CHAPTER XXIII THE HAVEN
Slowly Madeline opened her eyes, and looked wearily around. The swirl of raging water still sounded in her ears. Dimly she saw two forms standing by the bed, and then oblivion. When she again awoke the morning was well advanced. Her sleep had been deep, and she felt much refreshed. But how pleasant it was to be there in that quiet room! Her mind went back with a rush to the terrible experience in the rapids. She remembered standing for an instant in the reeling canoe, calling for help, ere she had taken that mad plunge into the icy water. How had she been rescued? Who had dared to snatch her from that horrible place, and what was she doing here in this room? Where was Donnie? She recalled his pathetic figure standing upon the shore, holding out to her his little pleading hands. What had become of the boy? And the Indian woman, Nadu, where was she? A sense of fear smote her heart as she saw again that sinister dusky face, and those cruel, glaring eyes. She was her bitter enemy, she realised that now. In what way had she offended the Indian woman? Why had she tried to destroy her? And she had been saved from the rapids! Who had done it? She must know. She must find out. Perhaps the Indians did it. But why was she lying in this quiet room? Her bed was a small cot placed against the wall. The coverings were only dark blankets, but they seemed perfectly clean.
The room was simply furnished; a large bear skin on the rough floor, a rude table close to the window, littered with papers, and a small bench near by. Her eyes rested upon a few books on a shelf upon the wall. The owner of the place, she thought, must do some reading. Several pictures tacked to the roughly hewn logs attracted her attention. Some were evidently taken from magazines, while others were crayon drawings, and a few were done in water colours by no mean hand. One of the latter aroused her interest. It was that of a young Indian woman, with bright eyes, with a gentle smile upon her lips, and her black hair, parted in the middle, was combed smoothly back. The expression upon her face exhibited confidence and sweet peace. As Madeline studied this picture something told her that she had seen that face before, and she started as Nadu flashed into her mind. Why had she thought of her? she wondered. What connection had such a creature with that fair vision before her? In those clear, trusting eyes there was no resemblance to the fiery orbs of jealousy upon which she had recently gazed, and those slightly parted lips had no suggestion of the cruel smile of hatred. No, it could not be. The two faces were so different. It must be her own fancy which was deceiving her. And yet, why did she think of Nadu when looking at the picture?
Her musing was interrupted by a light step on the right. Turning her head she saw a middle-aged Indian entering, and in her hands a small wooden tray upon which were several dishes. This she placed upon the table, and then came to the bedside. Her lips parted in a pleased smile as she gazed down upon the white face enwreathed with loose tresses of dark-brown hair. To Madeline it was pleasant to look into those kindly eyes, and to feel that she was among friends. With this clean and neatly dressed native near she knew that she had no cause to fear.
"I am so glad to see you," she faintly murmured. "Will you tell me how I came here?"
But the Indian woman only smiled, and crossing the room brought over the tray and placed it upon the edge of the bed.
"Soup," she said. "Eat. Good."
Rising on her elbow Madeline dipped the spoon into the dish and tasted the broth. It was certainly pleasant after the horrible stuff which had been tossed before her on that dreadful journey. Seeing that her patient was doing justice to the food she had brought, the Indian woman again smiled and left the room.
A few minutes later the long-bearded, white-haired man entered. His tall commanding figure was drawn to its full height, and to Madeline he seemed like a veritable giant. Sad grey eyes, somewhat faded, gazed into hers from beneath beetling brows. Little did Madeline know that those same eyes had for forty years faced death unflinchingly many a time in the far Northland. Swiftly the visitor crossed the room and stood by her side.
"I am so glad you are better."
It was a soft, low voice which spoke, accompanied by a slight accent of embarrassment. The speaker did not appear to be perfectly at ease, and this Madeline noted.
"I am feeling stronger now," she replied, holding out to him a firm white hand. "This soup has done me much good. Won't you sit by my side, for I wish to ask you some questions? There, that's better," she continued, as he quietly obeyed.
"Do you feel strong enough to talk?" questioned the man. "You are very weak."
"But I must talk," Madeline pleaded. "Oh, please tell me how I came here, and what has happened to Donnie. Is he safe?"
"I can tell you but little. You were brought here early this morning by two men, but I saw nothing of any boy."
