XXXIII
I watched him and little Pete drive away down the highroad; watched them out of sight. Then I sat down on the bench outside the waiting-room to think, "What next?"
I had no intention of going to Spencerville. My trunk would be safe there with the address of a neighbor of my aunt. What I most wanted was to be alone and time to think, time to regain strength for the struggle before me.
I don't know that for ten minutes I thought at all. I suppose I must have, for I remembered that at this hour Jamie and Mrs. Macleod were to sail; that the Doctor was on his way to San Francisco. That Cale could do nothing by telegraphing them. And what would he telegraph?
The ticket-agent and baggage-master locked the office door and came over to me.
"I 'm going up the road a piece; the train is twenty minutes late. You won't mind sitting here alone?"
"Oh, no. It is a lovely evening."
"No frost to-night." He went off on the highroad in the opposite direction from Richelieu-en-Bas.
The evening promised to be fine; the sun set clear in the sky. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a night hawk's harsh cry.
The dusk fell; still I sat there, not thinking much of anything. I had my hand-bag with me and my warm coat. I opened my bag and took out an apple; I had eaten nothing since breakfast and felt faint. The apple was an Astrachan. I found myself calculating what it cost—this one apple. I must begin to count the cost again of every morsel, although I had all my wages with me. But ten weeks of sickness—and where would they be!
I put my teeth into the apple— A thought: the apple-boat—it was to leave soon—the week was up!
I rose from the bench, not stopping to take a second bite; took my hand-bag; threw my coat over my shoulder, and started down the road to Richelieu-en-Bas.
It was rapidly growing dark. One mile, two miles, three miles—the night was there to cover me. I was thankful. Five miles, six miles—I was entering the long street of the village. The lindens and elms made the road black. I strained my eyes to see the lights. That from the cabaret was the first—then a green one above the water, several feet it looked to be. It must be the apple-boat!
It was just the time in the evening when the men flock to the cabaret. As I drew near it, I heard the sound of the graphophone. I listened, not stopping in my walk.
"O Canada, pays de mon amour!"
I stopped then; and it seemed as if my heart stopped at the same time.
Oh, it had been "Canada, land of my love" in the deepest sense—and now!
I went on to the boat; crossed the trestle. At the sound of my footstep on the deck, the woman put her head up the companionway.
"Who 's there?"
"Some one who wishes to speak with you alone; I was here the other day."
"I know your voice, but I don't know your name. You can talk; my husband is, at present, yonder in the cabaret; he will be in by half-past ten. We sail to-night if the wind holds good."
"To-night?"
"Yes; and what is that to you?" she asked suspiciously.
"May I come into the cabin?"
"But, yes. Come."
I sat down on the stool she placed for me. I was tired with the long walk.
"I have been called away from here, where I have been at service—"
"You—at service?" she asked in surprise.
"Yes; and I am going away to find another place. Will you take me with you in the boat? May I go with you to your home, wherever it is?"
She looked at me suspiciously. "I don't know—my husband—"
"I will pay you well, whatever you ask—"
"It is n't that,"—she hesitated,—"but I don't know who you are."
"I am myself," I said wearily; "I am tired of my place, and they don't want me to leave. I want to go—I am too tired to stay—"
"Too hard, was it?"
"Everything was too hard. I come from Spencerville, just over the line; you know it?"
"Oh, yes. My cousin settled there when the new tannery was built last year."
"All my family lived there. I am now alone in the world. I have sent my trunk on—but I want a complete rest before I go out to service again. I thought I could get it with you. I don't want to let the family know I have gone. The family are all away at present."
"Where have you been at work?"
"At the old manor of Lamoral, three miles away."
"I have heard of it; they bought ten barrels of apples last year." She seemed to be thinking over some matter foreign to me, at that moment.
"Won't you take me? I am so tired."
"You say you can work?"
"Try me."
"We are going back for the second harvest. We live near Iberville. We have orchards there, and help is always scarce at this time. Will you help?"
"Oh, yes; anything. I can do the housework for you, if necessary."
"You don't look tough enough for that."
"Try me."
"I 'll speak to my husband when he comes in."
"All I ask of you is, that you will not let him tell anyone here that I am on the boat."
"He has a tight mouth—a good head; he will do as I say."
"That settles it," I thought.
"If you will stay here with my baby, I 'll just step over to the cabaret and call him out. We can talk better in the road."
"Yes."
She climbed the steps, and I heard her heavy tread on the deck—her steps on the trestle-boards. After that, nothing for a quarter of an hour, except the soft lap of the river running past the boat.
They came back together, the man with a lantern which he hung at the stern.
"He says, my Jean, that you can come with us, if you will hire out for a month."
"Tell him I will hire out to you for that time. And how much shall I pay you for the passage?"
"Jean says that's all right,—you can't leave us unless you can swim,—and we 're more than glad to get the help."
"I can sleep on the deck; I have a warm coat."
"Oh, no; my husband often sleeps on deck when we are at anchor; but to-night he will not sleep at all. We go to Sorel; we must be there by three in the morning. You can sleep in his bunk."
She parted some curtains and showed me a two-and-a-half feet wide bunk beneath the sloping deck. I thanked her.
"If the wind should come up heavy, I shall do the steering," she said. "I will be down after we get under way. I help Jean."
She went up the tiny companionway, and I heard her talking in a low voice to "Jean". Soon there was a noise of trailing ropes, of a sail being hoisted; a sound of pushing and hauling—a soft swaying motion to the boat, then the ripple of the water under her bow.
I lay down in the bunk; the sound of the ever-flowing river soothed me. I was worn out.