 | Castle nowhere |  |
THE
LADY OF LITTLE FISHING.
IT was an island in Lake Superior.
I beached my canoe there about four o'clock in
the afternoon, for the wind was against me and a high
sea running. The late summer of 1850, and I was
coasting along the south shore of the great lake, hunting,
fishing, and camping on the beach, under the
delusion that in that way I was living “close to the
great heart of nature,” — whatever that may mean.
Lord Bacon got up the phrase; I suppose he knew.
Pulling the boat high and dry on the sand with the
comfortable reflection that here were no tides to disturb
her with their goings-out and comings-in, I strolled
through the woods on a tour of exploration, expecting
to find bluebells, Indian pipes, juniper rings, perhaps
a few agates along-shore, possibly a bird or two for
company. I found a town.
It was deserted; but none the less a town, with
three streets, residences, a meeting-house, gardens, a
little park, and an attempt at a fountain. Ruins are
rare in the New World; I took off my hat. “Hail,
thinking aloud when I was living close to the great
heart of nature.) “A human voice resounds through
your arches” (there were no arches, — logs won't arch;
but never mind) “once more, a human hand touches
your venerable walls, a human foot presses your deserted
hearth-stones.” I then selected the best half of
the meeting-house for my camp, knocked down one
of the homes for fuel, and kindled a glorious bonfire
in the park. “Now that you are illuminated with joy,
O Ruin,” I remarked, “I will go down to the beach
and bring up my supplies. It is long since I have
had a roof over my head; I promise you to stay until
your last residence is well burned; then I will make
a final cup of coffee with the meeting-house itself,
and depart in peace, leaving your poor old bones
buried in decent ashes.”
The ruin made no objection, and I took up my
abode there; the roof of the meeting-house was still
water-tight (which is an advantage when the great
heart of nature grows wet). I kindled a fire on the
sacerdotal hearth, cooked my supper, ate it in leisurely
comfort, and then stretched myself on a blanket to
enjoy an evening pipe of peace, listening meanwhile
to the sounding of the wind through the great pine-trees.
There was no door to my sanctuary, but I had
the cosey far end; the island was uninhabited, there
was not a boat in sight at sunset, nothing could disturb
came in.
It did not wear the traditional gray tarlatan armor
of Hamlet's father, the only ghost with whom I am
well acquainted; this spectre was clad in substantial
deer-skin garments, and carried a gun and loaded
game-bag. It came forward to my hearth, hung up
its gun, opened its game-bag, took out some birds,
and inspected them gravely.
“Fat?” I inquired.
“They 'll do,” replied the spectre, and forthwith set
to work preparing them for the coals. I smoked on
in silence. The spectre seemed to be a skilled cook,
and after deftly broiling its supper, it offered me a
share; I accepted. It swallowed a huge mouthful and
crunched with its teeth; the spell was broken, and
I knew it for a man of flesh and blood.
He gave his name as Reuben, and proved himself
an excellent camping companion; in fact, he shot all
the game, caught all the fish, made all the fires, and
cooked all the food for us both. I proposed to him
to stay and help me burn up the ruin, with the condition
that when the last timber of the meeting-house
was consumed, we should shake hands and depart,
one to the east, one to the west, without a backward
glance. “In that way we shall not infringe upon each
other's personality,” I said.
“Agreed,” replied Reuben.
He was a man of between fifty and sixty years,
while I was on the sunny side of thirty; he was
reserved, I was always generously affable; he was an
excellent cook, while I — well, I was n't; he was
taciturn, and so, in payment for the work he did, I
entertained him with conversation, or rather monologue,
in my most brilliant style. It took only two
weeks to burn up the town, burned we never so
slowly; at last it came the turn of the meeting-house,
which now stood by itself in the vacant clearing. It
was a cool September day; we cooked breakfast with
the roof, dinner with the sides, supper with the odds
and ends, and then applied a torch to the framework.
Our last camp-fire was a glorious one. We
lay stretched on our blankets, smoking and watching
the glow. “I wonder, now, who built the old shanty,”
I said in a musing tone.