"Oh, where is he—the poor darling!" cried Madeline as she half started from the bed. "I last saw him standing on the shore, stretching out his little hands to me as the canoe swept me down toward that horrible place."
"Do not excite yourself," remonstrated the man. "You must reserve your strength."
"I know it. I know it. But I have been through so much to-day."
Then she briefly told the story of the capture, the journey overland, and the base act of the Indian woman. "When I shot from the canoe," she concluded, "I gave up all hope. I cannot understand how I was saved."
"Those men must have been near."
"Do you know who they were?"
"No. I asked no questions. They left so quickly that I really had no opportunity."
"But you saw them, though. What did they look like?"
"One was an old man of powerful build, with a long beard and white hair. He wore, I think, a buckskin jacket."
"And the other?" Madeline's heart beat fast, for an idea had suddenly seized her mind.
"He was a young man, tall, and straight as an arrow."
"And did he have dark-brown eyes?" she questioned.
"I believe he did. As a rule I am not good at remembering such things. I noticed his, however, for they were so full of trouble, and looked as if they had not closed in sleep for several nights."
"And his hair, was it dark and wavy?"
"It was dark, but soaked with water, as were his clothes."
"And you did not ask him his name," she mused. "That was strange. Were you not curious to know?"
"As I said before, there was little time for that. Besides," and here he hesitated, "we learn in the North not to ask too many questions."
Madeline noted his hesitation, and glanced quickly up. What did he mean? she mentally asked herself. What did his words signify? There was something about this tall, reserved man which filled her with confidence. He was so different from many she had met. He seemed to belong to another world from the one which had been hers for years. It brought back memories of other days. A mistiness filled her eyes, and despite her efforts tears flowed down her cheeks. She tried to repress her emotion, but in vain. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed like a child, while the man looked at her in wonderment. At length she brushed away the tears, and tried to smile.
"Forgive me," she simply remarked. "But you know not what I have suffered. You believe me to be one of those creatures you sometimes see in the North. But I am not! Before God, I say I am not! Listen! I had a home, surrounded by loved ones. I left on a visit to America. The ship was wrecked. I was rescued by a woman, who has held me in bondage for years. I have tried time and again to escape, but without avail. We came North, and at last to Hishu. I had given up all hope when suddenly one day, over a week ago, a man came to the place, bringing in a child he had rescued from death. He was a Mounted Policeman, and I knew him to be Norman Grey, a friend of mine in the dear old happy days. He saw me, and believed me to be a fallen woman. I believe it was he who saved me from death this morning."
"And who was the other?" came the question.
"It must be Buckskin Dan, a fine old trapper living at Hishu."
"You are a long way from Hishu," the man quietly remarked. "Were the Indians Hishus who stole you away?"
"The woman belongs there," Madeline replied. "She is the wife of Siwash Bill, and her name is Nadu. I cannot imagine what she has against me. I saw her only occasionally at Hishu."
It was now the man's turn to start, while a pained expression crossed his face. He was about to reply, but instead he moved a little and looked long and silently at the picture of the young Indian maiden hanging on the wall near the table.
"And you say it was Nadu?" he at length asked, while a deep sigh escaped his lips. "Are you sure?"
"Certain. I have good reason to know, have I not?"
"Yes, yes. Indeed, you have. But, oh, this is a blow to me. Could you believe that was once Nadu?" and he pointed toward the picture.
"I did think of her," Madeline replied, "when I saw it first, but thought I must be mistaken."
"No, you were not. Would to God that you were. That was Nadu when she was a sweet, innocent child, the flower of the Northland. Her father, a chief, was killed in a fierce battle. We loved her—my dear wife and I—and it almost broke our hearts when we gave her to that white man. They were joined in holy wedlock, but we feared, yes, we feared, for her. And oh, how changed must she be! My poor Nadu! My darling child!"
"Is that your wife who brought me this delicious broth?" Then seeing the astonished look upon the old man's face she hastily added, "Forgive me. I fear I have made a mistake. But as trappers are sometimes married to Indian women in the North, I took it for granted it was so in your case."
"But with me it was not so," and the old man placed his hand to his forehead in an abstracted manner as he replied. "I had a wife, good and true. We came to the North together forty years ago. It's five years now since she left me, and she lies over yonder in the Indian Cemetery. It was she who made those drawings, and painted that picture. She was ever skilful with the pencil and brush. She loved Nadu dearly, and never could become reconciled to the girl marrying that fur-trader. I believe it had much to do with her death."
