for the after-dinner speech which he knew would be required of him. They were restive, and would not follow each other. “Happy day” and “Best wishes” wanted setting up on stilts, with a few long words to back them, for such an occasion. He knew the Indian love of speechifying would be too strong in their hunter guests to let him off. He had got as far as, “Uncommonly happy day for us all.” But “uncommonly” sounded far too common in his critical ears. He was searching for a finer-sounding word, and thought he had got it in “preternaturally,” when he heard the feeble voice of his master calling out, “Miriam! Here, Miriam.”
“Are they all deaf?” said Caleb Acland to Wilfred. “Open the door, my lad, and show yourself to your aunt.”
Slowly and reluctantly Wilfred obeyed him. He held it open just a hand-breadth, and met the scowling brow of the owner of the forked tongue.
There was mutual recognition in the glance exchanged.
Wilfred shut the door softly, and drew the bolt without attracting his uncle’s attention.
“The place is full of strangers,” he said; “I shall see auntie soon. I’d rather wait here with you. I shall be sure to see her before she goes to her new home.”
“As you like, my boy;—that Pête’s a cow. There is no going away to a new home. It is bringing in a new master here before the old one is gone, so that your aunt should not be left unprotected a single day.”
As Caleb Acland spoke, Wilfred felt himself growing hard and desperate in the cold clutch of a giant despair. The star of hope dropped from his sky. He saw himself in the hand of the man who had turned him from his door into the killing frost.
It was too late to speak out; Bowkett would be sure to deny it, and hate him the more. No, not a word to Uncle Caleb until he had taken counsel with Mr. De Brunier. But in his hasty glance into the outer world Mr. De Brunier was nowhere to be seen.
Wilfred was sure he would not go away without seeing him again. There was nothing for it but to gain a little time, wait with his uncle until the wedding guests were shut in the dining-room, and then go out and find Mr. De Brunier, unless Aunt Miriam had invited him to sit down with them. Yes, she was sure to do that, and Gaspé would be with his grandfather. But Maxica was there. He had saved him twice. He knew what Maxica would say: “To the free wild forest, and learn the use of the trap and the bow with me.”
Wilfred was sorely tempted to run away. The recollection of Mr. De Brunier’s old-world stories restrained him. He thought of the Breton emigrants. “What did they do in their despair? What all men can do, their duty.” He kept on saying these words over and over, asking himself, “What is my duty? Have I no duty to the helpless old man who has welcomed me so kindly? How will Bowkett behave to him?” Wilfred felt much stronger to battle through with the hunter on his uncle’s behalf, than when he thought only of himself. “The brave and loyal die at their posts. Gaspé would, rather than run away—rather than do anything that looked like running away.”
“What is the matter with you, Wilfred?” asked his uncle anxiously. “What makes you stand like that, my boy?”
“I am so tired,” answered Wilfred, “I have walked all day to-day, and all day yesterday. If I take the cushion out of your chair for a pillow, I might lie down before the stove, uncle.”
“That Pête is an ass not to bring something to eat, as if he could not make those fellows in the dining-room wait half-a-minute. But stop, there is some broth keeping hot on the stove. Take that, and come and lie down on the bed by me; then I can see you and feel you, and know I have got you again,” answered Uncle Caleb, as if he had some presentiment of what was passing in Wilfred’s mind.
Glad enough to obey, Wilfred drank the broth eagerly, and came to the bed. The old man took him by both hands and gazed in his face, murmuring, “Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace.”
The peace that Uncle Caleb rejoiced in was his own alone; all around him strife was brewing. But his peace was of that kind which circumstances cannot give or take away.
“Kneel down beside me just one minute, my boy,” he went on. “We must not be like the nine lepers, who forgot the thanks when the good had come. They wouldn’t even with the tailors, for in the whole nine put together there was not one bit of a true man, or they could not have done it.”
Wilfred fell on his knees and repeated softly the Christ-taught prayer of the ages, “Our Father who art in heaven.” He remembered how he had been fed from the wild bird’s cache, and saved by the wild man’s pity, and his heart was swelling. But when he came to “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us,” he stopped abruptly.
“Go on,” whispered the old man softly.
“I can’t,” muttered Wilfred. “It isn’t in my heart; I daren’t go on. It is speaking with a forked tongue: words one way, thoughts another; telling lies to God.”
Caleb Acland looked at him as if he were slowly grasping the position.
“Is it Bowkett that you can’t forgive?” he asked gently. “Did you think he need not have lost you? Did you think he would not know you, my poor boy?”
“Have I got to live with him always?” returned Wilfred.
“No, not if you don’t like him. I’ll send you back to school,” answered his uncle in a tone of decision.
“Do you mean it, uncle? Do you really say that I shall go back to school?” exclaimed the boy, his heavy heart’s lead beginning to melt, as the way of escape opened so unexpectedly before him.
“It is a promise,” repeated the old man soothingly. It was obvious now there was something wrong, which the boy refused to explain.
“Patience a bit,” he thought; “I can’t distress him. It will leak out soon; but it is growing strange that nobody comes near us.”