CHAPTER XVI

_Jerusha to the Rescue_

It was something of a puzzle to Jack to know the best step to take next. The country on one side the river had been laid waste by the Americans, and up and down the other side was at this moment raging a relentless band of soldiers with their savage allies bent upon destruction and pillage. Jack did not feel at all sure that Madame Desvouges still occupied her house, and to attempt to go across to it just now was not a wise venture.

It seemed safer there in the little cabin, isolated as it was in the woods, and far from the beaten road; and if Marianne could but have her mother or some older woman with her, it would be best for her to remain in this retreat till matters became quieter. The girl was too weak and ill from the shock of the morning to venture forth that day, and he could not leave her to get aid. He felt that he ought to report at the proper time for duty, yet to leave Marianne was not to be thought of. It must be said that the scenes of the morning were not such as gave him much taste for further proceedings of like character, and he was quite content to remain where he was, if turning women and children out of their homes was the order of the day.

"If you would rather go on, Marianne," he said, when the confronting question became one which must be met, "we will go, but I don't believe you are able to walk far. I can carry you, to be sure."

"Where?" she asked helplessly. It was very unlike the alert, independent Marianne to reply so utterly upon another's lead.

"To the garrison. I am sure there must be a number there under our protection."

"Those whose houses you have burned over their heads, you mean?"

"Yes; but I did not have a hand in it. You don't believe that of me, Marianne? I am willing to fight for my side, but I am not a robber."

Marianne subsided after her flash of anger. "Is it far?" she asked, after a little while.

"It is not very near."

The girl arose and looked out on the winter landscape. The yard and outbuildings of this woodland hut occupied but a small space of the great forest around them. The naked branches of a multitude of trees, clumps of white fringed pines, silence, and an untrodden waste alone seemed there. All Marianne's terror returned to her. She sank down weakly upon the bench by the small window. "I cannot, I cannot," she wailed. "Go and leave me here."

"Alone? Never. I am going now outside to gather in some wood, and to set a trap to snare a rabbit for our next meal. We won't starve, anyway." He smiled confidently. "I shall not go out of sight. You don't mind if I leave you? You can watch me from the window."

This quick understanding of her fear of being left alone was a relief to the girl, and she smiled faintly. "I am very silly," she said.

"No, you have had enough of a shock to shatter the nerves of a stronger woman," he made reply. He longed to take her in his arms and convince her of the greatness of his love and sympathy, of his desire to protect her; but he could only nod and smile reassuringly as he went out. From time to time he looked back to see the little pale face at the window, with eyes upon him. He had loved her in a fitful boyish way before, but now all his manhood's best was roused, and to the woman within, in that hour he consecrated the love of his life. "I may never win her," he told himself. "After this terrible experience how could she ever love one of her country's enemies, but I will serve her as the knights of old served their chosen ladies." They had talked of his father, of Royal and Kate, of all the things which had befallen them both since they last met; and to Jack, Marianne had never seemed so near; but for the one great barrier he felt that he might not despair of one day winning from her something more than tolerance. A great wave of love and devotion swept over him, and he turned to wave a hand to the girl watching him. If that were his wife at the window and that were their little home in the wilderness, how gladly would he give the labor of each day to her happiness.

He was roused from these thoughts by the sound of voices coming up the path ahead. He stopped with a pile of wood upon his shoulder and listened. Were they friends or enemies? Who could they be who knew the way to this lonely spot? Presently he caught sight of two figures; a man and a woman were nearing the cabin. The young man placed himself back of the path, that he might watch them unobserved. Were they the owners of the place, or were they some of those fugitives whom the morning had driven forth. In another instant he was aware that the man wore the uniform of a Canadian volunteer, and that the woman, tall and gaunt, was striding along as if she knew her ground.

"I tell you," the sharp high voice said, "I guess we're right. They ain't no other tracks, and I see him make for the woods with her. They ain't no other habitation in two or three miles, and I cal'late we'll find 'em just about here. My land, Jooly Fooshay, you needn't try to learn me wood ways; I guess I was brought up in the heart of Maine, and I was around long enough before I see you to know a thing or two. I say I'm right."

Jack strode forward into the middle of the path. "Jerusha!" he cried. "My old friend Jerusha, you couldn't be more welcome if you were an angel from heaven."

Jerusha came to a halt. "Well, suz!" she exclaimed. "If I'd knowed who it was makin' off with Mary Anne, I dunno as I'd been in such a feeze to git here. She's alive and kickin' I guess, or you wouldn't be so smilin'."

"She's safe, but dreadfully shaken, poor little girl, and so weak and nervous. But no wonder. It was God's providence that I was in time to save her."