"Have you really lived as a trapper and hunter for forty years in the North!" exclaimed Madeline in astonishment. "And to think of your wife being here for most of that time! How lonely she must have been when you were away from home."
A slight expression of amusement shone in the old man's eyes as he listened.
"I have been a hunter for forty years," he replied, "but I have trapped very little. I have followed the chase, but have had meagre success."
"Is game scarce? I should think it would be plentiful here."
"Miss—" Here the old man paused. It was the first time that he had even hinted as to her name.
"Normsell—Madeline Normsell," she added.
"Well, Miss Normsell, there is an abundance of game, but the hunters are few, and scattered. I think it was expressed much better many years ago by One when He said, 'The field is already white unto the harvest, but the labourers are few.'"
Madeline had been looking straight before her during the greater part of this conversation. But now she glanced quickly up, while a new light of understanding overspread her face. These last words set her thinking.
"Have I made a stupid blunder?" she asked. "I mistook you for a trapper."
"It was quite natural, Miss Normsell."
"And you are really a missionary."
"Yes. That is why I am here."
"Oh, now I see. Now I comprehend."
"Are you a bishop? You look like one."
"No; merely Charles Nordis—who is trying to do some work for the Master among these Northern natives."
"And you have been here for forty years?"
"Not on this side of the mountain. Thirty years were passed on the great Mackenzie River—and only the last ten here."
"And all that time among the Indians! How they must love you."
"If they do they seldom show it. This want of response has so often discouraged the missionaries. They look for some gratitude for what they have done. I have learned not to expect it, and so am never disappointed. I think the Indians beyond the mountains loved me in their own way, and were sorry when I left. But the natives here are hard and cruel. I cannot seem to make any impression upon them at all. They are held in thrall by the crafty Medicine Men, and are fond of tribal wars."
"But you have one faithful Indian in that woman who brought me the soup," Madeline remarked.
"Ah, Nancy du Nord, you mean. Yes, she is a good soul. But she is from the Mackenzie River. She and her husband followed me across the mountains, and have been here ever since. My dear wife did much for her."
"Are the Indians away now?" Madeline asked.
"Yes, although they may return at any moment. There are nasty reports abroad, and I fear there will be trouble with the Hishus. They have been trespassing, so it seems, upon the Big Lakes' ancestral hunting-grounds. From time immemorial this has been the cause of strife. The Hishus are ugly people when once aroused. Oh, for a missionary to work among them!"
"There is one of the Hishus," Madeline replied, "who appears to be rather a superior Indian. That is, Hishu Sam. He has been very good to me."
"Hishu Sam, did you say?" and the missionary leaned forward. "I remember the name. When did I meet him? Ah, yes, now I recollect. It was several years ago. I was up the river in the direction of Hishu. I camped near him one night. He had a very sick child, a little girl, and I was able to give her some medicine so that she recovered. You see here in the North one has to be a doctor as well as a missionary. I had forgotten the incident until you mentioned the name."
"Was that all you did?" Madeline queried.
"Yes; I can't think of anything else."
"Did you talk any with the Indian? Did you teach him anything?"
"Why, yes, to be sure. I stayed with him and his wife for several days, and during that time I told them the old, old story, to which they listened most attentively. But I fear it was of little use."
"Indeed it was, Mr. Nordis," Madeline replied. "I have often wondered about that Indian; he is so different from the other Hishus. Several times when he came to our house he asked me questions in broken English about Christ, and was so anxious to learn. Now I understand. It was the little seed you sowed in his heart which did so much for him."
The missionary did not reply to these words, but sat very still with head bent forward, as if in deep thought. Madeline lay there, and watched him with much interest. She felt tired after this conversation, and wished to think over what she had heard. Her mind turned to Norman, for she firmly believed it was he who had rescued her. Had he gone after Donnie, she wondered, and would he come back to her?
Presently she was aroused from her reverie by the sudden entrance of Nancy du Nord. Upon her face was a look of fear, and her agitated manner plainly showed that something was wrong. She spoke rapidly in the Indian tongue, and all that Madeline could understand was the one word "Hishu."
The effect upon the missionary was magical. Deep concern gave place to the meditative expression as he started to his feet and hurried from the room.