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N«« Torh 14609 USA "■ga (716) 482 - 03CW - Phone ^S ("6) 28a - 5989 - Fax I i, . I MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER : i I ■•Shf looked like ;i cardiiKiI-liird in ),er red Kolfiiig jersey." [Page 60) MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER BT ALICE JONES AVTHO* or "lUllLIt Wt BUY" UID "OAWIIL rilAtO't CAITLE" ILLUSTRATES NEW YORK AND LONDON D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 1913 0523 ■ ComtGHT, 191S, iv O. APPLKTON AND COMPANT Printed m the Uir'Oil Stales «! Americs TO SIR WILFRED LAURIER MY FATHER'S FRIEND CONTENTS I. II. III. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII. XIV. XV. XVI. XVII. XVIII. XIX. XX. XXI. XXII. XXIII. XXIV. XXV. XXVI. XXVII. XXVIII. XXIX. XXX. VAGI Suspense i Sabine's Hotel ii Lady Wakkenden's Villa .... 33 The Chateauguav 31 The Fatted Calf 41 Friends 48 The Bluff House 59 A Day's Fishing 68 Off Gasf£ 75 The Wenonah 85 Fossils 93 Off Perc£ 103 St. Anne's Shrine jii Up the River 133 A Fresb Start 136 In the Dawning 145 The Sabine Family 152 The Cousins 164 A Comforter 183 Midsummer 191 Owl's Nest 304 Father and Daughter 316 Jack's Adventure 330 From a Clear Sky 242 Lady Warrenden's Retreat . . . 357 The Sands Run Out . . . . . 368 Virginia Camp 380 Restitution 394 Out in the Storm 309 Wedding Bells 331 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS PAavo rAOK "She looked like a cardinal-birc* in her red golfing jer- sey" Frontispiece "'Good-bye, Jack. Come back soon,' and her hand clung to his" 143 " 'God knows I want nothing more than to take care of you always' " 213 "'Father! Father!' she murmured" 298 Marcus Holbeach's Daughter CHAPTER I SUSPENSE THE March afternoon sun shone ttndinuned by cloud-drift above the dormant white North- land. On the rounded hills that sheltered the bay from the outer Gulf, the bronze-green, primeval forest rose somberly, rank on rank against the crystal-clear sky, but over the fields fringing their base, the snow stretched unscarred by snake-fences, or clear- ing stumps. Winter was nearing its end, and such traces of man's handiwork had long since been covered by suc- cessive snow-falls. Below the bluff lay the Basin, a solid white plain, only marked by black lines of bcUises, rows of small spruce trees set up at the beginning of every winter to trace the safest track for man and beast to cross the ice. The tides of the outer bay were also frost- bound, and even from the heights of Cap Rosier, the steep headland fifteen miles out, nothing save solid ice or floes could be seen along the Gaspe coast, and northward to- ward Anticosti, hidden in its wintry isolation. It was now four months since the lights on Cap Rouge or Gasp£ Head had shone out nightly. The perils of the sea were in abeyance since winter had warned off all tres- passers upon her domain. I MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER But even amid this white desolation there were still signs of man holding his own against the Powers of the North. From every unit in the string of scattered pink or white houses edging the road there rose into the still air a steady line of soft blue wood-smoke, telling of plen- tiful fires in the Wg French stoves. From the hillsides came the rhythmical ring of axes where men were cut- ting next year's supply of fuel on their wood-lots, and around the houses, children shouted as they played in the snow or coasted on the well-beaten roads. But over across the Basin, near the stream that in its early sum- mer turbulence supplies the salmon hatchery, was one of the smallest of houses around which echoed no children's voices. Here Mrs. LeRoy lived alone— Mrs. LeRoy, whom some called the wise woman from her skill in the concocting of healing drinks and liniments from wild roots and leaves. "For sure, 'twas the old squaws as Uught her the se- cret things she knows," said gossips whose families had benefited by her skill, while others, more envious, sug- gested that her wisdom had an unhallowed source. Be that as it may, none denied the cures her salves and liniments had wrought, and so far had her fame spread that the fishermen from Mai Baie and Perce and Grand Greve often came to her instead of to old Dr. Mc- Leod, and before going up to the winter lumber-camps, men called in at the pink cottage for a bottle of cough- mixture, or salve of balsam-fir bark for wounds, to take with them, leaving money to pay for tea and flour and pork, so that the little home was frugally prosperous. Mrs. LeRoy sat in her living-room, used also in winter as kitchen. It was a not tmcheerful place with its