"It was nip and tuck with us all," returned Jerusha. "This is my husband. I dunno's I've any call to be proud of the fact, but such as he is, he's mine. Jooly Fooshay is his name."

"Why, Jules! I know him. He is in my regiment. Why didn't he tell you who it was that was running off with your Marianne?"

"I didn't ask him; more fool I."

"Well, he is a lucky fellow to have you for a wife, no matter what."

"The luck's all on his side, then," returned Jerusha.

"My Jerushe! You to say so, when I am save the life of you."

"You may be my death yet," she retorted grimly.

But now Marianne saw them coming, and she was at the door to meet them. Whose but Jerusha's could be that tall lank figure? All in a turmoil of tears and exclamations, she fell into the good woman's arms. "Oh, Jerusha, Jerusha! I am so thankful, so glad to see you alive. Tell me quick, my mother, my mother, is she safe?"

"Yes, yes, child. There, don't take on so. She's at the garrison. The doctor says she's broke a small bone, but he has set it, and she'd be all right only she is near crazy about you. If we had been sensible enough to ask who 'twas that was lugging you off, we might have been easier in our minds."

"Tell me what happened. I forget all but that terrible moment when the Indian had me in his grasp. I cannot get rid of that memory, try as I will."

"Well, the most surprising thing that happened to me was the coming acrost my husband, that I ain't seen this fifteen year. He declares that he didn't run off with another woman, and that he was hurt up there in a lumber camp; but law suz, you can't tell when to believe him, and I don't know any more than I did before. I was well rid of him, in any case, for he never could do much but fiddle and sing. Work wasn't his strong pint; and though I've heerd tell of folks that fiddled for their bread and butter, I ain't never seen one. Anyways we come acrost each other, and here we are. Jooly Fooshay is his name, and one that will never bring him much luck. Come here, Jooly."

The curly-headed little man with the bright twinkling eyes approached and bowed low. "Jules Fouchet, at your sairvice, mademoiselle," he said; and when Marianne answered in French his eyes twinkled more than ever, and he bowed again very low.

"Come in, come in all of you," said Jack.

"Yes, we have a good fire, and we can give you something to eat. Jack has been very good to me, Jerusha, and we have not starved. I can give you potatoes and porridge and rye coffee. Are you cold? Are you hungry?"

"A little of both," Jerusha replied. "But I guess the first thing to do is to get back word to your mother that you are safe, and she needn't put on mourning for you yet."

"Shall I go at once? Would you rather have me?" Jack asked eagerly.

"I? Oh--yes--no--that is--Will it be best that Jack go, Jerusha?"

Jerusha looked into the fire thoughtfully, pinching her chin the while. "I guess it depends upon who'd be the best fighter if we happened to need him," she returned. "This here man of mine--Sakes! I never expected to call a British soldier my man, and I ain't so proud of it now. Well, as I was a-saying, so far as my judgment goes, he'd as lief crawl under the bed as to stand up and defend us."

"Ah, but Jerushe," broke in Jules, "you have forgot that but to-day I r-rescue you from the hand of the savage."

"You git out! Ain't I set by myself night after night alone, with the wolves howling outside the house, and you miles away with your boon companions in a tavern? I guess you'd better go, for you'll not stop till you reach the garrison, I well know; and so far as I'm consarned, you needn't come back."

Jules shrugged his shoulders. "She has the tongue of sharpness, but the heart is not so like steel as she would pretend," he said in an aside to Jack. "If you will have it so, Jerushe, I will go and I will return. Prepare your message that I may be off, else the wolf is surely possess himself of me." He laughed good-naturedly.

"But you must have something to eat first," Marianne insisted.

Both she and Jack perceived that the little man had a real affection for Jerusha, and that he was rejoiced to find her again, while she, despite her words to the contrary, was not so ill-pleased to have met her husband.

"All you've got to do," said Jerusha, "is to tell Mis' Reyburn where we are, and that I'm going to stay by Mary Anne till I'm able to fetch her home. Tell her we've got full and plenty to eat; there's a bag of nice good potatoes in the kitchen, and meal, too. You can say the child is well, which ain't a lie, so far as I know. Now, if this young gentleman has any word to send, let him give it to you and you can be off. You won't git ketched by nawthin' wuss'n your own kind, I guess; and if you don't take in seven other sperits wuss'n yourself, I haven't no doubts but what you'll git there alive. Now hurry up and eat them wittles and be off."

He did not delay in making away with the food set before him, and then made ready to depart. "But not without one kees, Jerushe," he said.

