XXVI
Mac carried Jenny into Wong's shack, and laid her on the bed. Though the house smelt of China and of opium it was clean as fresh sawdust. They washed the blood from her and the child, while Sam cried, fearing she was hurt. And she came back to consciousness. Mac was very solemn.
"Where the boss, you tink?" asked Wong.
The men who had followed George Quin down the river were home again by now. They brought back with them the empty boat.
"I reckon he's dead," answered Mac. Sam cried, for he was "heap solly." Quin had been a good boss to him and there are many Chinamen who understand that after all, whatever we may say about them.
"Oh, the Missus, the Missus," said Sam. He sat down and sobbed. Jenny opened her eyes and saw old Wong, with a million wrinkles on his kindly face, inscrutable in every feature.
"Tchorch," she murmured. The tears came to Mac's eyes, though he was hard to move and knew much of the bitterness of life.
Wong's face was like that of some carved god who sits in the peace which is undisturbed by human prayer. And yet his hands were kind and his voice gentle. He murmured to himself in his own tongue.
"Where is Tchorch?" asked Jenny. Now she saw Long Mac, whom Quin trusted. She appealed to the strong man.
"He has not returned, ma'am," said Mac. She was no longer a little Siwash klootchman to him, but a bereaved woman.
She looked at him long and steadfastly, and read his face. She was an Indian, after all, and could endure much.
"My baby," she said. Sam had the boy. He gave it her. She murmured something to the fatherless, and lay back with him in her arms, She motioned to Mac and he came nearer.
"Is Tchorch dead, Mister Maclan?"
She could not speak his name.
"I'm afraid so, ma'am," he answered.
"Have they found him?"
"Only the empty boat."
Then no one spoke. She turned her head away, Outside the dawn came up and looked down on ashes. In the distance they heard Annawillee mourning. She sat in the road with dust upon her head, like an Indian widow.
"I loved Tchorch," said Jenny. Then she rose in the bed and shrieked awfully.
"I want Tchorch, I want Tchorch!"
She was like steel under the powerful hands of the man who sat by her.
"Oh, ma'am," said Mac. He said—"I've lost many."
The tears ran down his face. Sam was like a reed shaken by the wind. Old Wong stood by the window and stared across the river, now open to the view, since the Mill was gone.
"My poor girl!"
She held his hand now as if it was life itself. And yet it might have been as if he were Death.
"He was so good," she said.
It wasn't what many would have said. But Mac understood: for he had lost many, and some said that he, too, was a hard man.
She lay back again. Wong still stood by the window without moving. He, too, had lost one he loved; she, who was to have brought him children who would have honoured his ashes and his ancestral spirit, was dead in child-birth far away across the long, long paths of ocean.
But now he looked across the river as the dawn shone upon its silver flood. Perhaps he looked at something. It seemed so to Sam, who rose and went to him. The old man spoke to him very quietly. They both went outside.
"Tchorch is dead," said Jenny.
But Tchorch was not dead. Something spoke of hope to Mac, something he didn't understand. Perhaps the wise old Wong could have explained it. He and Sam stood by the wharf and looked across the river to the further bank. His eyes were strong, they were the eyes of an old man who can see far. Now he saw something on the other bank, something moving in the half darkness of the dawn. As the day grew, even Sam saw that a man came stumbling along the bank of the shore. Who was it?
"Oh, even yet he may not be dead, Jenny," said Mac. It was as if some dawn grew in him because the dawn grew in the East: some hope within him because there was hope in the heart of a poor serving boy and a wise old man. She clutched his hand.
"Tchorch was very strong," she said.
And Sam came walking to the door.
"Wong wantchee see you, Sir," he said. He came in without raising his eyes. Mac pressed Jenny's hand and went out.
"Oh, Missus," said Sam.
His heart was full.
Though the river was wide the day was now bright. A strong man's voice might reach across it in a windless time. But strong men may be weak, if they have struggled.
Wong stood still as Mac came up to him. Though he could see so well he was a little deaf.
"What is it, Wong?" asked Mac. Even as he spoke it seemed to him that he heard a faint far-off call.
"My tinkee t'at Mista Quin," said Wong as he pointed across the river. He spoke as quietly as if he had said that he thought he could see the rosy cone of Mount Baker shining in the rising sun.
"You think—oh, hell!" said Mac.
He smote Wong on the shoulder and the old man turned to him. There was something like a smile upon his face at last.
"Ta't the boss fo' su'," he said; "my can see."
Mac ran a little way up-stream, past the burnt wharves, and came to one where there was a boat. He thrust it down the shore into the water and forgot his aching shoulder, bad as it was.
"Oh, poor Jenny, poor Jenny!" he said. He heard the call again.
"That's Quin's call. By the Holy Mackinaw that's him," said Mac. Now that he knew, the ache came back to him. He pulled in one oar and sculled the boat from the stern with the other.
And George Quin sat down on the edge of the water and waited.
"If he says 'How's Jenny?' first of all, I'll recken he's worth the little klootchman," said Mac. He saw Quin rise up and stand waiting. He was torn to rags and still soaking, but his face was strong and calm.
"That you, Quin?" asked Mac.
"That's me," said Quin. Then he spoke aright.
"How's Jenny, old man?"
"All hunkey," said Mac. "But we tho't you was mimaloose."
"Pete is," said Quin. He climbed into the boat stiffly. His wound smarted bitterly, but he said nothing of it.
"You must have had a close call, Quin."
"Tol'rable," said Quin. "Where's the little woman?"
"Old Wong's lookin' after her. 'Twas him spotted you over here."
"Wong's all right," said Quin. "'Tis a clean sweep of the old Moola, Mac."
"That's what," said Mac. They came to the shore. When they were both on dry land Mac held out his hand.
"Shake," he said.
They "shook," and walked up to the road.
"You and the little gal kin hev my house till you've time to look araound," said Mac. "It's not dandy, but I reckon you can make out in it."
Quin nodded.
"Right," he said. He stood still for a minute and looked at the open space where the Mill had been.
"You and me and the boys will build the old Moola up again, Mac," said Quin.
"Oh, I reckon," said Mac.
And Quin went across the road to Shack-Town and came to Wong's. The old man saluted him gravely.
"You're all right," said Quin. What more could any man say?
He heard a cry inside the shack, and Sam came out with the papoose in his arms.
"Oh, Mista Quin, my heap glad you not dead, my heap glad!"
"You damn fool," said Quin with a smile. He went in and found Jenny.
"Tchorch!" she said.
"Jenny, my girl!"
He held her in his arms and she laid her head upon his heart.
"Tchorch!" she murmured.
"Oh, but you've had a time," said George.
"I jhoost want Tchorch," said Jenny.
THE END
Printed at The Chapel River Press, Kingston, Surrey.