“‘Do you suppose I’m going to live like an Injun when the other fellows has regular houses?’ inquired Black Andy, with a menacing air.
“‘By no means,’ replied the Doctor, blandly. ‘My plan is this: build at night.’
“‘At night?’
“‘Yes; by the light of pine fires.’
“We did. After that, we faithfully went out hunting and trapping as long as daylight lasted, and then, after supper, we built up huge fires of pine logs, and went to work on the next house. It was a strange picture: the forest deep in snow, black with night, the red glow of the great fires, and our moving figures working on as complacently as though daylight, balmy air, and the best of tools were ours.
“The Lady liked our industry. She said our new houses showed that the ‘new cleanliness of our inner man required a cleaner tabernacle for the outer.’ I don’t know about our inner man, but our outer was certainly much cleaner.
“One day the Flying Dutchman made one of his unfortunate remarks. ‘De boys t’inks you ’ll like dem better in nize houses,’ he announced when, happening to pass the fortress, he found the Lady standing at her gate gazing at the work of the preceding night. Several of the men were near enough to hear him, but too far off to kick him into silence as usual; but they glared at him instead. The Lady looked at the speaker with her dreamy, far-off eyes.
“‘De boys t’inks you like dem,’ began the Dutchman again, thinking she did not comprehend; but at that instant he caught the combined glare of the six eyes, and stopped abruptly, not at all knowing what was wrong, but sure there was something.
“‘Like them,’ repeated the Lady, dreamily; ‘yea, I do like them. Nay, more, I love them. Their souls are as dear to me as the souls of brothers.’
“‘Say, Frenchy, have you got a sister?’ said Nightingale Jack, confidentially, that evening.
“‘Mais oui,’ said Frenchy.
“‘You think all creation of her, I suppose?’
“‘We fight like four cats and one dog; she is the cats,’ said the Frenchman concisely.
“‘You don’t say so!’ replied Jack. ‘Now, I never had a sister,—but I thought perhaps—’ He paused, and the sentence remained unfinished.
“The Nightingale and I were house-mates. We sat late over our fire not long after that; I gave a gigantic yawn. ‘This lifting logs half the night is enough to kill one,’ I said, getting out my jug. ‘Sing something, Jack. It ’s a long time since I ’ve heard anything but hymns.’
“Jack always went off as easily as a music-box: you had only to wind him up; the jug was the key. I soon had him in full blast. He was giving out
‘The minute gun at sea,—the minute gun at sea,’
with all the pathos of his tenor voice, when the door burst open and the whole population rushed in upon us.
“‘What do you mean by shouting this way, in the middle of the night?’
“‘Shut up your howling, Jack.’
“‘How do you suppose any one can sleep?’
“‘It ’s a disgrace to the camp!’
“‘Now then, gentlemen,’ I replied, for my blood was up (whiskey, perhaps), ‘is this my house, or is n’t it? If I want music, I ’ll have it. Time was when you were not so particular.’
“It was the first word of rebellion. The men looked at each other, then at me.
“‘I ’ll go and ask her if she objects,’ I continued, boldly.
“‘No, no. You shall not.’
“‘Let him go,’ said the Doctor, who stood smoking his pipe on the outskirts of the crowd. ‘It is just as well to have that point settled now. The Minute Gun at Sea is a good moral song in its way,—a sort of marine missionary affair.’
“So I started, the others followed; we all knew that the Lady watched late; we often saw the glimmer of her lamp far on towards morning. It was burning now. The gate was fastened, I knocked; no answer. I knocked again, and yet a third time; still, silence. The men stood off at a little distance and waited. ‘She shall answer,’ I said angrily, and going around to the side where the stockade came nearer to the wall of the lodge, I knocked loudly on the close-set saplings. For answer I thought I heard a low moan; I listened, it came again. My anger vanished, and with a mighty bound I swung myself up to the top of the stockade, sprung down inside, ran around, and tried the door. It was fastened; I burst it open and entered. There, by the light of the hanging lamp, I saw the Lady on the floor, apparently dead. I raised her in my arms; her heart was beating faintly, but she was unconscious. I had seen many fainting fits; this was something different; the limbs were rigid. I laid her on the low couch, loosened her dress, bathed her head and face in cold water, and wrenched up one of the warm hearth-stones to apply to her feet. I did not hesitate; I saw that it was a dangerous case, something like a trance or an ‘ecstasis.’ Somebody must attend to her, and there were only men to choose from. Then why not I?