“Well,” replied Reuben, slowly, “if you really want
to know, I will tell you. I did.”
“You!”
“Yes.”
“You did n't do it alone?”
“No; there were about forty of us.”
“Here?”
“Yes; here at Little Fishing.”
“Little Fishing?”
“Yes; Little Fishing Island. That is the name
of the place.”
“How long ago was this?”
“Thirty years.”
“Hunting and trapping, I suppose?”
“Yes; for the Northwest and Hudson Bay Companies.”
“Was n't a meeting-house an unusual accompaniment?”
“Most unusual.”
“Accounted for in this case by —”
“A woman.”
“Ah!” I said in a tone of relish; “then of course
there is a story?”
“There is.”
“Out with it, comrade. I scarcely expected to find
the woman and her story up here; but since the irrepressible
creature would come, out with her by all
means. She shall grace our last pipe together, the last
timber of our meeting-house, our last night on Little
Fishing. The dawn will see us far from each other,
to meet no more this side heaven. Speak then, O comrade
mine! I am in one of my rare listening moods!”
I stretched myself at ease and waited. Reuben was
a long time beginning, but I was too indolent to urge
him. At length he spoke.
“They were a rough set here at Little Fishing, all
the worse for being all white men; most of the other
camps were full of half-breeds and Indians. The island
had been a station away back in the early days of the
Company while that lasted; then it went back to
the Hudson, and stayed there until the company moved
its forces farther to the north. It was not at any time
a regular post; only a camp for the hunters. The post
was farther down the lake. O, but those were wild
days! You think you know the wilderness, boy; but you
know nothing, absolutely nothing. It makes me laugh
to see the airs of you city gentlemen with your fine
guns, improved fishing-tackle, elaborate paraphernalia,
as though you were going to wed the whole forest, floating
up and down the lake for a month or two in the
summer! You should have seen the hunters of Little
Fishing going out gayly when the mercury was down
twenty degrees below zero, for a week in the woods.
You should have seen the trappers wading through the
hard snow, breast high, in the gray dawn, visiting the
traps and hauling home the prey. There were all
kinds of men here, Scotch, French, English, and American;
all classes, the high and the low, the educated and
the ignorant; all sorts, the lazy and the hard-working.
One thing only they all had in common, — badness.
Some had fled to the wilderness to escape the law,
others to escape order; some had chosen the wild life
because of its wildness, others had drifted into it from
sheer lethargy. This far northern border did not attract
the plodding emigrant, the respectable settler.
Little Fishing held none of that trash; only a reckless
hands, and tossed them up, if need be, without a second
thought.”
“And other people's lives without a third,” I suggested.
“Yes; if they deserved it. But nobody whined;
there was n't any nonsense here. The men went hunting
and trapping, got the furs ready for the bateaux,
ate when they were hungry, drank when they were
thirsty, slept when they were sleepy, played cards
when they felt like it, and got angry and knocked
each other down whenever they chose. As I said
before, there was n't any nonsense at Little Fishing, —
until she came.”
“Ah! the she!”
“Yes, the Lady, — our Lady, as we called her.
Thirty-one years ago; how long it seems!”
“And well it may,” I said. “Why, comrade, I
was n't born then!”
This stupendous fact seemed to strike me more than
my companion; he went on with his story as though
I had not spoken.
“One October evening, four of the boys had got into
a row over the cards; the rest of us had come out of
our wigwams to see the fun, and were sitting around
on the stumps, chaffing them, and laughing; the camp-fire
was burning in front, lighting up the woods with
a red glow for a short distance, and making the rest
before, quite easy and comfortable, when suddenly there
appeared among us, as though she had dropped from
heaven, a woman!
“She was tall and slender, the firelight shone full
on her pale face and dove-colored dress, her golden
hair was folded back under a little white cap, and a
white kerchief lay over her shoulders; she looked
spotless. I stared; I could scarcely believe my eyes;
none of us could. There was not a white woman west
of the Sault Ste. Marie. The four fellows at the table
sat as if transfixed; one had his partner by the throat,
the other two were disputing over a point in the game.
