The Peace of Roaring River

by George Van Schaick

But that unutterable weariness was still upon her. She was not pressed for time, thank goodness. She had been given food in abundance and unwonted warmth and, for some hours, the wonderful sharp tingling air of the forest had driven the blood more swiftly 175 through her veins. Moments had come during which it had seemed a blessing merely to breathe and a marvelous gift to be free from pain. But she was not so very strong yet. In another day, or perhaps two, she might feel better able to take that last leap. It would be that river––the Roaring River. That––that little gun made horrid jagged wounds. On her way to Papineau’s she had noticed any number of great air-holes in the ice. In such places she had even heard the rumbling of the water on its rushing journey towards the sea. It seemed an easy, restful, desirable end to all her troubles. She would slip away by herself and these dear kindly people would never know, she hoped. Like so many others, she had gambled and lost, and perhaps she deserved to lose. Who could say? If she had sinned in coming to this place she would bear the punishment bravely. It would surely be very swift; there would be but a gasp or two from the stunning chill of the icy water, after which must come swift oblivion. The world was indeed a very harsh and dangerous place. She would be glad to leave it; there could be nothing to regret.

She raised her eyes once more and looked about her. The heat from the birchen logs and the sizzling jack-pine penetrated her. 176 Somewhere she had read or heard that, to those condemned, a few last comforts were usually proffered. It would be easier to find the end after a few more hours of this blessed peace. It would have been more gruesome to meet it while suffering from hunger with the very marrow of one’s bones freezing and one’s teeth chattering. She was glad enough to sit still on that rough stool. She did not want to be taken back, even to that little village of Carcajou. The little children had made such good friends with her, and would have climbed all over her had their mother not reproved them; the very dogs had come up and rubbed against her, and put their muzzles in her lap. Two of them were but half-grown pups. And best of all the big-hearted and full-bosomed mother of the family always spoke in words that were so friendly, even affectionate. It had been a wonderful vision of a better world from which she did not want to awaken too soon.

In the meanwhile Hugo had been compelled, not without a wry face, to swallow the bitter potion Mrs. Papineau had prepared for him.

“I think I’ll be going,” he remarked.

“You rest one leetle time yet,” ordered the 177 housewife. “You haf noding for to do. Feel better soon when you rest after de medicine. You no ’urry.”

Perhaps nothing loath he had sat down again, with his chair tilted back a little till the back rested on the table. Madge was sitting nearly in front of him, with her back slightly turned, and he could see the tightly pinned mass of the hair he had seen flooding her shoulders in his shack, and the comely curve of her neck as she leaned forward, staring into the fire. For a time this drove away the pain that was in his wounded arm and the hot, throbbing feeling of discomfort that it gave him. What irked him was the realization of the tragedy brought to this girl somehow and the understanding of all that she must have suffered.

Hugo had not always lived in the wilderness. He also had been of the town during a period of his life, until the longing had come for the greater freedom of the open spaces, of the regions which in their greatness bring forth the sturdier qualities of manhood.

He was thinking of the scorn that had been in her voice when she had told him of the fierce impulse that had bidden her escape from the bondage of carking poverty and care. It had only resulted in bringing disappointment 178 and the shame, the outraged womanhood that had burned upon her cheeks. And this appealed to him with an irresistible force since that effort on her part showed that she at least possessed courage and the readiness to go far afield in search of an avenue of escape. Weaker souls would long ago have given up the fight.

He had just tried to begin an explanation and find the truth out from her, but she had shaken her head and said it was useless. She did not understand; how could she? Yet he had been sorely disappointed. It had scarcely been a rebuff on her part for she had spoken gently enough, in that low despairing voice of hers. He must wait another and better occasion and hope that he would be able to clear himself of wrongdoing.

At this time a man’s practical nature suggested to him the thought that she must be very poor––that she had perhaps expended her last resources in coming to Carcajou. If this was the case, what would it avail for him to take her back to the railway? What would happen to her then? He could not allow her to depart without finding out how such matters stood, and he wondered in what manner he could make her accept some money and how he could make amends to her for the injury 179 she had sustained at some unknown individual’s hands. But the more he puzzled his brain the less he could discover any efficient way of coming to her assistance. She had said that every bit of pride had been torn from her, but he knew that this was not altogether true. The flashing of her eyes and the indignation of her voice had contradicted her words efficiently. She would probably resent his offer, refuse to accept anything from him. Yet, if he managed to persuade her that he was guiltless, it was possible....