“I heard the others talking outside; they could not understand the delay; but I never heeded, and kept on my work. To tell the truth, I had studied medicine, and felt a genuine enthusiasm over a rare case. Once my patient opened her eyes and looked at me, then she lapsed away again into unconsciousness in spite of all my efforts. At last the men outside came in, angry and suspicious; they had broken down the gate. There we all stood, the whole forty of us, around the deathlike form of our Lady.
“What a night it was! To give her air, the men camped outside in the snow with a line of pickets in whispering distance from each other from the bed to their anxious group. Two were detailed to help me,—the Doctor (whose title was a sarcastic D. D.) and Jimmy, a gentle little man, excellent at bandaging broken limbs. Every vial in the camp was brought in,—astonishing lotions, drops, and balms; each man produced something; they did their best, poor fellows, and wore out the night with their anxiety. At dawn our Lady revived suddenly, thanked us all, and assured us that she felt quite well again; the trance was over. ‘It was my old enemy,’ she said, ‘the old illness of Scotland, which I hoped had left me forever. But I am thankful that it is no worse; I have come out of it with a clear brain. Sing a hymn of thankfulness for me, dear friends, before you go.’
“Now, we sang on Sunday in the church; but then she led us, and we had a kind of an idea that after all she did not hear us. But now, who was to lead us? We stood awkwardly around the bed, and shuffled our hats in our uneasy fingers. The Doctor fixed his eyes upon the Nightingale; Jack saw it and cowered. ‘Begin,’ said the Doctor in a soft voice; but gripping him in the back at the same time with an ominous clutch.
“‘I don’t know the words,’ faltered the unhappy Nightingale.
“‘Now thank we all our God,
With hearts and hands and voices,’
began the Doctor, and repeated Luther’s hymn with perfect accuracy from beginning to end. ‘What will happen next? The Doctor knows hymns!’ we thought in profound astonishment. But the Nightingale had begun, and gradually our singers joined in; I doubt whether the grand old choral was ever sung by such a company before or since. There was never any further question, by the way, about that minute gun at sea; it stayed at sea as far as we were concerned.
“Spring came, the faltering spring of Lake Superior. I won’t go into my own story, but such as it was, the spring brought it back to me with new force. I wanted to go,—and yet I did n’t. ‘Where,’ do you ask? To see her, of course,—a woman, the most beautiful,—well, never mind all that. To be brief, I loved her; she scorned me; I thought I had learned to hate her—but—I was n’t sure about it now. I kept myself aloof from the others and gave up my heart to the old sweet, bitter memories; I did not even go to church on Sundays. But all the rest went; our Lady’s influence was as great as ever. I could hear them singing; they sang better now that they could have the door open; the pent-up feeling used to stifle them. The time for the bateaux
drew near, and I noticed that several of the men were hard at work packing the furs in bales, a job usually left to the voyageurs who came with the boats. ‘What ’s that for?’ I asked.
“‘You don’t suppose we ’re going to have those bateaux rascals camping on Little Fishing, do you?’ said Black Andy, scornfully. ‘Where are your wits, Reub?’
“And they packed every skin, rafted them all over to the mainland, and waited there patiently for days, until the train of slow boats came along and took off the bales; then they came back in triumph. ‘Now we ’re secure for another six months,’ they said, and began to lay out a park, and gardens for every house. The Lady was fond of flowers; the whole town burst into blossom. The Lady liked green grass; all the clearing was soon turfed over like a lawn. The men tried the ice-cold lake every day, waiting anxiously for the time when they could bathe. There was no end to their cleanliness; Black Andy had grown almost white again, and Frenchy’s hair shone like oiled silk.
