She was looking steadily3 at the man, and as she looked her heart beat a little faster, for the wilderness4 had taught her a quick and definite understanding of the story she saw written in the wild face among the willows7. Its tragedy flashed upon her before her parted lips had found words—hunger, sickness, the emaciation8 and weakness of a man who found less discomfort9 upon his hands and knees than upon his feet.
As she looked at him a change came into his face that the man himself could feel as there swept over him a slow and inundating10 sense of shame. Every instinct of chivalry11 in him revolted at the ridiculous and alarming figure he must be making of himself. But even in this moment of surprise and distress12 he did not entirely13 lose his sense of humor. He tried to smile. The effort was nothing short of pathos14.
[194]
"I beg your pardon," he said as he rose a little unsteadily to his feet and came out of the willows. His raggedness15 and the coarse stubble on his face could not conceal17 the consciousness of pride with which he straightened himself and bowed to her. "I have come upon you like a wolf, and I know I look like a wolf. But I assure you I am as harmless as a sheep, and if you don't mind dividing your carrots with me——" He nodded toward the little yellow pile of carrots she had brought for her beaver2 pets.
His voice was pleasant. It made her think of Father Albanel, and as he spoke18 a smile was in his eyes and on his pale lips. She went quickly to his side and put a hand on his arm. Its firm young touch seemed to steady him.
"What has happened?" she asked. "You look——"
"Sick—and a little mad," he finished for her, when she hesitated. "But I'm mostly hungry, and if I may have the carrots——"
She helped him to the foot of the tree and he dropped down beside it with a weakness that made him hunch19 his shoulders in disgust.
"I have something better than carrots," she said. "Please sit here and I will get it."
She hurried across the little meadow to a deeper shade of thick-growing jack20 pines on the farther side, and the man turned his head to follow her movements with his eyes. Her beauty was twisting at something in his heart. A long time ago he had known someone like[195] her. The slim figure, walking swiftly across the open, took him back twenty years, and he could almost hear a sweet voice calling his name, and in a place very much like this, with the coolness of the wilderness all about and the sun shining through the trees. His hand touched the scrub of beard on his face and he shivered. The thought came to him that the girl was afraid of him and was running away. As she disappeared among the banksians he reached for one of the raw carrots and began to eat it.
Mona returned so quietly that he did not hear her until she was at his side. She brought a basket and a small pail of cold spring-water. She spread a napkin on his lap and loaded it with the contents of the basket. He was sensitively conscious of her eyes upon him and he tried not to appear ravenous21 as he began with meat and bread.
"I'm spoiling your picnic, child," he said, speaking to her feebly like a man who was very old. "I'm sorry."
"You're not spoiling it," she cried, leaning toward him with a gesture full of sweet tenderness. "Oh, I have been so happy today—God has made me happier by bringing me here in time to help you!"
"Happy," he whispered, as if to himself. "It is wonderful to be happy. I have known—what it is."
It was her struggle to appear natural now as he ate. She had never been so intimately close to starvation and pathos and weakness in man.
[196]
"Were you lost?" she asked.
He caught quickly at her suggestion. "Yes, lost—in the woods and the swamps between the railroad and here. I was trying to find a place called Five Fingers."
She gave a little exclamation22. "I'm from Five Fingers. It is not far. Uncle Pierre calls it a mile and a half."
Mona wondered at the strange silence which came over the man, and the suddenness with which his hunger seemed to be satisfied.
"You have been an angel to me," he said, when he had finished. "And—things love you. Even the wild creatures." He was looking at the baby beavers, humped into furry23 balls at the edge of the pond. "You called one of them Peterkin, and the old beaver Peter. I wonder—why?"
"And there is a bear cub24 I call Pete," she added. "It is because—"
"Yes——"
Her eyes were shining.
"Because I am going to marry a man whose name is Peter."
It did not seem strange to her that she should be confessing the secret of her happiness to a man she had never seen before.
There was something in his eyes which made her want him to know, a mysterious gentleness that seemed to plead for her confidence and her friendship. It gave her a pleasurable thrill to tell someone that she loved[197] Peter and was going to be his wife. And this man was unlike any other who had ever come from the outside world into the wilderness isolation25 of Five Fingers.