well- scrubbed floor strewn with bright-colored hooked mats, and one or two fine skins of caribou and wildcat, its 2 I SUSPENSE I big red-hearted stove, and its two windows looking down the sunlit slope to the white stretch of Basin. From rows of hooks in the rafters hung bundles of dry herbs, and queerly shaped roots, with outlines suggesting the mum- mied cats and ibis of old Egypt, shapes at which many a nervous glance was cast by patients, half in awe of the skii: they were invoking. On the stove bubbled a big pot, its steam filling the place with aromatic forest scents. In the sunny window hung a cage holding a tawny- breasted robin, and a bright-eyed brown squirrel squatted upright on the dresser's edge w tching his owner. Mrs. LeRoy sat before a big frame that held a square of can- vas partially covered with an archaic design of oak leaves in red and yellow. Her skill at hooking mats was well known, and she had taken more than one prize at county exhibitions, but now, though her bundle of brightly dyed rags lay beside her, and her puncher was in her hand, her frequent glances toward the window told that her mind was not on her work. Once or twice she got up and moved restlessly about her small domain, stirring the contents of the kettle or adding a log to the fire. A large, massive woman of almost masculine strength and build, the features of her impassive face were reg- ular, and though her sixty years had graven deep enough lines of sorrow and care, yet there was no bitterness against the inevitable. Hers was rather the passive ac- ceptance of fate of the brooding monumental figures that watch over the Medicean graves at Florence. Her voice as she spoke to the squirrel was gentle, and he whisked his tail and chattered fearlessly in answer, then returned to the same pose. "Someone's surely comin'," she muttered. "The squir 1 don't listen like that for nothin'." Then, after another MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER glance from the window: "Sure enough, here she is." Up the steep slope of the drifts, a girl on snowshoes was speeding with the quick ease of one well used to the exercise. Regardless of the intense cold, Mrs. LeRoy flung her door hospiubly wide, letting in the level west- em sunshine. "Oh, don't. You'll be froscnl" protested the girl, as she stoc^d to loosen the soft noose-hide straps binding her slim ankles. "Me? No cold ever hurt me," was the answer. Indeed, standing there in her dark blue cotton dress, a httle red woolen shawl around her shoulders, the strong frame of the older woman seemed to welcome as a tonic force that sharp breath of boreal air as it swept around her. A handsome black-and-white setter that had fol- lowed the girl ran up to fawn on her as a familiar friend, and her hand rested gently on its head, while an almost maternal tenderness softened the gray eyes where lurked the mystical sombemess of her Highland forefathers. "You and Czar fetch the sunlight in with you," she said. "I knew you'd be along to-day. The squir'l's been on the lookout for you." The door was closed, and Virginia Holbeach glanced round with an air of satisfied familiarity, before she sank into the shabby, big old rocker by the stove. An incongruous figure she seemed in such surroundings, for her sealskin coat that came nearly down to the edge of her short red skirt was of the softest, most lustrous qual- ity, and the little fur cap that rested on her cloudy brown hair had been fashioned by a practiced hand. Not even in Russia are the fur shops more sumptuous than in Que- bec and Montreal, and it was easy to see that Virginia's wraps had come from one or the other place. When Mrs. LeRoy had loosened and taken the costly coat with 4 SUSPENSE • lingering touch that betrayed her simple feminine pleat- UK in the soft fur, the white-and-pink flowered silk Un- ing, the girl's slimness was revealed. Little more than a school-girl she kwked, with the alert gravity, t» ; aloof- ness of some sylvan creature used to sol'tude ift her big hazel eyes. The long, delicate oval of her face glowed with her recent exercise in the sharp air, though hers was a skin ordinarily pale as the wood-flower. She stretched out her moccasined feet toward the stove, with a little contented sigh. "I knew you'd come to-day," Mrs. LeRoy repeated, still standing and gazing benevolently down on her. "The squirTs been on the lookout for you." Virginia laughed in the subdued fashion of one who does not laugh very often. "Those wise animals of yours will get you burned for a witch some day." The shadow of an unpleasant recollection darkened the other's face. "Didn't you know as they call me