The lily lady glided up to their table, gathered the
cards in her white hands, slowly, steadily, without
pause or trepidation before their astonished eyes, and
then, coming back, she threw the cards into the centre
of the glowing fire. `Ye shall not play away your
souls,' she said in a clear, sweet voice. `Is not the
game sin? And its reward death?' And then, immediately,
she gave us a sermon, the like of which was
never heard before; no argument, no doctrine, just
simple, pure entreaty. `For the love of God,' she
ended, stretching out her hands towards our silent,
gazing group, — `for the love of God, my brothers, try
to do better.'
“We did try; but it was not for the love of God.
Neither did any of us feel like brothers.
“She did not give any name; we called her simply
our Lady, and she accepted the title. A bundle
carefully packed in birch-bark was found on the
beach. `Is this yours?' asked black Andy.
“`It is,' replied the Lady; and removing his hat,
the black-haired giant carried the package reverently
inside her lodge. For we had given her our best
wigwam, and fenced it off with pine saplings so that
it looked like a miniature fortress. The Lady did not
suggest this stockade; it was our own idea, and with
one accord we worked at it like beavers, and hung
up a gate with a ponderous bolt inside.
“`Mais, ze can nevare farsen eet wiz her leetle fingares,'
said Frenchy, a sallow little wretch with a
turn for handicraft; so he contrived a small spring
which shot the bolt into place with a touch. The
Lady lived in her fortress; three times a day the
men carried food to her door, and, after tapping
gently, withdrew again, stumbling over each other in
their haste. The Flying Dutchman, a stolid Hollandborn
sailor, was our best cook, and the pans and
kettles were generally left to him; but now all
wanted to try their skill, and the results were extraordinary.
“`She 's never touched that pudding, now,' said
Nightingale Jack, discontentedly, as his concoction of
berries and paste came back from the fortress door.
“`She will starve soon, I think,' remarked the
not had an eatable meal for four days.' And he
lighted a fresh pipe. This was an aside, and the men
pretended not to hear it; but the pans were relinquished
to the Dutchman from that time forth.
“The Lady wore always her dove-colored robe, and
little white cap, through whose muslin we could see
the glimmer of her golden hair. She came and went
among us like a spirit; she knew no fear; she
turned our life inside out, nor shrank from its vileness.
It seemed as though she was not of earth, so
utterly impersonal was her interest in us, so heavenly
her pity. She took up our sins, one by one, as an
angel might; she pleaded with us for our own lost
souls, she spared us not, she held not back one
grain of denunciation, one iota of future punishment.
Sometimes, for days, we would not see her; then, at
twilight, she would glide out among us, and, standing
in the light of the camp-fire, she would preach to us
as though inspired. We listened to her; I do not
mean that we were one whit better at heart, but still
we listened to her, always. It was a wonderful sight,
that lily face under the pine-trees, that spotless woman
standing alone in the glare of the fire, while
around her lay forty evil-minded, lawless men, not
one of whom but would have killed his neighbor for
so much as a disrespectful thought of her.
“So strange was her coming, so almost supernatural
wondered over its cause, but simply accepted it as a
sort of miracle; your thoroughly irreligious men are
always superstitious. Not one of us would have asked
a question, and we should never have known her
story had she not herself told it to us; not immediately,
not as though it was of any importance, but
quietly, briefly, and candidly as a child. She came,
she said, from Scotland, with a band of God's people.
She had always been in one house, a religious institution
of some kind, sewing for the poor when her
strength allowed it, but generally ill, and suffering
much from pain in her head; often kept under the
influence of soothing medicines for days together.
She had no father or mother, she was only one of
this band; and when they decided to send out missionaries
to America, she begged to go, although but
a burden; the sea voyage restored her health; she
grew, she said, in strength and in grace, and her
heart was as the heart of a lion. Word came to her
from on high that she should come up into the northern
lake-country and preach the gospel there; the
band were going to the verdant prairies. She left
them in the night, taking nothing but her clothing;
a friendly vessel carried her north; she had preached
the gospel everywhere. At the Sault the priests had
driven her out, but nothing fearing, she went on into
the wilderness, and so, coming part of the way in
our far island. Marvellous kindness had she met
with, she said; the Indians, the half-breeds, the
hunters, and the trappers had all received her, and
helped her on her way from camp to camp. They
had listened to her words also. At Portage they had
begged her to stay through the winter, and offered to
build her a little church for Sunday services. Our
men looked at each other. Portage was the worst
camp on the lake, notorious for its fights; it was a
mining settlement.