In his rags and misfortune and his whitening hair and pale, thin face, she saw something which stirred more than her pity. And it was more than faith.
Just what it was, in that moment, she did not know. She was puzzled by the tremor26 which ran through his body coincident with her mention of Peter.
"And this Peter——" he began feverishly27. The words seemed to choke in his throat, and he passed a hand over his eyes as if to wipe away a mist. Then he said: "He is a lucky lad. Is his name Peter McRae?"
"Yes. How did you know?"
"And—you love him?"
She nodded. "I was only thirteen then, but I loved him the first day he came to Five Fingers and fought Aleck Curry28 for me. Aleck was a bully29 and was pulling my hair."
The mysterious stranger bent30 his gray head so that she could not see his face. "That was six years ago last May, in the afternoon. And—Peter—did he ever tell you about—his father?"
"Yes, that same night. It was in the edge of the forest, and it was growing dark. He had brought a letter from his father to Simon McQuarrie, and Simon had told him the truth. He said his father had killed a man—accidentally—a long time ago, but that the[198] police wouldn't believe it was an accident and were after him, and would hang him if he was caught. And ever since then——"
She was at his side, staring at him as he slowly raised his head, the color gone from her face and her white throat beating with the sudden mad pounding in her breast. "Ever since that night—that very hour—we have prayed together for Peter's father to come back. And you—you——"
He could not escape the wild questioning in her eyes and their demand to be answered.
"Would you have me Peter's father?" he asked uncertainly. "This way—an outlaw—ragged16—dirty—a beggar——"
There was an almost tragic31 note of hopefulness in his voice.
"Yes," she cried, her voice breaking in excited entreaty32 from her lips. "If you are Peter's father, tell me. We have waited. And I have told him you would come. Oh, I have promised him that, and have asked God every night to make it come true. Are you——" Her hands were reaching out to him.
"Yes, I am Peter's father."
There was no flash of joy or pride in his acknowledgment of the truth. His head sank upon his breast as if a sudden weariness had overcome him, and a moan of protest was in his voice. And then a thing happened which swept the bitterness and grief from Donald McRae's heart. He caught a glimpse of Mona's face,[199] gloriously flushed in this moment of her answered prayer; and then her arms were about him, her soft cheek against his rough stubble of beard, and for an instant he felt the swift pressure of her lips against his.
He raised his hand and touched her hair. "Child," he cried brokenly, "dear child——"
She sprang up from him, half laughing and half sobbing33, and ran out from under the mountain ash tree and stood in the edge of the clearing. With her hands in the form of a megaphone she called: "Peter! Peter! Oh, Peter!"
With a protesting cry he climbed to his feet and went to her. She saw the white, almost frightened look in his face and eyes. "Don't do that!" he exclaimed. "For God's sake—don't! Peter must not know I am here."
In her amazement34 her hands fell slowly from her face to her side. "Why?" she demanded.
"Because——" He stopped, listening to a voice that came faintly from out of the forest.
"That is Peter," said Mona. "We are going to eat our picnic supper here—at the pool."
"It is Peter—coming——"
"Yes."
He tried to breathe steadily, tried to speak calmly as he took her hand and stroked it with nervous gentleness. "What is your name?"
"Mona Guyon."
[200]
"Mona—Guyon. It is a pretty name. And you are sweet and good and beautiful. Peter's mother was like you. And—I am glad you love my boy." A new strength seemed to possess him.
The voice came again out of the forest, a little nearer this time, and Donald McRae held the girl's hand closer, and a tremor went through him as he smiled at her in the way he used to smile at his boy in the old days of their comradeship and happiness.
"That is my call," he said evenly. "Peter's mother and I used it twenty years ago, and afterward35 I taught it to Peter. It carries a long distance in the woods."
It was not his poverty and his weakness that affected36 Mona most. Something more than pity overwhelmed her—his forced calmness, the strange light in his eyes, the almost superhuman fight he was making to rise up out of his rags and his misery37 in the most tragic hours that could have come into his life. His words and his appearance set her heart pounding fiercely. She was a little frightened and wanted to put her arms about him again and hold him until Peter came. What did he mean?
"Why mustn't Peter know you are here?" she demanded. "Why?"
He led her back in the willows. In a moment they were hidden.
"Are you brave enough to hear? And do you love Peter enough to help—me?" he asked her.
