CHAPTER XXV THE HEART OF A WOMAN
After Charles Nordis, the missionary, had hurriedly left the room Madeline listened intently for a few minutes. Hearing nothing more she concluded that the matter was of little importance. She knew how easily Indian women were excited and ready at times to believe almost anything, whether an unsubstantial dream or the wild imaginings of an overheated brain. Her mind gradually turned to other things. She thought of the old man and of the lonely life he must have led since his wife's death; of Nadu, and often her eyes would turn toward the picture upon the wall. But she thought mostly of Norman and Donnie. What had happened to them? How she longed to have the child close by her side again. It grieved her to think that he was somewhere out in the wilderness among the Indians, with no one to comfort him or to soothe his cries. But surely Norman would find him—he would if it were possible—she felt sure of that.
During the past six terrible years the hope that Norman would come and save her had buoyed her up. She clung to the idea like a drowning person. He had always been her hero, and often she had pictured him seizing her in his strong arms and carrying her away from her uncongenial surroundings. And he had come, had looked upon her, and believed her to be unworthy of his love. He had saved her from the icy waters, but that was only by chance. He had followed her, but only for the sake of the child whom he was in duty bound to seek. He would return, no doubt, bringing the lad with him. Then he would take the little one to Big Glen, and leave her in the wilderness. Why had he not left her to die in the rapids? It would have been more merciful. But would he speak to her when he returned? she wondered. Would he give her a chance to explain or would words be unnecessary? He had seen her living with Old Meg, and perhaps that would be sufficient to poison his mind against her. But he had touched her in the water. He had enfolded her in his arms as he carried her to the house. Did he look into her face, and loathe the burden that he bore? The thought was almost more than she could endure. She felt so tired, and she closed her eyes in an effort to shut out the many scenes which were moving like horrible spectres before her mind.
A pretty picture she presented as she lay there. Her loose dark-brown hair was tossed over cheek and pillow. Her face was white and worn, for the experiences of the last few days had left their mark. She had struggled hard, and had endured without a murmur. Her prayers during the whole of this ordeal of years had been a pitiful, intense pleading to the Great Father for help. And what was the answer? Nothing but silence! Thrown among savages, and cast off by the very one upon whom she had most relied, what was left to her now? Hope gone, to return no more forever!
She lay very still for a time, and was only aroused by Nancy du Nord entering the room. Fear was still depicted upon the Indian woman's face, and she cast furtive glances around as if expecting pursuit.
"What is it, Nancy?" Madeline questioned, surprised at her agitated manner.
"Hishus! Hishus!" she cried. "Dey come! Dey kill! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Madeline, who had no fear of the Hishus, for they had always been friendly to her, could not understand the poor creature's fright.
"They will not harm us, Nancy," she soothed. "They have been good to me. Why are you afraid?"
"Hishu bad; all same black bear. Ugh!"
Then she started violently, and laid a sudden hand upon Madeline's arm.
"Hark!" she gasped. "Dey meet Big Lakes! Dey shoot! Dey fight!"
Listening, Madeline could hear faint rifle reports away in the distance. That there was trouble she had no doubt. But what did it matter to her? It made little difference which side won. She might as well live with the Big Lakes as among the Hishus. If they killed her the sooner would her troubles end. But this terrified woman appealed to her. She felt sorry for her, and longed to do something to calm her distress. And, besides, it might do herself good to move around a little, for she felt stronger now.
"Nancy," she said. "I want to get up. Are my clothes dry?"
"Clothes no dry," the native replied, slowly shaking her head.
"But did you hang them by the fire?"
"Ah, ah, me hang 'um."
"Right after you put me here?"
"Ah, ah."
"Surely, Nancy, they must be dry by this time. Has there been a good fire on ever since?"
"Ah, ah, good fire."
"Well, then, Nancy, I'm going to see for myself," and Madeline started to rise.
"No! no!" cried the old woman. "No get up!"
"But why?" insisted Madeline. "Why do you not want me to get up?"
"Heem say she stay in bed. She no get up."
"Who told you that?"
"De meesion man."
"Oh, I see. So you thought you would make me stay here by saying my clothes were not dry?"
"Ah, ah."
Madeline's heart was touched by this woman's faithfulness to her master's orders.
"Well, look here, Nancy," she at length remarked. "I am going to get up anyway. You have done your best to make me stay in bed, so your master cannot blame you, see?"
"Ah, ah, me see."
"Bring my clothes, then, Nancy, or I shall go for them myself."
After a brief hesitation the old woman shuffled across the room, and a few minutes later returned with the dried garments.
"Thank you, Nancy. You are very kind," said Madeline. "Will you help me now, for I do not feel very strong yet."
