A Cry in the Wilderness

by Mary E. Waller

XXXII

"Cale, I want to talk with you."

"All right, Marcia. I see you 've had something on your mind, thet 's been worryin' you, since you 've come home; better get it off. Nothin' like lettin' off a little steam when there 's too many pounds pressure on."

"Cale, you are a comfort."

"Am I? Wal, it's 'bout time I was something ter you."

"Cale, have you any idea where my mother fled to when she left her home?"

"No; an' nobody else."

"You said George Jackson could get no trace of her?"

"Tried four months, detectives an' all; 't was n't no use. She was gone."

"But did you have any idea in your own mind, I mean, as to where she might have gone?"

"Wal, I can't say exactly. I did think 'bout thet time, thet mebbe they 'd crossed the line inter Canady; but it ain't likely they 'd go north with the winter before 'em. Fact is, George was in such a state, I did n't think nor care much 'bout Happy, if he could only keep his head level through it all. An' he did; he had grit, an' no mistake. 'T was an awful blow, Marcia."

"It's my belief she came into Canada."

"'Tis, is it? What makes you think thet?" he asked in genuine surprise.

"Circumstantial evidence that is convincing. I believe she has been in this very house—for months too."

He looked at me suspiciously. (We were in the dining room; one on each side of the table.) I saw his forehead knit; then he spoke in a low voice, but rather anxiously:

"Here in this house? Ain't you got your circumstantial evidence a little mixed, Marcia?"

"No; listen."

I told him all, linking event to event, incident with incident till the chain was complete. I fitted his story into the Doctor's which he heard for the first time from me; I added Delia Beaseley's story, then André's, and, last, Mère Guillardeau's. I made no mention however of the marriage certificate and the Doctor's last talk with me.

"Now, what do you think of it, Cale?"

"I see which way you 're heading, Marcia, but—" he brought his fist down hard on his knee,—"you 're on the wrong track."

"You think so?"

"I know it." He spoke with loud emphasis.

"You have no idea, now, who my father was, or is? Not now, after I have brought in all the evidence available; except—"

"Except what?" He asked quickly.

"Never mind that now. Tell me, have you any idea who he was, or is?"

"No, and nobody else thet I know of. She had high ideas, Happy had. I never believed she took up with any low cuss, not much! She was n't the kind to fall des'pritly in love with anybody like thet. Besides, had n't she had a man that was a man, even if he was only a boy in his years, to love the very ground she trod on? Happy was one of the uncommon kind of gals; she would n't take up with anyone thet come along. Now thet I know all this from you, I guess her love for thet man, whoever he was, or is, went 'bout as deep with her, as George's love for her went with him. Oh, Lord! It makes me sick to think of Happy Morey tryin' to throw herself inter the North River."

"Then,"—I spoke slowly, hesitatingly; I gathered all my strength to ask the crucial question—"you don't think that Mr. Ewart is my father?"

He stared at me as if I had taken leave of my senses. He swallowed hard twice. He leaned forward on the dining-room table, both fists pressed rigidly upon it.

"Do you think thet? Have you been thinkin' thet all this time, Marcia Farrell?"

"No. I not only do not think it, I do not believe it. I was told so."

"Who told you?" he demanded. He continued to stare at me; his attitude remained unchanged.

"Doctor Rugvie."

"What the devil does he know about it?"

"He has the certificate—my mother's marriage certificate."

"To which one?"

"To my father."

"An' he says Ewart is your father?"

"He believes he is from the evidence—"

"Evidence be damned. Has he shown you the name?"

"No, I could n't—I would n't let him tell me."

"I glory in your spunk, Marcia."

"Then you do not believe it, Cale?"

"Believe!" He spoke in utter scorn, and I laughed out almost hysterically; the tension was relieved too quickly.

"Look here, Marcia Farrell, or whatever your name happens to be, he is no more your father than I am." He lifted both fists and brought them down on the table with the solidity of a stone-breaker's hammer. "It's God's truth, I am tellin' you."

I laughed again in the face of this statement that so suddenly buttressed, as with adamant, my broken life, my wrecked hopes.

"Can you prove it, Cale?" I, too, leaned across the table, my hands gripping the edge.

"Prove it? Wal, I guess I ain't takin' any chances at jest this cross roads. I ain't makin' any statements that I can't take my oath on."

"Prove it, then, Cale—in mercy to me, prove it."

He looked at me with inexpressible pity. His eyes filled.

"You poor child! As if you had n't had enough, 'thout bein' murdered this way. What in thunder was the Doctor thinkin' of?"

"He wanted to save me—"

"Save you, eh? Wal, the next time he wants to save you he 'd better borrow the life-preserver from me. You can tell him thet."

"Prove it, Cale."

He drew a long breath and, reaching over, laid his right hand over mine.

"Marcia, I ain't no right to speak—to break a promise; but, by God, I 'll do it this time to save you—whatever comes! Gordon Ewart ain't no more your father 'n I am, for he was your mother's husband."

"My mother's husband?" I echoed, but weakly. I failed for a few seconds to comprehend.

"Yes, your mother's husband. Gordon Ewart is George Jackson—George Gordon Ewart Jackson, thet is what he was christened, an' I 've known it sence the furst minute I set eyes on him in full lamplight, here in this very house on the fifteenth day of last November. Do you want any more proof?"

There is a limit to human suffering; a time when a surcharge of misery leaves mind and heart and soul numb. It was so with me upon hearing Cale's statement.

"Did he know you?" I asked almost apathetically.

"Yes, but it took him twenty-four hours. I 've changed more 'n he has."

"Why did n't he use his own name?"

"It is his own. He sloughed off thet part of it thet hindered him from cuttin' loose from all thet old life, he said, an' made the new one legal."

"Did he know me?"