"Go 'long, you've no time for foolishness," declared Jerusha, giving him a gentle push with her elbow, and looking at Marianne in a funny embarrassed way. But she followed Jules to the door, and he departed with the note Jack had prepared for him to give his captain. "Now then," said Jerusha, when she had watched him out of sight, "nobody can tell when they'll see him agin. He is as onsartin as old Sancho. He's soft as dough, and as easy going and ready to be led as a blind hoss; but I guess he'll give the message all right, whatever happens to him after. I felt as if you'd be better cal'lated to look after us if anything happened, Mr. Jack, and I hope you don't mind staying."

"Mind!" Jack was glad enough of the opportunity which made it his duty to remain and watch over these two, dependent upon him alone for protection there in the lonely woods. He knew that his report of himself would satisfy his superior officer, and with the wolves howling outside, and the predatory Indians, more to be feared than the wild beasts, roaming the forest, they shut themselves in that night. Sitting around the fire they talked quietly; Jerusha's spirits, as usual, rose in proportion to the gravity of the situation, but Marianne's heart was very full. Her mother ill and needing her; her father retreating before an angry foe; Royal and Kate separated from her by more than miles of distance; her own home in ashes, and her grandmother's perhaps also in ruins--all these things so weighed upon her spirits that she sat hearing only half the things which Jack and Jerusha said.

"The' ain't no use kicking agen the pricks," Jerusha told her. "The Lord's delivered you out of the hand of the Philistine, and has set your feet upon a safe place. You've passed through deep waters, but the Lord's 'stablished your goings, Mary Anne, and you've no cause to complain. You've been a pretty light-hearted crittur, but you may be permitted to win your crown through tribulation."

"There, Jerusha, there," put in Jack, "don't make her think she must suffer any more."

"I ain't said so. I dunno's she ain't had her own passel young. We all have to git it; some gits it old, and some young. I guess mebbe it's best to git it young, and be over with it. Land alive, child, you needn't cry now. You're safe and sound and sheltered and shod."

But Marianne's tears would not be stayed, and she wept so forlornly that Jerusha's tenderness, rarely shown, was stirred.

"Poor little lamb," she said, "I guess I know just how you feel; just as if you'd like to be little and curl up in your mother's lap, and git rocked and sung to. My old bones ain't very soft, but there, you come and let me hold you." She drew the girl into her lap, and to the sound of a creaking old chair and the singing of a tea-kettle swung over the sizzling logs, Marianne rested.

Jack sat and watched the two. How pitifully small and helpless the girl looked with her eyes closed, the long lashes brushing the pale cheek. What a plaintive droop to the sweet mouth, and how her slim fingers curled themselves around Jerusha's bony ones, as if they found comfort in the human clasp. All the terrible consequences of war arose before him. How lightly he had entered the army, and how little he anticipated the horrors of his experience. And this was not the end. He felt as if he must take the little figure lying there in Jerusha's arms, and fly away with her to some safe spot where the clamors of war would never be heard. He sat moodily looking into the fire before he spoke his thought. "To-morrow I will find out if Madame Desvouges's house is still untouched. It will seem more like home to Marianne than any other place."

"If you think the child is going to be ready to take a journey to-morrow, you are mistaken," Jerusha told him. "She's had about as much travelling as she can stand for a while. I guess she'd better stay right here, as long as it's safe."

True enough, Jerusha knew what she was talking about, for the next day saw Marianne in a raging fever, murmuring incoherent words, and crying out wildly as she tossed on her hard bed. "Poor lamb! Poor lamb!" said Jerusha, shaking her head; "mebbe it's just as well that she should be taken, and be spared any more trials. The Lord knows what's before her, and it's only when we've drunk the cup to the dregs that we begin to think that death ain't our worst portion."

"We must save her; we must," said Jack, fiercely. "Don't you dare let yourself believe for one moment that she is going to die."

"Look here, young man, it ain't you or me that's got anything to say about it. I'll do my best, I guess you know that, and you will do your best; but if she's going to be snatched from this vale of tears, we poor worms ain't powerful to prevent it." Her face softened as she saw Jack's distress. "Poor boy," she went on, "it goes hard with you, but, then, it's all a snarl at best. You just go along there to the garrison, and get me some medicine, and with the doctoring I'm able to give her, she'll pull through if it's the Lord's will. She's got youth and a good constitution on her side. You needn't be afraid of leaving me for a few hours. I'm not a mite scared. It's best to give the boy something to do," she said to herself, as he strode off. "He can't do no good moping around here."

She went in and bent over Marianne, putting a finger on the quickly beating pulse. "She's a pretty sick child," said Jerusha, her face working. "Poor little lamb, I've nursed you 'most from a baby, and I guess you won't die from want of attention."