"Yes, yes, I will help you."
[201]
He stood so that he could look out of the willows and across the meadow through which Peter would come. A moment of despair and hopelessness twisted the muscles of his face.
"He must not see me," he said in a voice that was hardly more than a strained whisper. "Child, you must understand—you most of all. Don't you know why I ran away from Peter that day near Five Fingers, and sent him on to Simon McQuarrie? It was so Peter might have a chance in life that he never could have with me, even if I escaped the law. I, too, have prayed—every day and every night through the years that have been more than eternities for me; prayed that good and happiness might come to him, and that in time even the memory of his father would wear away. But never for an instant have I been able to forget my boy. He has been a part of my soul and body, walking with me, sleeping with me, sitting with me beside my hidden camp-fires at night, until at times the desire to see him once more was so strong in me that it almost drove me mad. And all this time I was hunted, running from place to place, living in swamps and hidden depths of the forests, avoiding men and places of habitation—but with Peter always at my side, just as he looked that last terrible day at the edge of Five Fingers when he pleaded with me to take him along——"
His lips trembled and a shiver ran through his body.
"And through those years Peter was with you—Peter[202] and I," replied the girl. "Summer nights we used to ask the moon where you were, and when it was cold and stormy we—we prayed. And on Christmas—Peter always got a present—for you."
A joyous38 light passed over his haggard face. "You thought of me—on Christmas?"
"Yes, always. And Peter asked me to keep the presents carefully in my cedar39 chest, for we knew you would come back some day. And now——"
It was Peter's voice that came to them again, much nearer. Donald's arms fell away from the girl, but she raised her face quickly and kissed him. Her eyes were filled with tears.
"Peter is wondering why I do not answer. Please—please——"
In his indecision he bowed his face in his hands. It was with an effort that he shook himself free of temptation.
"I must tell you quickly, and you must understand," he said desperately40. "The police are close after me again. That is why I was in the great swamp to the north—to get away from them. If I come back into Peter's life now it can only be for a few hours, and you know what it will mean—a fresh tragedy for him, a new grief, pain, disgrace, a black cloud of unhappiness over the paradise which you have made and can make for him. I have come back to see him, to look at him, to carry away a new picture of him in my heart. But he must not know. And if you love Peter—if you care a[203] little for what is in the heart of his father—you will make it possible for me to look upon my boy. I will hide here, in the willows; and you two, there under the ash tree——"
"It is wrong," broke in Mona. "Oh, it is terribly wrong!"
"No, it is right," he persisted. "It will make me happy—to see him so near to me, hear his voice and know that life and God and you have been good to him. If I see Peter, child, if his hands touch me, if we are together again—it may cost me my life. For those things would hold me; I could not go away again after that, and the police are near, very near, and if they should catch me——"
The sag41 that came into his shoulders gave eloquence42 to the thing which he did not finish, and Mona's eyes burned with a fire which dried up her tears. "If I bring Peter down there, under the tree, will you promise not to go away until I have seen you again?" she asked.
"Yes, I promise that."
"Even if it is tomorrow, or the next day?"
"I will wait."
It was hard for him to lie, looking into the beautiful eyes that were fixed43 upon him so steadily. But he did it splendidly; so well that Mona did not guess the falsehood back of his last great fight.
She turned from him swiftly with her face toward the meadow.
"I will bring Peter—down there," she said.
[204]
She ran to the mountain ash tree and in a few breathless seconds rearranged the luncheon44 basket and tossed half eaten bits of food into the pond. Then she hurried across the meadow. Peter's call came to her again, and this time she answered it. In the deep shade on the farther side of the meadow she stopped and pressed her hands to her face. Her cheeks were hot. She was fighting against a sense of overwhelming guilt45, for in this hour, this very minute, she knew she was not only betraying Peter, but committing the sacrilege of repudiating46 answered prayer. And Peter must not know!
He could not fail to see her excitement, unless—she laughed softly as the old, sweet thought came to her. Peter loved her hair. He loved to see it down, as on that first day six years ago when he came upon her in the edge of the forest near Five Fingers. She paused again, and her fingers worked swiftly among its lustrous47 coils until they fell about her. Peter would guess nothing now—when she came to him like this, in a way that shut his eyes to all the rest of the world.