a witch now?" she asked gravely. "Do they? What a shame t But it's only some of those ignorant half-breeds down at the Point, isn't it?" Her words mollified Mrs. LeRoy, whose big frame shook «vith a reminiscent chuckle. "Look I" she said. "When that Casper Perrin's great fool of a girl was screaming in saterics last week, what does he do but come and ask me to boil a dogwood cross and give her the water to drink, after sayin' what he calls 'sors' over it, to free her from the spell as was cast on her." For all her air of anxious preoccupation, Virginia lis- tened with relish to the story. "And what did you tell him?" Again the silent chuckle. MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER "I told him all the needed wm good food, an' if he wam't too laxy to feed hit own children, he'd go an' trap a rabbit or two to make her some good loup. If that weren't no use, I'd try a sound whipping." "Oh, Mrs. LeRoyI That big girl I" "For sure! It's a certain cure for saterics." Then, with an abrupt dr(^ing of the subject: "Well, what's the news?" They had come to reality now, and the eyes of the older woman met the girl's with a hungry craving almost animal in its intensity, a craving that found small com- fort in the lattir's sad gaze. •'Nothing. Haven't you any, yet ?" Virginia asked with a lingering hope. "What news should I have?" came the abrupt i«tort, as Mrs. LeRoy turned away to the stove, and began to stir the kettle vigorously. "You don't mind the smell, do you? I'm boilm' down some balsam-fir bark to make a salve for John Duncan, as has a sore on his leg that don't heal. He's been home from the lumber-camp goin' on two months, an' " Here Virginia interrupted; "Mrs. LeRoy, how kmg is it since you've had any news of Jack?" The words acted like a spell, and the other turned to confront her, in an outburst of frank despair. "How long? Months an' months, God knows! But what of that ?" with a poor effort at cheerfulness. 'They don't have post-offices an' such like thing away up there in God's North. There's only lakes an rocks, an' mis- eries of trees there for miles an' miles of frozen-up coun- try. Why, ain't I see'd them in my sleep?" The woman stood motionless, her strong arms fallen to her sides, head thrown slightly back, and eyes fixed in a steady stare from the window, out toward the dark 6 SUSPENSE to fin edging the btuiah-white shadowed road. Her voke had taken on a monotonous sound, at though she spoke more to herself than to a listener. Virginia somehow knew that she was scarcely conscious of her presence, but, awed as she was, her keen desire for knowledge drove her on to ask in a hushed voice : "And did you see Jack there?" The answer came prompt and certain, as a medium might respond in a trance. "Yes, I see'd him. Trampin', thin an' foot-sore, an' hungry— oh, I feel his hunger gnawing me at nights, like »s it was my ownl But for all that, he's ativ*. Oh, Jack's alive, sure enough." Her voice died away into a silence broken only by the mingled song of kettle and wood fire. Gradually, the rigidity seemed to pass from the still figure, and as ••» moan of rising wind sounded around the house, Mrs. LeRoy gave herself a little shake and spoke in her usua.' voice: "There's the wind gettin' up, an* Lord knows, it's told enough without that. I'll het you up a cup of milk, an' you'll eat a doughnut, an' then be on your way home afore the sun gets lower. Didn't Miss Creighton mind your coming by yourself?" Disappointed at this return to the day's minutiae, Vir- ginia still felt it prudent to acquiesce in it, answering : "She never quite likes me to cross the Basin alone. She has so often heard the old doctor's stories about the ice being carried out by the tide while people were still on it." "They're true enough. I could tell you stories of things Tve seen myself. Though Pierre DuOiene, as crossed from Grand Greve yesterday to fetch some of my Injun cucumber-root stuff for his wife, as seems ailin' in her MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER chest, though he was sayin' as you can't see a glint of open water from the lighthouse on Cape Gaspe, yet still, the old doctor's right. There's always a risk, an' you shouldn't cross alone. Why didn't you bring the Sabine girir Virginia was used to Mrs. LeRoy's conversational curves, and skipped her divergences. "Esther? But you see I wanted to come by myself, to talk to you — to ask you — Oh, Mrs. LeRoy," with a sud- den irrepressible recurrence to her old fear, "you're sure, quite sure, jack's alive?" As a night panic, spreads in an army, the answering ter- ror leaped in the mother's eyes to meet hers. A livid