“`But I told them I must journey on towards the
west,' continued our Lady. `I am called to visit every
camp on this shore before the winter sets in; I must
soon leave you also.'
“The men looked at each other again; the Doctor
was spokesman. `But, my Lady,' he said, `the next
post is Fort William, two hundred and thirty-five
miles away on the north shore.'
“`It is almost November; the snow will soon be
six and ten feet deep. The Lady could never travel
through it, — could she, now?' said Black Andy, who
had begun eagerly, but in his embarrassment at the
sound of his own voice, now turned to Frenchy and
kicked him covertly into answering.
“`Nevare!' replied the Frenchman; he had intended
to place his hand upon his heart to give
emphasis to his word, but the Lady turned her calm
wilted.
“`I thought there was one more camp, — at Burnt-Wood
River,' said our Lady in a musing tone. The
men looked at each other a third time; there was a
camp there, and they all knew it. But the Doctor
was equal to the emergency.
“`That camp, my Lady,' he said gravely, — `that
camp no longer exists!' Then he whispered hurriedly
to the rest of us, `It will be an easy job to clean it
out, boys. We 'll send over a party to-night; it 's
only thirty-five miles.'
“We recognized superior genius; the Doctor was
our oldest and deepest sinner. But what struck us
most was his anxiety to make good his lie. Had it
then come to this, — that the Doctor told the truth?
“The next day we all went to work to build our
Lady a church; in a week it was completed. There
goes its last cross-beam now into the fire; it was a
solid piece of work, was n't it? It has stood this
climate thirty years. I remember the first Sunday
service: we all washed, and dressed ourselves in the
best we had; we scarcely knew each other, we were
so fine. The Lady was pleased with the church, but
yet she had not said she would stay all winter; we
were still anxious. How she preached to us that
day! We had made a screen of young spruces set
in boxes, and her figure stood out against the dark
voice rang through the log-temple, her face seemed
to us like a star. She had no color in her cheeks
at any time; her dress, too, was colorless. Although
gentle, there was an iron inflexibility about her slight,
erect form. We felt, as we saw her standing there,
that if need be she would walk up to the lion's
jaws, the cannon's mouth, with a smile. She took a
little book from her pocket and read to us a hymn, —
`O come, all ye faithful,' the old `Adeste Fideles.'
Some of us knew it; she sang, and gradually, shamefacedly,
voices joined in. It was a sight to see
Nightingale Jack solemnly singing away about `choirs
of angels'; but it was a treat to hear him, too, —
what a voice he had! Then our Lady prayed, kneeling
down on the little platform in front of the evergreens,
clasping her hands, and lifting her eyes to
heaven. We did not know what to do at first, but
the Doctor gave us a severe look and bent his head,
and we all followed his lead.
“When service was over and the door opened, we
found that it had been snowing; we could not see out
through the windows because white cloth was nailed
over them in place of glass.
“`Now, my Lady, you will have to stay with us,' said
the Doctor. We all gathered around with eager faces.
“`Do you really believe that it will be for the good
of your souls?' asked the sweet voice.
“The Doctor believed — for us all.
“`Do you really hope?'
“The Doctor hoped.
“`Will you try to do your best?'
“The Doctor was sure he would.
“`I will,' answered the Flying Dutchman, earnestly.
`I moost not fry de meat any more; I moost
broil!'
“For we had begged him for months to broil, and
he had obstinately refused; broil represented the good,
and fry the evil, to his mind; he came out for the
good according to his light; but none the less did we
fall upon him behind the Lady's back, and cuff him
into silence.
