"It can never make me forget," and Beryl gazed thoughtfully into the fire as she spoke. "I can never forget him, and I don't want to now. No matter what people say, I cannot believe that he is a bad man, even though he has fallen and is an outcast from the Church. Oh, Lois, do you know I had the feeling to-night that he was near me during service. It was only a fancy, of course, but it seemed so real. Since then I have the idea that somewhere, sometime, I shall meet him, that we shall understand each other, and that all will be well."
"God grant it so, dear," her sister fervently replied. "If it will comfort you in your work hold fast to that hope."
CHAPTER III
A WILDERNESS WAIF
The great Mackenzie River flowed with a strong and steady sweep on its way to the Arctic Sea. Two boats floated upon its surface, bearing northward, manned for the most part by half-breeds and Indians. Employees were they in the service of the notable Fur Trading Company, which for long years had ruled this wilderness land. For weeks these men had been pushing their way along this stream, contending with rocks, rapids, and portages. Their work was hard, but they did it with a rollicking good humour, and took every difficulty as all in the day's labour.
Martin Rutland worked as hard as the rest though he talked but little. A spirit of elation grew within him as they advanced into the great silent region. He rejoiced at the work, no matter how hard it might be. He had little time for thought during the day, but at night in camp he would sit somewhat apart and consider the new life which was now opening up to him. He seldom joined in talk with his companions, and they did not interfere with him in any way. This strange, silent, hard-working man was a mystery to both half-breeds and Indians alike. It was only when he brought forth his violin and began to play that they would gather eagerly around him. Music has charms when produced by a master, and such was Rutland. But never does it seem so entrancing as out in the open on a calm evening beneath the branches of the tall, over-shadowing trees. There is a mystic plaintiveness about the sound of a violin on such an occasion. Rutland's music was generally in a minor key. It expressed his inmost feelings, and often as he played the naturally superstitious half-breed would glance apprehensively among the shadowy trees. It awed them by its strange weirdness like wailing spirits, lost, wandering, and seeking vainly for refuge and peace. At other times Rutland would play bright airs and snatches of old songs, which delighted the hearts of his companions and banished their feeling of fear.
Each day of progress brought to Rutland a greater feeling of exultation. At last he was free from all influence of the Church which had cast him out. Here in this barren region he could live like the natives, free from care. He would seek some far-off band, and become one of them. He had read much about the Indians, and their picturesque life had always appealed to him most strongly. He would watch his opportunity, steal away, and live and die in their midst, more of an outcast than they.
At times he thought about the Church to which he had once belonged, and a contemptuous sneer always curled his lips when he thought of it. Lying among the trees, he often wondered how he had ever endured the thraldom of bygone days. He remembered how particular he had been about the observance of the slightest rule. In the performance of his duties he had followed the rubrics of the Prayer Book with the most punctilious care. The slightest deviation from the rules laid down filled him with much concern. Special days had been kept with great regularity, and the command of his bishop was as his conscience. But now all was changed. The solemn vows he had taken did not trouble him in the least, and the Church was to him merely a name. Neither did the sin which had driven him forth disturb him. The spirit of rebellion had reigned in his heart during all the years of his wandering life. He believed that he had been unjustly treated. He did not blame himself, but others. He thought of his comrades in the Ministry, and a feeling of pity and superiority came into his heart. He pictured them moving in their narrow, petty circle as of old, and he asked himself what did it all amount to anyway. The spell of the wilderness was now upon him, and he longed for the voyage to end. He would abandon the boat when it had reached its most northerly destination. Then, when his companions had started back, he would plunge into regions beyond and become lost forever to the world of civilization.
One evening after a hard day's work they came to a small Indian encampment just below a dangerous rapid. They had much difficulty in overcoming this turbulent piece of water, and very glad were they to rest after their arduous exertions. They found the Indians in a state of great excitement, the cause of which was soon apparent. That very day a young fur-trader and his wife had been drowned in an attempt to shoot the rapid in a canoe. Their little child, a girl of four years, had been rescued by the natives, and taken to their encampment. The woman's body was recovered, but of the man no trace could be found.
Rutland, with several of his companions, entered the lodge where the body of the unfortunate woman was lying. As he drew back the deer-skin robe which had been placed over her still form, he was surprised at the young and beautiful face which was presented to view. He stood there for some time after the rest of the men had taken a hurried look and departed. He could not get the face of the dead woman out of his mind, and he awoke in the deep of the night thinking that she was standing by his side. In his dream he beheld her, and she was pointing with her finger to something lying at his feet, which he saw to be a little child.
The Indian women had taken good care of the rescued child, and she awoke from a sound sleep none the worse for her cold plunge into the river the day before. Opening her eyes, she expected to see the loved faces of her parents looking down fondly upon her. Her bright, happy expression changed to one of terror when she saw instead the dusky native women bending over her. Wildly she called for her mother, but alas! for the first time in her young life her mother did not respond with loving words, nor hurry to her side.
Rutland, hearing the cry of terror, hastened to the lodge and entered. Why he did so he could not tell. He did not stop to analyse his feelings, but acted merely upon the impulse of the moment. It was sufficient for him to know that the little one was in distress and needed assistance. A large Indian woman was holding the child in her arms when Rutland appeared. Several squaws were gathered around trying to soothe her. But the more they talked in the native tongue the more terrified the child became. Rutland stood for an instant just within the entrance of the lodge. He saw the little girl, her face distorted with fear, struggling madly to free herself, and pleading vainly for her mother. Not for years had Rutland's heart been so stirred. He stepped quickly forward and reached out his hands to the child. The latter saw him and, intuitively realising that here was one who could be trusted, endeavoured to go to him, while a sob of relief escaped her lips. Rutland caught her in his arms, folded her to his breast, and began to calm her with words of comfort.
"Hush, hush, little one," he soothed, as he stroked her silken hair. "You are safe with me, so don't cry any more."
"Mamma, mamma. I want my mamma," wailed the child.
Rutland knew not how to reply. He was little accustomed to the ways of children, so all he could do was to hold her close to his breast and tell her that she was safe. Ere long his words had the desired effect, and soon she remained quietly in his arms looking up into his face with big, wondering eyes. Passing forth from the lodge, Rutland sat down upon the trunk of a fallen tree just outside the door. He placed the child upon his knee, and began to talk to her. He pointed out to her a squirrel sitting upon the branch of a jack-pine not far off. The child's eyes grew bright, her face beamed with pleasure, and she clapped her hands with delight. In a few moments they were the firmest of friends, and soon they started off in search of the chattering squirrel. It was a balmy morning, with not a ripple upon the surface of the river. A new feeling of peace stole into Rutland's heart as he walked by the side of the child with her soft hand in his. She was