She could hear him coming through the brush. He was running, and she guessed at the alarm which was urging him because she had failed to answer his calls until that last time, when she knew her voice had not sent forth48 the old cry in just the way it should have greeted Peter.
She stood very still, so that when Peter leaped over a fallen tree not twenty paces away from her he did not see her. He stopped, his head thrown back, breathing[205] quickly, and listening; and in this moment Mona recalled the other day of years ago when he came into the cutting near Five Fingers and found her struggling with Aleck Curry, the bully of the settlement.
He was the same Peter, only now he was a man. His hair had not darkened and his eyes were the same blue. He was the clean-cut, fearless, sensitive Peter who had gone into battle for her against a boy nearly twice his weight and years older. The years had given a splendid change to his body. He was still slim, like the old Peter, and there was a litheness49 and alertness in him which filled her with pride. She held her breath, watching him, and exulted50 when she saw the anxiety in his face. Then he called again, and in the moment of silence which followed she suddenly clapped her hands and laughed.
Peter turned in amazement, and when he saw her standing5 as she was, with her long hair streaming about her, he drew in a deep breath, and the blood surged into his tense face as he came to her. The happiness which swept his anxiety away brought a responsive glow of joy into her eyes, and as she held out her arms to him she forgot for a moment the man hidden among the willows near the mountain ash tree. For a little while Peter held her so close she could feel the thumping51 of his heart, and not until he had kissed her hair and her lips did he seem to have breath to ask why she had not answered his calls.
"To punish you for making me wait so long at[206] the pond," she said. "But"—she raised a soft tress to his lips—"I was sorry, at the last moment, and did this for you, Peter. Will you forgive me?"
She was thinking of Donald McRae again, and slipping her hand into Peter's, she led him toward the pond. And Peter, in the sweetness and joy of her presence, guessed nothing because her fingers tightened52 in his hand or because her breath came more quickly than usual.
They drew nearer to the ash tree and the willows. She knew that Donald McRae was now looking upon the face of his boy; she could see the clump53 of twisted bushes behind which he was hidden, and caught a movement in their tops, as if an animal or a breath of wind had disturbed them.
They were under the ash tree when she flung back her hair, no longer making an effort to hide from Peter the distress in her face. He was shocked, even a little terrified at her appearance. Involuntarily her glance went beyond him to the thicket54 which concealed55 Donald McRae. It was only a few steps away, and she knew Peter's father could distinctly hear what they said. Then she looked at Peter again, and smiled gently at his suspense56 as she raised one of his hands to her lips in the soft caress57 that always wiped away his troubles. And in that same moment she drew him a step nearer to the willows.
"Something happened before you came," she said, speaking so that Donald McRae would not lose a word[207] of what she was saying. "I think I must have had a—a—dream—and it was terrible!" She shuddered58, and listened to the breaking of a twig59 in the willows. "I am foolish to let it frighten me."
His arms were about her, his fingers smoothing back her shining hair as relief leaped into his face.
"You were asleep, Ange—with me bursting my throat to make you hear from the forest?"
She did not answer his question. Instead, she said: "Peter, you have not lied to me? You believe in prayer?"
He bent his lips to her white forehead. "Yes, Ange, and yours most of all. God has answered you, and always will."
"And we have prayed a long time for your father to come back?"
He nodded wonderingly. "Yes, a long time."
She spoke slowly then, and her words were for Donald McRae and not for Peter.
"And if your father does not come, if you never see him again, your faith in the God we have prayed to for so long will be a little broken, will it not, Peter?"
She waited, holding her breath for fear even that sound might come between Peter's answer and the man in the bushes.
"He will come—some day—Mona."
"That was what he promised you—the day he sent you on alone to Five Fingers, and ran away from you? And you have always told me that next to your faith[208] in God you believed in your father. You have never thought that he lied to you that day in the edge of the forest?"
He stared at her, speechless, and in that moment she faced the willows with a glow of triumph in her eyes.
"Down in the little church at Five Fingers Father Albanel has always taught us not to lie and to be true to our promise," she said, speaking directly at the willows. "Peter, if your father should break his faith, or I should break mine, it would be terrible. And that is what happened—in my vision—and it has frightened me." She rested her cheek against his arm so he could not see her face. "I was here—under the tree—when in this vision your father came. He was ragged and tired and sick—and so hungry he ate carrots I brought for the beavers. He had come just to look at you, Peter, but not to let you know. He said it would make you unhappy; that it was best for you that he should never come into your life again—and he made me promise not to tell you that he was here.