“She stayed with us all winter. You don't know
what the winters are up here; steady, bitter cold for
seven months, thermometer always below, the snow
dry as dust, the air like a knife. We built a compact
chimney for our Lady, and we cut cords of wood
into small, light sticks, easy for her to lift, and stacked
them in her shed; we lined her lodge with skins, and
we made oil from bear's fat and rigged up a kind of
lamp for her. We tried to make candles, I remember,
but they would not run straight; they came out humpbacked
and sidling, and burned themselves to wick in
no time. Then we took to improving the town. We
had lived in all kinds of huts and lean-to shanties;
now nothing would do but regular log-houses. If it
have run to in the way of piazzas and fancy steps;
but with the snow five feet deep, all we could accomplish
was a plain, square log-house, and even that took
our whole force. The only way to keep the peace was
to have all the houses exactly alike; we laid out the
three streets, and built the houses, all facing the
meeting-house, just as you found them.”
“And where was the Lady's lodge?” I asked, for I
recalled no stockaded fortress, large or small.
My companion hesitated a moment. Then he said
abruptly, “It was torn down.”
“Torn down!” I repeated. “Why, what —”
Reuben waved his hand with a gesture that silenced
me, and went on with his story. It came to me then
for the first time, that he was pursuing the current
of his own thoughts rather than entertaining me. I
turned to look at him with a new interest. I had
talked to him for two weeks, in rather a patronizing
way; could it be that affairs were now, at this last
moment, reversed?
“It took us almost all winter to build those houses,”
pursued Reuben. “At one time we neglected the
hunting and trapping to such a degree, that the Doctor
called a meeting and expressed his opinion. Ours
was a voluntary camp, in a measure, but still we had
formally agreed to get a certain amount of skins ready
for the bateaux by early spring; this agreement was
whose houses were not completed scowled at the
Doctor.
“`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
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:
I soon had him in full blast. He was giving out
`The minute gun at sea, — the minute gun at sea,'
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
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
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,
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.
With hearts and hands and voices,'
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
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,
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
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
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
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
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?
(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!'
“Her voice was a mere whisper, but every ear
forehead and redden the white throat.
“For a moment there was silence, broken only by
the hard breathing of the men. Then the Doctor
spoke.
“`Go out and bring him in,' he cried. `Bring in
this Mitchell! It seems he has other things to do,
— the blockhead!'
“Two of the men hurried out.
“`He shall not have her,' shouted Black Andy.
`My knife shall see to that!' And he pressed close to
the platform. A great tumult arose, men talked angrily
and clinched their fists, voices rose and fell together.
`He shall not have her, — Mitchell! Mitchell!'
“`The truth is, each one of you wants her himself,'
said the Doctor.
“There was a sudden silence, but every man eyed
his neighbor jealously. Black Andy stood in front,
knife in hand, and kept guard. The Lady had not
moved; she was kneeling, with her face buried in
her hands.
“`I wish to speak to her,' said the Doctor, advancing.
“`You shall not,' cried Andy, fiercely interposing.
“`You fool! I love her this moment ten thousand
times more than you do. But do you suppose I
would so much as touch a woman who loved another
man?'
“The knife dropped; the Doctor passed on and
took his place on the platform by the Lady's side.
The tumult began again, for Mitchell was seen coming
in the door between his two keepers.
“`Mitchell! Mitchell!' rang angrily through the
church.
“`Look, woman!' said the Doctor, bending over
the kneeling figure at his side. She raised her head
and saw the wolfish faces below.
“`They have had ten months of your religion,' he
said.
“It was his revenge. Bitter, indeed; but he loved
her.
“In the mean time the man Mitchell was hauled
and pushed and tossed forward to the platform by
rough hands that longed to throttle him on the
way. At last, angry himself, but full of wonder,
he confronted them, this crowd of comrades suddenly
turned madmen! `What does this mean?' he
asked.
“`Mean! mean!' shouted the men; `a likely
story! He asks what this means!' And they
laughed boisterously.
“The Doctor advanced. `You see this woman,' he
said.
“`I see our Lady.'
“`Our Lady no longer; only a woman like any
other, — weak and fickle. Take her, — but begone.'
“`Take her!' repeated Mitchell, bewildered, — `take
our Lady! And where?'