gray dulled her sallow sldn. "What else should he be?" came the fierce question. Then with a new suspicion weakening her voice: "It can't be as Mr. Dorval has heard something up there in Quebec, an' has written for you to come an' what they call break the news to me? For sure, it can't be that?" Virginia had paled, responsive to her agony. "No, oh, no I How could you think anything so dread- ful?" she protested. "I thought it was so nice to feel he was in Quebec, and would do his best to get us any news there was. I shouldn't wonder if that was what he went for." "Dessay," Mrs. LeRoy agreed, her outer robe of sto- icism readjusted. "I've known him more'n twenty years, good and bad, and, though he ain't one to talk or make a fuss, I never knew him miss a chance of lendin' a neigh- bor a helpin' hand. But," the cloud shadowing her again, "he ain't God Almighty to see over woods an' lakes, an' barrens — No, if there is bad news to come, I'll know it afore he does. I wasn't born of Highland folk for ROth- ing. We see ahead in our family." 8 SUSPENSE I She paused, staring into the bubbling pot as though it held futurity's secrets. Then, with an eflfort, she said : "Well, it always seems the longest an' the dreariest part of the winter when Mr. Dorval goes off, an' now, I s'pose he won't be back afore the Gulf opens. Lord knows, why should he, when he doesn't have to, an' he with more money comin' to him from that uncle in Europe than he can spend just on his lone self, if he tries from now to Christmas." "But he's coming back this time," Virginia said eagerly, as though this return must be a good thing for them both. "He told me he'd bring me anything from Mon- treal that didn't weigh more than five pounds." "Well, if he's comin', he'd better look sharp to come afore the first thaw. It wasn't more'n a week later than this last year that the mail didn't get through for a fort- night." Virginia gave a little shudder to such a prospect of isolation, then said hopefully : "Thank goodness, there's always the telegraph." "The telegraph ain't for poor folks." Then, dismissing the subject, while her voice softened to solicitude : "Drink this hot milk now, an' then start off home afore the sun gets lower. See, the mountain's shadow reaches near across the Basin, an' it will be cold enough down there in the shade." Virginia knew the might of winter's hand well enough to obey promptly, and not many minutes passed before her snow-shoes were strapped on and she and Czar were speeding down the white slope to the Basin. The dog's breath rose in a thick steam, and she felt the frost sting- ing her eyelids and nostrils, but, for all the cold, it was a worid of glowing color, of tropical radiance that sur- rounded her. The western sky above the mountain pul- MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER sated with deep rose and vivid sea-green tints only visible at such seasons, while every shadow on the snow stretched a royal violet against its flame-colored contrast. The North wore the saffron bridal robe of her marriage to Winter, and sky and frozen sea shared her glory. Even the dark woods took a russet warmth on their som- ber greenery. Mrs. LeRoy sat at her wind"./, with unwontedly idle hands, watching the figures of dog and girt as they emerged from the trees on to the frozen plam, distinct against that open space, first in the rosy glow, then m the violet shadow of the hill that rose behmd Lanse "The shadow's took them," she murmured dreamily, her eyes following them until they reached the Point, the business center of Lanse Louise. Here, below the bluff, stood the wharves and white fish-stores of the Dor- val Company, the Jersey house that for over a hundred years has held under its sway the lower Gulf, from Gaspc and the New Brunswick shore settlements to far-off Cheticamp, near the north of Cape Breton. She caught a last glimpse of the scarlet wmg in Vl^ ginia's cap as she climbed the slanting road up the Bluff to the main street, if street it could be called, then with a murmured "Poor child!" turned away to take her ket- tle off the fire and set aside the contents that were to benefit John Duncan's leg. CHAPTER II SABINE'S HOTEL B_' THE time Virginia reached the level of the road, the glory of rose and purple was paling to lemon lights and pale blue shadows. A young moon held her own in the western sky against the dusk creeping up from the outer Gulf spaces of the blue-gray east. Here and there in the cottages that peered out be- tween their shoveled snowbanks, like children peeping from their bedclothes, shone an orange light. There was no more sound of diildren's voices in