"Dear child, you're freezing."
"I'm not cold, it's cramp."
She must have fallen through the snow which covered our water-hole, for she was literally incased in ice up to the breasts.
Finding I had not strength to carry her, I shouted for the nurse, who roused Billy, and then the Chinaman. Together we carried her indoors, gave her brandy, and laid her, dressed as she was, in Captain Taylor's bath. Then while Billy rode hard for a doctor, nurse and I filled the bath with freezing water, which for eight hours we kept renewed with ice. Drawn gently from her body, the frost formed a film of ice upon the surface, but she assured me that she felt quite warm, without the slightest pain. To sustain her I gave liquid food at intervals, and quite clear now in her mind, even cheerfully she trusted me with her story.
She told me of a village among vineyards, overlooking Lake Ontario, just where a creek comes tumbling down from the Niagara heights. Her father, a retired minister, wasted his narrow means in trying to raise the proper grapes for sacramental wine. Mother was dead, and nine small children had to be fed and clothed, to appear with decency at church and school, so that they would not be ashamed among the neighbors. "You see," she added primly, "I'm the eldest, the only one grown up, so, of course, I couldn't be spared to stay at college." And there was little to earn in the village, much to do taking a mother's place.
Then Uncle John found an advertisement in the paper. A governess was wanted for four children somewhere in British Columbia. The wages were so generous that there would be enough to spare for helping father. It meant so much of proper food, and good warm clothing for the younger children. So references were exchanged with Mr. Brooke, who wrote most charming letters, and Uncle John lent money for the journey. My little schoolma'am pursed her lips severely over that loan, which must be repaid by instalments. Then her eyes shone with tears, and her face quivered, all the scholastic manner quite gone, for she spoke of the sad parting with everybody she loved, then of the long nights, the lonely days of that endless journey across the continent.
Mr. Brooke met Jenny at Ashcroft, and took her by sleigh nearly a hundred miles, getting more and more familiar and horrid until, in a state of wild fear of him, she ran for safety into a drunken riot at Spite House. The waitresses were rude and cruel, Polly lay drunk on the floor. There were no children.
Afterward I learned from Mr. Eure that I was a prejudiced witness, without a shred of evidence, that no court would listen to hearsay, and that the dying girl's confession would not be allowed in court except it were made under oath before a magistrate. Poor Jenny would never have told any man what happened at Spite House; she would not have given the last sane moments of her life to vengeance; and so there was no case against either Brooke or Polly in a crime which had earned them penal servitude.
Vengeance? I think our prayers together did more good, and when the time came for Jenny's removal to a bed of lint soaked in carbolic oil, she was prepared to face the coming pain.
"Shall I die?" she asked. I could only kiss her.