“The Lady stayed on, and all went well. But, gradually, there came a discovery. The Lady was changing,—had changed! Gradually, slowly, but none the less distinctly to the eyes that knew her every eyelash. A little more hair was visible over the white brow, there was a faint color in the cheeks, a quicker step; the clear eyes were sometimes downcast now, the steady voice softer, the words at times faltering. In the early summer the white cap vanished, and she stood among us crowned only with her golden hair; one day she was seen through her open door sewing on a white robe! The men noted all these things silently; they were even a little troubled as at something they did not understand, something beyond their reach. Was she planning to leave them?
“‘It ’s my belief she ’s getting ready to ascend right up into heaven,’ said Salem.
“Salem was a little ‘wanting,’ as it is called, and the men knew it; still, his words made an impression. They watched the Lady with an awe which was almost superstitious; they were troubled, and knew not why. But the Lady bloomed on. I did not pay much attention to all this; but I could not help hearing it. My heart was moody, full of its own sorrows; I secluded myself more and more. Gradually I took to going off into the mainland forests for days on solitary hunting expeditions. The camp went on its way rejoicing; the men succeeded, after a world of trouble, in making a fountain which actually played, and they glorified themselves exceedingly. The life grew quite pastoral. There was talk of importing a cow from the East, and a messenger was sent to the Sault for certain choice supplies against the coming winter. But, in the late summer, the whisper went round again that the Lady had changed, this time for the worse. She looked ill, she drooped from day to day; the new life that had come to her vanished, but her former life was not restored. She grew silent and sad, she strayed away by herself through the woods, she scarcely noticed the men who followed her with anxious eyes. Time passed, and brought with it an undercurrent of trouble, suspicion, and anger. Everything went on as before; not one habit, not one custom was altered; both sides seemed to shrink from the first change, however slight. The daily life of the camp was outwardly the same, but brooding trouble filled every heart. There was no open discussion, men talked apart in twos and threes; a gloom rested over everything, but no one said, ‘What is the matter?’
“There was a man among us,—I have not said much of the individual characters of our party, but this man was one of the least esteemed, or rather liked; there was not much esteem of any kind at Little Fishing. Little was known about him; although the youngest man in the camp, he was a mooning, brooding creature, with brown hair and eyes and a melancholy face. He was n’t hearty and whole-souled, and yet he was n’t an out-and-out rascal; he was n’t a leader, and yet he was n’t follower either. He would n’t be; he was like a third horse, always. There was no goodness about him; don’t go to fancying that that was the reason the men did not like him; he was as bad as they were, every inch! He never shirked his work, and they could n’t get a handle on him anywhere; but he was just—unpopular. The why and the wherefore are of no consequence now. Well, do you know what was the suspicion that hovered over the camp? It was this: our Lady loved that man!
“It took three months for all to see it, and yet never a word was spoken. All saw, all heard; but they might have been blind and deaf for any sign they gave. And the Lady drooped more and more.
“September came, the fifteenth; the Lady lay on her couch, pale and thin; the door was open and a bell stood beside her, but there was no line of pickets whispering tidings of her state to an anxious group outside. The turf in the three streets had grown yellow for want of water, the flowers in the little gardens had drooped and died, the fountain was choked with weeds, and the interiors of the houses were all untidy. It was Sunday, and near the hour for service; but the men lounged about, dingy and unwashed.
“‘A’n’t you going to church?’ said Salem, stopping at the door of one of the houses; he was dressed in his best, with a flower in his button-hole.
“‘See him now! See the fool,’ said Black Andy. ‘He ’s going to church, he is! And where ’s the minister, Salem? Answer me that!’
“‘Why,—in the church, I suppose,’ replied Salem, vacantly.
“‘No, she a’n’t; not she! She ’s at home, a-weeping, and a-wailing, and a-ger-nashing of her teeth,’ replied Andy with bitter scorn.
“‘What for?’ said Salem.
“‘What for? Why, that ’s the joke! Hear him, boys; he wants to know what for!’
“The loungers laughed,—a loud, reckless laugh.