"I don't know for sure. He ain't the kind to rake over a heap of dead ashes for the sake of findin' one little spark. But, Marcia, I believe he knew you from the minute he first see you there in the passageway."

"What makes you think so?"

"Because you are the livin' image of your mother, as I told you once before. But you act different. An' he loved her so, he could n't help but seein' her in you—"

"Oh, my God!"

I think it was a groan rather than an exclamation. My head dropped on Cale's hand, as it lay over mine. The flashlight of intuition showed me the truth: this man, my mother's husband, the man who was dearer to me than life itself, was again loving her, whom he had loved only to lose, in me—her daughter! He was loving me because of her, not because of myself.

Oh, I saw it in every detail! I saw every ugly feature in every act of the whole tragedy; and I saw myself the dupe of that Past from which I had tried so hard to escape.

I raised my head. My decision was made. I looked at Cale defiantly. I think every fibre of me, moral, physical, mental, spiritual, revolted then and there against being made longer a mere shuttlecock for the battledores of Fate.

"Cale, when does the next afternoon train leave the junction—the one that connects with the Southern Quebec for New England?"

"Don't, Marcia, in the name of all that's holy, don't do nothing rash. I meant it for the best—"

"I know you did; but that won't prevent my going."

"But, hear to reason, Marcia; wait till Ewart comes—-hear what he has to say—I 'm placed where I can't speak. Wait a few days."

His hand felt clammy cold under mine. I pulled mine away. I hurt him, but I did not care.

"There is nothing to be said. I am going. When does that train leave?"

"Seven-five. What will Ewart say? You are doing him a bitterer wrong than your mother before you."

I laughed in his face. His voice grew husky as he spoke again:

"Stay for my sake then, Marcia; just five days—I 'm as nigh ter you as any in this world."

"Not so very, Cale."

Out of the numbness of my body, out of my bitterness of heart, out of the depths of my misery, I spoke: "Cale, listen. For twenty-six years I was in this world, and four men—the one people call my father, you, my uncle-in-law who loved your wife, my mother's sister, Doctor Rugvie who brought me into this world and made but two attempts to find me, Mr. Ewart who as George Jackson brought me home in his arms, a baby three days old, and left me for good and all, worse than orphaned—all four of you, how much have you cared for me in reality? Answer me that."

There was silence in the room. I heard Cale draw a heavy breath.

"You don't answer," I went on unmercifully, "and I am going away. I, too, am going to 'cut loose'. I want you to go down to Mère Guillardeau's and tell her André is dead, and the seignior will be here in five days."

"What—now?" He moistened his lips.

"Yes, now."

"But you had n't ought ter be alone."

"I am not alone; the dogs are here and little Pete."

He rose and crossed the room. At the door he turned; his voice trembled excessively, and I saw he was in fear.

"Promise me you won't do nothing rash, Marcia."

I laughed aloud. "I promise—now go."

When I heard him drive away from the house, I went upstairs and began to pack my trunk. The sooner I could get out of Lamoral, the better for all concerned, Mr. Ewart included. Did he think for one moment that I would consent to being loved for my mother's sake? Did he think to make good, through me, the loss of the woman he loved? How had he dared, knowing, yes, knowing all, to love me for that other who never loved him! Why did he try to force his love upon her and, by changing the very channels of nature, bring all this devastation of misery upon my life? Why, why?

I packed rapidly. There was not so much to take with me. Then I went through the rooms one after another: the living-room—the office. I looked at the Méryon etchings—the Pont Neuf and Ste. Etienne—on its walls. Upstairs, too, I went; into Jamie's room, into Mrs. Macleod's, then to Mr. Ewart's. I stopped short on the threshold.

"Why am I going in here?" I asked myself. "What am I doing here?" I stepped in; looked about at my own handiwork—then at the bed. I crossed quickly to it and laid my cheek down upon his pillow. It was only for a moment. I heard wheels on the driveway. Cale was returning.

"I am ready, Cale. You can take us over with the trunk in the light wagon; little Pete can go with us."

The look he gave me was pitiful, but it made no appeal to me.

"You will have to wait good forty minutes if you go now."

"I don't mind it. You need not wait. I would rather not say goodby."

"Where are you goin', Marcia?"

"Don't ask me that, Cale; I don't want to lie to you. I shall send my trunk to Spencerville. This is all I will say."

"What must I tell George?"

For a moment I failed to comprehend that he meant Mr. Ewart.

"Tell him what you please."

I set some supper on the kitchen table for him and little Pete, against their return.

Cale reharnessed and brought the wagon to the side door.

We drove those nine miles in silence, except for little Pete who asked several pertinent questions as to the reason of my going. In passing through Richelieu-en-Bas, I looked for the apple-boat. It was still there. Little Pete begged Cale to stop to see it on their way home.

"Not to-night, sonny, it 'll be dark," he said sternly; "we 'll try it another day." I thought the small boy was ready to cry at his friend's abrupt refusal.

Cale left me at the junction, after he had seen me buy a ticket for Spencerville, and the trunk was checked to that place.

He put out his hand. "Marcia, I can't defend myself; all you say is true—but I think you will come to see different, sometime. We 're all human an' liable to make mistakes, big ones, an' I can't see as you 're an exception."

The simple dignity of this speech impressed me even in those circumstances. I put my hand in his.

"'Sometime', Cale? It has always been 'sometime' with me. It is going to be 'never again' now; no more mistakes on my part."

"You will write me a word—sometime, won't you, Marcia?"

"I won't promise, Cale. I want to be alone. After all, I am only going away from here as I came—to find work and a livelihood. Goodby."

I think he understood. He did not bid me goodby, but went away down the platform, walking slowly, stooping a little, his head drooping, as if all courage had failed him. And my heart was hardened.