“Vat de mattaire vid you h’arm?” she asked, excitedly. “’Ow you get ’urted?”
“Oh! That! That’s nothing,” he answered, drawing back. “’Tisn’t worth bothering about. Good-night!”
“You no be one beeg fool, Monsieur Hugo!” she ordered him, masterfully. “Now you sit down an’ let me look heem arm right 140 avay quick. Ven de cole strike heem he get bad sure, dat h’arm.”
In spite of his objections she laid violent hands on him, insisting on pulling off his coat, whereupon a dark patch had spread. She also drew off the heavy sweater he wore underneath it, which was stained even more deeply. When she sought to roll up the sleeve of his flannel shirt it would not go up high enough, but the remedy was close at hand, in the form of a pair of scissors, and she swiftly ripped up a seam. On the outer part of the shoulder she revealed a rather large and jagged wound that was all smeared with blood, which still oozed from it slowly.
“Who go an’ shoot you?” she asked angrily. “I see de ’ole in de coat an’ de sweater. I know some one shoot. Vat for he shoot?”
“Well, it was just a silly little accident with a pistol,” he acknowledged with much embarrassment. “It––it won’t be anything after it’s washed off. It feels all right enough and I wish you wouldn’t bother about it. I’ll attend to it after I get home. It––it’s stopped hurting now.”
But he was compelled to submit to the washing of his injury and to the application of some sort of a dressing which Mrs. Papineau appeared to put on rather skilfully. 141 Wounds of all sorts are but too common in the wilderness, unfortunately, and doctors few and far between. The children had crowded around him, looking in awe, and their mother kept ordering them away. Madge had risen from her seat and looked at the injury, horrified and trembling. The man had never said a word when that bullet had found its billet in his shoulder, and yet it must have hurt him dreadfully. He––he might have been killed, owing to her clumsiness, she reflected in consternation. And now he said nothing to explain how it had happened––he actually seemed to be trying to shield her.
“I––I’m dreadfully sorry,” said the girl, impulsively. “It––it was all my fault, because I let the revolver fall and it went off. But I didn’t know he was hurt. He never told me, and he insisted on pulling at that sled, with his dog.”
“Yes, it was just a little accident,” admitted Hugo, “and we’re making altogether too much fuss about it. It really doesn’t amount to anything, Miss Nelson, and it feels splendidly now. I’m ever so much obliged to you, Mrs. Papineau. And so I’ll say good-night. I hope you’ll rest well, Miss Nelson. I’ll be here in good time to-morrow, never fear.”
He shook hands with the housewife, who 142 took care to wipe her own upon her apron in preparation for the ceremony. To the children he bade a comprehensive farewell, after which he turned again to Madge, advanced a step and then hesitated. He had doubtless meant to shake hands with her also but, at the last moment, probably feared a rebuff. At any rate he nodded, bringing a smile to his features, and opened the door into the bitter cold. After he had put on his snowshoes again and hitched up Maigan to the toboggan he disappeared into the darkness. For an instant Madge listened, but she heard no sound. Everything was still outside, but for the rare crackings of ice and timber. Seeking her chair again she leaned forward now with her elbows resting on her knees and her face held in the hollow of her hands. At this time a little child came to her and touched her arm. She looked at it. The little girl had long straight black hair, great beady eyes and the prettiest mouth imaginable. The cheeks were like red apples. She lifted the little thing to her knees and the child nestled against her bosom. Madge now looked at the woman, busily engaged with her few pots and pans, and a feeling of envy came to her, a longing for the sweet and kindly motherhood that was becoming a fierce craving for that beautiful 143 peace which appeared to have become so firmly established in these little houses of the frozen wilds. She had elsewhere seen love of children, little ones petted and made much of, husbands coming home to a cheery welcome, but it had not seemed the same. The women so often seemed weary, pale, and worked beyond their strength. Most of them became querulous at times, apt to speak loudly of intolerable wrongs or of ill-doings of neighbors across the dark hallways. Here it looked as if quiet order, cheerful obedience, willingness on the part of all, were ingrained in the people. Indeed, it was ever so different.