“‘Well, I ’m going any way,’ said Salem, looking wonderingly from one to the other; he passed on and entered the church.
“‘I say, boys, let ’s have a high old time,’ cried Andy, savagely. ‘Let ’s go back to the old way and have a jolly Sunday. Let ’s have out the jugs and the cards and be free again!’
“The men hesitated; ten months and more of law and order held them back.
“‘What are you afraid of?’ said Andy. ‘Not of a canting hypocrite, I hope. She ’s fooled us long enough, I say. Come on!’ He brought out a table and stools, and produced the long-unused cards and a jug of whiskey. ‘Strike up, Jack,’ he cried; ‘give us old Fiery-Eyes.’
“The Nightingale hesitated. Fiery-Eyes was a rollicking drinking song; but Andy put the glass to his lips and his scruples vanished in the tempting aroma. He began at the top of his voice, partners were chosen, and, trembling with excitement and impatience, like prisoners unexpectedly set free, the men gathered around, and made their bets.
“‘What born fools we ’ve been,’ said Black Andy, laying down a card.
“‘Yes,’ replied the Flying Dutchman, ‘porn fools!’ And he followed suit.
“But a thin white hand came down on the bits of colored pasteboard. It was our Lady. With her hair disordered, and the spots of fever in her cheeks, she stood among us again; but not as of old. Angry eyes confronted her, and Andy wrenched the cards from her grasp. ‘No, my Lady,’ he said, sternly; ‘never again!’
“The Lady gazed from one face to the next, and so all around the circle; all were dark and sullen. Then she bowed her head upon her hands and wept aloud.
“There was a sudden shrinking away on all sides, the players rose, the cards were dropped. But the Lady glided away, weeping as she went; she entered the church door and the men could see her taking her accustomed place on the platform. One by one they followed; Black Andy lingered till the last, but he came. The service began, and went on falteringly, without spirit, with palpable fears of a total breaking down which never quite came; the Nightingale sang almost alone, and made sad work with the words; Salem joined in confidently, but did not improve the sense of the hymn. The Lady was silent. But when the time for the sermon came she rose and her voice burst forth.
“‘Men, brothers, what have I done? A change has come over the town, a change has come over your hearts. You shun me! What have I done?’
“There was a grim silence; then the Doctor rose in his place and answered,—
“‘Only this, madam. You have shown yourself to be a woman.’
“‘And what did you think me?’
“‘A saint.’
“‘God forbid!’ said the Lady, earnestly. ‘I never thought myself one.’
“‘I know that well. But you were a saint to us; hence your influence. It is gone.’
“‘Is it all gone?’ asked the Lady, sadly.
“‘Yes. Do not deceive yourself; we have never been one whit better save through our love for you. We held you as something high above ourselves; we were content to worship you.’
“‘O no, not me!’ said the Lady, shuddering.
“‘Yes, you, you alone! But—our idol came down among us and showed herself to be but common flesh and blood! What wonder that we stand aghast? What wonder that our hearts are bitter? What wonder (worse than all!) that when the awe has quite vanished, there is strife for the beautiful image fallen from its niche?’
“The Doctor ceased, and turned away. The Lady stretched out her hands towards the others; her face was deadly pale, and there was a bewildered expression in her eyes.
“‘O, ye for whom I have prayed, for whom I have struggled to obtain a blessing,—ye whom I have loved so,—do ye desert me thus?’ she cried.
“‘You have deserted us,’ answered a voice.
“‘I have not.’
“‘You have,’ cried Black Andy, pushing to the front. ‘You love that Mitchell! Deny it if you dare!’
“There was an irrepressible murmur, then a sudden hush. The angry suspicion, the numbing certainty had found voice at last; the secret was out. All eyes, which had at first closed with the shock, were now fixed upon the solitary woman before them; they burned like coals.
“‘Do I?’ murmured the Lady, with a strange questioning look that turned from face to face,—‘do I?—Great God! I do.’ She sank upon her knees and buried her face in her trembling hands. ‘The truth has come to me at last,—I do!’
Constance Fenimore Woolson Page 16