I am sure that was the thought of all of us; our good nights were not the merry ones of the last two months. We were saddened at the thought that he might not be with us again.

For a moment or two Mr. Ewart and I stood alone by the embers of the camp fire; he was covering them with ashes.

"Thank you for your promise. I don't care about experiencing another hour like that when I was crossing the lake this afternoon, with a young cyclone on its way. I have lost so much of life--I cannot lose you."

His speech was abrupt; his voice low, but tense with emotion.

"There will be no need of losing me. I will keep my promise." I spoke lightly, but I knew he knew the significance of my words, as I knew that of his, for with those words I gave myself to him. I felt intuitively that he would not speak of love to me, until he had broken completely with that past to which in thought he was still, in part, a slave. I was willing to wait patiently for his entire emanc.i.p.ation.

XXVIII

"Marcia," said the Doctor one morning, after he had been enjoying, apparently, every minute of his vacation-life in the open, "will you come with me over the north trail as far as Ewart and Andre have made it? I want to show you something I found there the other day."

Before I could answer, Jamie spoke:

"How about your _solitude a deux_ principle, Doctor?"

"It is wise to forget sometimes, Boy. Will you come this morning, Marcia?"

I promptly said I would. I saw that he was slightly ruffled at Jamie's innocent jest; indeed, ever since his arrival, the Doctor had not been wholly like his genial self. Mrs. Macleod noticed it and spoke of it to me.

"We don't realize, when we see him enjoying everything with the zest of a boy, how much he has on his mind. He told me the other day he must cut his vacation short; he is called to the Pacific coast for some of his special work."

I said nothing at the time, because I could not agree with her. I noticed that, at times, there was a slight constraint in his manner towards me--me who was willing for him to know all there was to know, except the fact that I loved his friend. I was convinced that he wanted to air his special knowledge of me with me alone; that after he had freed his mind to me, there would be no constraint.

Twice I caught him looking at Mr. Ewart, as if he were diagnosing his case, and I laughed inwardly. From time to time I surprised the same expression on his face when he was silent, smoking and, at the same time, watching me weave my baskets under the tutelage of a Montagnaise, the squaw of our postman. Mr. Ewart heard me express the wish to learn this handicraft, and within a week my teacher was provided. She remained in camp five days. Perhaps this opened the Doctor's eyes.

Perhaps Jamie had spoken with him about what was evident to all. The Doctor grew more and more silent, more thoughtful, less inclined to jest with me. Added to this was the thought that we must break camp sooner than Mr. Ewart had intended. The "homing sense" was making itself felt, for September was with us. We saw some land birds going over early, and the first frost was a heavy one.

The Doctor and I followed the north trail for half a mile; then the Doctor bade me rest, for it was rough going.

"Marcia," he said abruptly, sitting down in front of me, his back against a tree, his hands clasping his knees, "let's have it out."

I saw he felt ill at ease and could but wonder, for, after all, it was only I with whom he had to deal.

"I am ready. I 've only been waiting for you all these weeks."

"Do you know that I have been to Delia Beaseley for certain information?"

"Yes; she wrote me. I wrote her to tell you all she knew of me."

He seemed to breathe more freely after my speaking so frankly, as if I really would welcome anything he might have to say.

"Ah--this clears the atmosphere; we can talk. Of course, you know with Cale's story dovetailing so perfectly into what I told you on my first making acquaintance with you, I simply had to put two and two together; besides, your smile was a constant reminder of some one whom I had known or met--but whom I could not recall try as hard as I might. The result of it all was that I went to Delia Beaseley and put a few questions. Now,"--he hesitated a moment; he seemed to brace himself mentally in order to continue,--"do you know positively whether your father is living or dead? Have you ever known?"

"No; but dead to me even if living--that is why I said I was an orphan."

"I understand; but you don't know either the one or the other for a fact?"

"No; I have no idea."

"You never knew his name?"

"No; and none of the family knew it--you know what Cale said. He gave me the details for the first time."

"You do not know, then, that I have in my possession some papers that might give the name?"

"Yes; I know that. But I told Delia Beaseley not to mention that fact to you, or the papers in any way."

"Why?"

"_Why?_"

I think all the bitterness of my past must have been concentrated in the tone in which I uttered that syllable. He did not press for the reason, and I did not offer to give it.

"Did it ever occur to you that your father might be living?"

"I have no father, living or dead," I replied pa.s.sionately. "I own to no such possession. Does a man, simply because he chooses to pursue his pleasure, unmindful of results, acquire the right to fatherhood when he a.s.sumes no responsibility for his act?"

"Marcia, poor child, has life been so hard for you? Has nothing compensated for just living?"

He knew he was searching my very soul. I knew it; and the thought of my joy in life, in just living, because of my love that was filling every minute of the day and part of the night with a happiness so intense that, sometimes, I feared it could not endure from its sheer intensity, brought the tears to my eyes, softened my heart, turned for the moment the bitter to sweet.

I answered, but with lips that trembled in spite of my efforts at control: "Yes, there is compensation, full, free, abundant. For all that life has taken out of me, it has replaced ten thousand fold.

Perhaps I never had what we call 'life' till now."

"Oh, child, I have seen this happiness in your face--would to G.o.d I might add to it!" His face worked strangely with emotion. "Marcia, dear, I am the friend, but also the surgeon. I have to use the knife--"

"But not on me--not on me!" I cried out in protest. "Don't tell me you know who my father is or was--don't, if you are my friend; don't speak his name to me."

"Why not, Marcia?"

"I must not hear it; I will not hear it--will not, do you understand?

I am trying to forget that past, live in my present joy--don't, please don't tell me." I covered my eyes with my hands.

He drew down my hands from before my face.

"Listen, my dear girl. There are rights--your rights I have every reason to believe, and legal, as it seems to me. This whole matter involves a point of honor with me. Let me explain--don't shrink so from hearing me; I won't mention any names. Let me ask you a question:--Did Delia Beaseley tell you there was a marriage certificate among those papers?"

"Yes, but, thank G.o.d, she could not remember the name! It has been so many years--and all before I was born."

"But I know it. It stands in black and white, and through that unlying witness you have rights--that money, you know--"

"The 'conscience money'?"

"Yes."