the air. They were all indoors, safe from the cold of the coming night. Only an occasional chime of sleigh-bells or the creak on the hard snow of a belated lumber team broke the frosty stilhiess. Presently Virginia paused before a house, larger than the others, standing right on the road instead of back in the garden. Built, like the rest, on the usual Quebec pat- tern of overhanging gable roof, long French windows and wide veranda, it had, even in this winter time, an air of teim alertness, set with a background of large gray bams and twisted old willows. Across the road the bank sloped steeply, only leaving room for a line of stately firs, be- tween whose dark stems the distant hills showed spectral in the gathering twilight. This house was the well- known hotel that made Lanse Louise such a favorite haunt for sportsmen, such a desired haven for commercial II IS M III MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER travellers in their long winter drives. On the veranda steps stood a woman wrapped in high-collared raccoon coat and cap. Though the furs left barely an inch be- tween cap and collar, Virginia seemed in no doubt as to her identity. "Esther!" she called lightly, and the mere word spoke of affectionate familiarity. "Why, wherever have you been all by yourself?" was the response, as the other came down the steps to meet her. Every one about Lanse Louise, and far along the shore to Dalhousie on the Bale de Chaleur, knew Esther Sabine, whose mother had, for seventeen years, kept the hotel in so capable a fashion. There was also a Mr. Sabine, but being of a nervously retiring disposition and invalidish habits — indeed, it was said to be on account of an early breakdown in his health that the family had come to live in this secluded place — ^he did not count for much save to his daughter. From her childhood the two had been companions, the girl early assuming an oddly protective attitude toward her father. Essentially active in her habits, and taking her full share of he- mother's house- keeping cares, she always found time to interest herself in Mr. Sabine's gardening, to help him pot and transplant his treasures, to discuss the theories he loved to propound on the world's events as seen through the daily papers, to foil w the fussy course of an idle man's day. Esther and Virginia had been playmates for nearly as long as they could remember, in spite of many differ- ences in their circumstances. As each grew into girl- hood, they could not but be aware of the contrast be- tween their lives. Though Virginia Holbeach lived at the Bluff House in so secluded a fashion with her governess, Miss Creighton, SABINE'S HOTEL yet her surroundings were of a daintiness befitting those of a rich man's only child, and when, in the fishing sea- son, her father came from England, the household habits became less simple. For her friend there was no such guarded, hothouse atmosphere. Before Esther's skirts were long or her hair done up, she had taken her place in the routine of the busy little hotel, and now, in her twency-third year, the cheerful house atmosphere was largely of her creating. She had also learnt a more difficult lesson than that of work, the lesson of doing without. It was Mrs. Sabine who held the family purse-strings, and though she never stinted in household matters, in all their personal expenditure she exercised an almost aus- tere economy. With summer boarders, with sportsmen, and all the local travel, the hotel was prosperous, and as she grrew old enough to know how steadily the money came in, Esther sometimes wondered where it all went to. Surely, Mrs. Sabine could not be making a private hoard while she denied her husband the new book on gar- dening, the experimental plants he craved for, the small luxuries that mean so much to an invalid. She honestly tried not to judge her mother, though she could not but feel that a little of their earnings spent here and there as they went along might have made life mo'e cheerful for them all. Meanwhile, she never grudged Virginia the pretty clothes and trinkets that came to her so lav- ishly, the winter travel in southern lands, realizing, per- haps, how little she would have cared to have changed places with her, how much bettt her own more strenu- ous path suited her nature, than the other's hot-house atmosphere. "I just went over to Mrs. LeRoy's I" Virginia's answer had in it a fine assumption of care- 13 I »! liii ;^i 1' MARCUS HOLBEACHS DAUGHTER lessness, and she stooped to brush away, with her mil- tened hand, some of the clogged snow around her ankles. "Why on earth didn't you get me to go with yc"?" ' said Esther