"And I promised. I did—I promised him I would be a traitor60 to you, after all the years we have waited for him, and prayed for him, and believed in him."
Her arms crept up to his shoulders. "If I should do a thing like that God would never forgive me, and you—if some day you found out what I had done—would never have faith in me again. Would you?"
She hid her face against his shoulder, her heart beating wildly, her body trembling. For she had seen[209] another movement in the willows and she was afraid that Donald McRae was going away.
"It was only a dream," Peter was saying, holding his arms closely about her. "You are not afraid of dreams, Mona?"
And then from behind them came a voice.
"God forgive me my weakness!" it cried. "Peter—Peter——"
Donald McRae stood out in the open at the edge of the willow6 thicket. He had forgotten the rags and mud that covered him, and was no longer a fugitive61 with the lines of a hunted man in his face. The present was for a space obliterated—the present with its menace of the law, its exhaustion62 and its poverty; and he was standing once more in the warm glow of that day of six years ago when he had said good-by to Peter. In those seconds, when Peter stood shocked into deathlike stillness by the sound of the voice behind him, Mona could see Donald McRae with his outreaching arms; but as Peter turned slowly, facing his father, the strain broke in a hot flood of tears that blinded her vision.
And then——
"Dad!"
It was the strangest cry she had ever heard from Peter's lips, and with an answer to that cry in her own choking breast she turned away as the two men came into each other's arms. She passed out of sight along the edge of the pond, scarcely seeing the path ahead[210] of her, and unconsciously she kept repeating Peter's name in a whisper, as if—even though she had prayed so long for this hour to come—she had never quite expected its fulfilment.
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1
beavers
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| 海狸( beaver的名词复数 )； 海狸皮毛； 棕灰色； 拼命工作的人 | |
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beaver
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| n.海狸，河狸 | |
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3
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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8
emaciation
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| n.消瘦，憔悴，衰弱 | |
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9
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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10
inundating
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| v.淹没( inundate的现在分词 )；（洪水般地）涌来；充满；给予或交予（太多事物）使难以应付 | |
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11
chivalry
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| n.骑士气概，侠义；（男人）对女人彬彬有礼，献殷勤 | |
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12
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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15
raggedness
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| 破烂，粗糙 | |
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ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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18
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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hunch
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| n.预感，直觉 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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ravenous
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| adj.极饿的，贪婪的 | |
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exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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furry
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| adj.毛皮的；似毛皮的；毛皮制的 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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feverishly
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| adv. 兴奋地 | |
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curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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bully
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| n.恃强欺弱者，小流氓；vt.威胁，欺侮 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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entreaty
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| n.恳求，哀求 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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amazement
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| n.惊奇，惊讶 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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cedar
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| n.雪松，香柏(木) | |
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40
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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41
sag
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| v.下垂，下跌，消沉；n.下垂，下跌，凹陷，[航海]随风漂流 | |
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42
eloquence
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| n.雄辩；口才，修辞 | |
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43
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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44
luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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45
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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46
repudiating
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| v.（正式地）否认( repudiate的现在分词 )；拒绝接受；拒绝与…往来；拒不履行（法律义务） | |
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47
lustrous
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| adj.有光泽的；光辉的 | |
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48
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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49
litheness
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50
exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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51
thumping
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| adj.重大的，巨大的；重击的；尺码大的；极好的adv.极端地；非常地v.重击(thump的现在分词)；狠打；怦怦地跳；全力支持 | |
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52
tightened
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| 收紧( tighten的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）变紧； （使）绷紧； 加紧 | |
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53
clump
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| n.树丛，草丛；vi.用沉重的脚步行走 | |
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54
thicket
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| n.灌木丛，树林 | |
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55
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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56
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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57
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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58
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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59
twig
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| n.小树枝，嫩枝；v.理解 | |
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60
traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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61
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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62
exhaustion
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| n.耗尽枯竭，疲惫，筋疲力尽，竭尽，详尽无遗的论述 | |
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