After Madeline was dressed she walked for a few minutes slowly around the room, examining the pictures more closely, but especially Nadu's. Her eyes rested on the papers lying upon the table. A Bible lay open where the missionary had left it. The papers contained writing which she could not understand, but which she surmised to be a translation of the English into the Indian dialect. The portion upon which the old man had been working when Nadu had watched him through the window the night before was the latter half of the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. It was not finished, and he had ceased with the thirty-ninth verse. He had sat meditating upon the closing words for some time: "And he that loseth his life for My sake shall find it." He had remained for a while lost in thought ere retiring to rest. Madeline next went into the kitchen, and was looking out of one of the small windows at the log buildings beyond, when she saw a man hurrying toward the house bearing something in his arms. She started as she recognised Buckskin Dan, and knew that his burden must be none other than Donnie. Moving to the door she opened it just as the trapper was about to knock. The latter uttered not a word as he placed Donnie upon the floor, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. Instantly Madeline caught the child in her arms, and pressed him close to her breast.
"Donnie, Donnie!" she cried. "Oh, thank God, you are safe!"
She could say no more. Words would not come as she placed her face against the boy's soft cheek and held him tight. Donnie squirmed a little, freed his arms, threw them about Madeline's neck, and kissed her lips.
"I love 'ou, Malin," he simply said. "Don't leave me again. Don't let the bad men det me. I'm hungry, Malin."
Dan watched the two in silence for a few minutes. He was not accustomed to such a scene, and he hardly knew what to say. He was delighted to see Madeline alive and so well, but he wondered what effect the news he brought would have upon her. He wished to prepare her, but how should he begin? Twice he cleared his throat in an effort to speak, but the words would not come. It was Madeline who at length helped him out of the difficulty.
"You did well," she said, turning to the trapper and placing Donnie upon the floor. "Did you have much trouble? And where is—?"
She hesitated, and her face flushed. It had been the first thought which had flashed into her mind when she saw Dan from the window. She longed to ask him the moment he entered the building, but something held her back. Why should she inquire? Why should she care? She did not intend to speak about him, but the question partly came almost before she was aware of it. Dan noted her hesitation and the flush which suffused her cheek.
"This ain't none of them craturs," he said to himself. "She's as innocent as any babe, I kin tell that at a glance. An' she cares fer 'im, too. Poor lassie, it'll be hard for her when she hears."
When Dan did not answer Madeline's question immediately, the colour fled her cheeks, and taking a step forward she laid her hand lightly upon the trapper's arm.
"Tell me," she began, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "what has happened."
"Thar was a fight, miss, an' the old man who ran out atween the Injuns went down."
"Oh! Is he dead?"
"Can't tell fer sartin."
"But did no one go to help him?"
"Yes, me pardner leaped out like a wildcat, an'—oh, well."
"He was shot, too," Madeline interrupted, as Dan floundered around in an attempt to find some suitable word. "Don't be afraid to tell me. I saw it in your face."
"Why bless ye, miss, so ye did. I never thought of that. It's wonderful what sharp eyes some people have."
"So you left him there, did you, without trying to find out whether he was dead or alive, and came away?"
Across Dan's face spread a crimson flush. Madeline's words cut deeper than she imagined. Did she think that he was a coward and would leave a partner to die? He had been accused of many things in the past, but never of that! How he loathed even the name. And here was this beautiful woman standing before him with flashing eyes saying as much.
Madeline saw the injured look upon his face, and hastened to explain.
"Forgive me," she said. "I spoke too quickly. I should have waited to hear more."
"Sartin, miss, I fergive ye. But yer words stung hard. If ye'd been a man I know what the answer 'ud have been, but what kin one say to a woman? When I saw me pardner fall I was agoin' after 'im like a whirlwind. But jist then several Injuns jumped forward, with Hishu Sam in the lead. It was lucky fer 'em that the Big Lakes stopped firin'. Whether their ammunition gave out, or whether their hearts took a sudden kink of marcy, I can't tell. Anyway, Sam an' the ones with 'im got me pardner an' the old man out from behint the rocks, an' are bringin' 'em in. I grabbed the kid, and hiked on ahead. I wasn't sure that you was livin', but if I foun' ye was, a bit of warnin' wouldn't be outer the way."
"Thank you, it was good of you," and Madeline placed her hand to her forehead. Suppose Norman were dead! How could she bear to look upon him?
"Malin, I'm hungry."
She stooped and put her arms about the child.
"Poor little lad," she replied, "I forgot all about you. Nancy will give you something, will you not?" and she turned to the Indian woman who was standing by the stove trying to comprehend the meaning of the conversation. Hunger the native could understand, so going to a small pantry she brought forth a piece of cold meat and a slice of bread.