in frank surprise. Then, with a little laugh : "I believe you wanted the witch to tell your fortune." "How can you say anything so unkind !" her friend re- torted in swift wrath. "Why, surely you know I was only in fun!" Esther protested, amazed at such unwonted touchiness. A jingle of bells came swiftly up the road, and both girls turned their heads to listen. There were not many such silver peals td be heard in Lanse Louise, and to both the sound seemed familiar. "There's a pair," said Virginia, a tremor of expectation in her voice. "Why, it's Mr. Dorval!" said Esther, as the two sturdy black horses came on at such a steady trot that soon they saw the low sleigh with its gray- wolf robes, saw the driver, well muffled in astrachan coat and cap. He evidently saw them, too, for, checking his horses, he jumped out, handing the reins to the man beside him. "Take them home, David, and don't let them get chilled," he said. Then, greeting the girls in a pleasant-y modulated voice with a slight Jersey accent : "Well, this is an unexpected welcome home for such a cold night! If we had wireless telegraphy, I'd suppose you were waiting for me !" "Perhaps we scented yoar coming like the dogs dot Inferior animals, you know," Virginia retorted gayly, a riei.dly grasp on his arm. "Well, let's get indoors. I've had enough fresh air be- tween here and Dalhousie. Take off your shoes, Vir- ginia, and we'll run in for a minute." Esther led the way into the house, the open door tend- 14 SABINE'S HOTEL ing out a greeting rush of heat and light. Dorval loos- ened his coat, and took off his cap, showing a black, gray- streaked head, a lean, sallow face of the stag-hound type, nose long but well shaped, level black eyebrows over deep- set gray eyes, eyes full of grave kindliness. Although his forty years sat lightly on him, there were lines around his mouth that told of youthful hardships firmly endured. It was evident that, for all those forty years of his, the two girls and he were good friends — even more, were comrades. The two followed Esther through a small room, half o£Sce, half smoking-room, into the family parlor, a room that by daylight might seem austere in the neatness of its shabby simplicity, but that now, on this bitter winter night, glowed with the fireside cheer of lamp and stove, a cheer enhanced by the contrast of undrawn blinds af- fording a wide outlook into the mystical northern twi- light. The two windows at the end of the room com- manded, through a tracery of bare willow branches, a sweep of lemon sky fading into violet, a sky that spanned the deep maroon-purple of the distant Shigshook hills, hills where the world-old forest still shelters its wild creatures in spite of the fringe of lumber camps that gnaw its edges as mice gnaw a cheese. A big old sofa and *fio well-worn armchairs supplied a certain amount of comfort. There were none of the useless little ornaments so dear to the feminine heart, none of those pictures of old age or childhood, linking the family life with its past, on the walls ; but a well-filled, if small, bookcase, a stand of ik>urishing ferns and geraniums, with work-baskets and newspapers on the center-table, told of a comfortable home life. In one of the armchairs, shoved close to the open French stove where crackled a noble log fire, sat Mr. Sabine. So thin and frail and bleached he looked 15 w i |i !' MARCUS HOLBEACH'S DAUGHTER with his ivory skin and fine hair, once blond, new whiten- ing, that one might almost have expected the rosy light to shine through him without any obstacle, while his once tall frame was bent as though under the weight of years. There was a startled nervousness in the bright blue eyes he turned toward the opening door, but at sight of his daughter a fresh life seemed to wake iti them. "Ah, Esther 1" he murmured in the satisfied voice of a child who sees its mother come. Further from the fire, between the windows with their sweeping outlook and the table with the lamp, sat the house-mistress, Mrs. Sabine, bending intently over her task of fine darning, of table linen, a work which with her seemed to take the place of other women's embroidery. Esther used sc«netimes to wonder, when her mother came to Lanse Louise seventeen years ago, and the house linen was perhaps new, what occupation she had found for .le time she was not going about active housework. Those seventeen years had left few traces on the thick masses of ruddy brown hair, on the somewhat massively mod- eled face, though all that had made youth, the hope, the frankness, the fire, was forever gone from the deep-set gray eyes and from the mouth whose curves, in their