“`Fool! Liar! Blockhead!' shouted the crowd
below.
“`The truth is simply this, Mitchell,' continued
the Doctor, quietly. `We herewith give you up our
Lady, — ours no longer; for she has just confessed,
openly confessed, that she loves you.'
“Mitchell started back. `Loves me!'
“`Yes.'
“Black Andy felt the blade of his knife. `He 'll
never have her alive,' he muttered.
“`But,' said Mitchell, bluntly confronting the Doctor,
`I don't want her.'
“`You don't want her?'
“`I don't love her.'
“`You don't love her?'
“`Not in the least,' he replied, growing angry,
perhaps at himself. `What is she to me? Nothing.
A very good missionary, no doubt; but I don't
fancy woman-preachers. You may remember that I
never gave in to her influence; I was never under
her thumb. I was the only man in Little Fishing
who cared nothing for her!'
“And that is the secret of her liking,' murmured
the Doctor. `O woman! woman! the same the world
over!'
“In the mean time the crowd had stood stupefied.
“`He does not love her!' they said to each other;
`he does not want her!'
“Andy's black eyes gleamed with joy; he swung
himself up on to the platform. Mitchell stood there
with face dark and disturbed, but he did not flinch.
Whatever his faults, he was no hypocrite. `I must
leave this to-night,' he said to himself, and turned
to go. But quick as a flash our Lady sprang from
her knees and threw herself at his feet. `You are
going,' she cried. `I heard what you said, — you do
not love me! But take me with you, — oh, take me
with you! Let me be your servant — your slave —
anything — anything, so that I am not parted from
you, my lord and master, my only, only love!'
“She clasped his ankles with her thin, white hands,
and laid her face on his dusty shoes.
“The whole audience stood dumb before this manifestation
of a great love. Enraged, bitter, jealous as
was each heart, there was not a man but would at
that moment have sacrificed his own love that she
might be blessed. Even Mitchell, in one of those
rare spirit-flashes when the soul is shown bare in the
lightning, asked himself, `Can I not love her?' But
the soul answered, `No.' He stooped, unclasped the
clinging hands, and turned resolutely away.
“`You are a fool,' said the Doctor. `No other
woman will ever love you as she does.'
“`I know it,' replied Mitchell.
“He stepped down from the platform and crossed
the church, the silent crowd making a way for him
as he passed along; he went out into the sunshine,
through the village, down towards the beach, — they
saw him no more.
“The Lady had fainted. The men bore her back to
the lodge and tended her with gentle care one week,
— two weeks, — three weeks. Then she died.
“They were all around her; she smiled upon them
all, and called them all by name, bidding them farewell.
`Forgive me,' she whispered to the Doctor.
The Nightingale sang a hymn, sang as he had never
sung before. Black Andy knelt at her feet. For
some minutes she lay scarcely breathing; then suddenly
she opened her fading eyes. `Friends,' she
murmured, `I am well punished. I thought myself
holy, — I held myself above my kind, — but God has
shown me I am the weakest of them all.'
“The next moment she was gone.
“The men buried her with tender hands. Then,
in a kind of blind fury against Fate, they tore down
her empty lodge and destroyed its every fragment;
in their grim determination they even smoothed over
the ground and planted shrubs and bushes, so that
the very location might be lost. But they did not
stay to see the change. In a month the camp broke
up of itself, the town was abandoned, and the island
deserted for good and all; I doubt whether any of
by. Probably I am the only one. Thirty years
ago, — thirty years ago!”
“That Mitchell was a great fool,” I said, after a
long pause. “The Doctor was worth twenty of him;
for that matter, so was Black Andy. I only hope
the fellow was well punished for his stupidity.”
“He was.”
“O, you kept track of him, did you?”
“Yes. He went back into the world, and the woman
he loved repulsed him a second time, and with even
more scorn than before.”
“Served him right.”
“Perhaps so; but after all, what could he do? Love
is not made t order. He loved one, not the other;
that was his crime. Yet, — so strange a creature is
man, — he came back after thirty years, just to see our
Lady's grave.”
“What! Are you —”
“I am Mitchell, — Reuben Mitchell.”
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