Dan's eyes looked longingly upon the food, and he was about to ask Nancy for some, too, when Madeline gave a cry and rushed to the door. Through the window she had caught a glimpse of several Indians approaching the house, bearing some heavy burden between them. Ere they reached the building she had the door open, and was standing watching them with fast-beating heart. There were four men, and Hishu Sam was one of them. Madeline stood aside to let them enter. Questions were unnecessary, for she saw at a glance Norman's unconscious form in their arms. Quickly and without a word they glided over the threshold, and placed their burden upon the small cot near the wall—the same one upon which Madeline had been laid by Grey the day before.
As the Indians stepped back Madeline moved swiftly forward and looked down searchingly into Grey's face. How he had changed since the evening he had brought Donnie to Old Meg's. His beard was days' old, and his face drawn and haggard. His eyes were closed, and he had all the appearance of a dead man. Madeline stooped and put her ear close to his face, but could detect no sign of life.
"He is dead!" she cried, turning suddenly to the men standing near. "Oh, he is dead!"
At once Dan stepped to the cot and placed his fingers upon Grey's wrist.
"No," he replied, "thar's life in 'im yit, but it's mighty weak. We must examine 'im a bit an' see what's wrong."
Then he paused and looked intently at something.
"See," he said, "thar's the trouble, right on the side of his head. That's whar the bullet grazed 'im an' knocked 'im out. My! it was a close call that. Sixteenth of an inch more an' it 'ud have shattered his skull. As it is, it burnt away some hair, an' has left a nasty, bloody scar. Ye'd better step inter the next room, miss, while we undress the poor chap an' put 'im to bed. I'm somewhat handy at docterin', havin' had to do quite a lot of it to meself an' the Injuns, so if ye'll jist leave me fer a while I shall see what I kin do."
Madeline realised the wisdom of this injunction, although it grieved her to quit Norman's side for even a few minutes. Entering the next room and closing the door she walked slowly up and down, listening anxiously for the faintest sound which came from the kitchen. She was surprised at her own strength, for the weakness she had felt upon rising from the bed seemed to have left her entirely. Her mind was upon Norman. She thought of nothing else. "Was he to die?" she asked herself over and over again. "Would he never look upon her more, nor open his lips to speak to her?"
As she slowly walked, heeding nothing around her, a small soft hand slipped gently into hers. She started, and looked quickly down. It was Donnie, standing there, with a mute, wistful appeal upon his small shrunken face. He appeared like a little old man instead of a mere child. His eyes were unnaturally large, and the fear of a hunted creature lurked in their clear depths. Stooping, Madeline placed her arms about the boy and drew him close to her.
"Poor laddie," she said, "I'm so sorry I forgot you. But I won't do so any more."
"You'll 'tay wif me, Malin?" he whispered, looking up into her face. "You won't leave Donnie any more?"
"No, no, dearie. Nothing shall separate us until you get back to your mother."
"Will 'ou take me to my mamma, Malin? Oh, I'm so glad!"
"Somebody will take you, Donnie. You are sure to go back to her now."
"But 'ou must tum, too, Malin. 'Ou must go wif Donnie. Will 'ou?"
"I should like to go, dearie. But then you will not want me. You will have your mother to take care of you. You will not need Malin any more."
The thought of going back to Big Glen brought to her no gladness. Why should she go? Why should she leave the wilderness? Would it not be better for her to throw in her lot with the Indians? She shuddered at the thought. If Norman got better he, too, would go away, and then what would life contain for her? What would she do in Big Glen? She had no money, and no friends. People would hear in some way about her. They would shake their heads, and shun her. Donnie's parents would thank her, no doubt, but they would not care to have much to do with a woman about whom there were strange stories.
"Malin."
"Yes, dearie."
"Why do 'ou look dat way, Malin? 'Ou make me 'fraid."
"Do I, darling? I'm sorry," and Madeline gave the boy a closer hug.
"An' 'ou won't leave me, Malin? 'Ou won't let the bad men det me?"
"No, no, Donnie. You are safe with me. So don't be afraid."
"Dis is a funny house. I was never here before. Whose house is it, Malin?"
"A good man lives here. He will take care of us."
"Will he tum soon? I want to see 'im. Maybe he'll take me to my mamma an' papa."
Madeline did not answer. She was thinking of what Dan had told her about the missionary. She had not forgotten him. But why had he not been brought back to the house? she wondered. Where had they taken him? Would he ever return? Had he given his life for the sake of the Indians?
And even as these thoughts filled her mind a knock sounded upon the door. Opening it she saw Dan standing there. She looked keenly into his face. But it told her nothing.
"Ye may come now, miss," he said. "I've done me best; the good Lord'll have to do the rest."