The Man in the Twilight by Ridgwell Cullum

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She had transformed an untidy, uncared-for bachelor habitation into a
wholesome, clean establishment of well-ordered life. She had lifted a
lazy Chinaman into a reasonable specimen of comparative energy, and saw
to it that meals were well and carefully served, and partaken of at
regular hours by men who quickly discovered the futility of protest.

But her work by no means ended there. From one end to the other the
house was swept and garnished, and the neglect of years disposed of.
Bedrooms were transformed from mere sleeping places to luxury. Linen was
duly laundered, and clothing was brushed, and folded, and mended in a
fashion such as its owners had never thought possible. She was utterly
untiring in her labours, and in the process of them she steadily moved
on towards the thing she craved for herself.

The men realised the tremendous effort of it all. And Bull Sternford,
for all his absorption in his work, had watched with troubled feelings.
His love for Nancy had perhaps robbed him of that vision which should
have told him of the necessity, in her own interests, for that which the
girl was doing. So there were times when he had protested, times when he
felt that simple humanity demanded that she should not be permitted to
submit herself to so rough a slavery. But Nancy had countered every
protest with an irresistible appeal.

"Please, please don't stop me," she had cried, almost tearfully. "It's
just all I can do. It's my only hope. Always, till now, I've lived for
myself and ambitions. You know where they have led me--Ah, no. Let me go
on in my own way. Let me nurse him back to health. Let me do these
things. However little I'm able to do there's some measure of peace in
the doing of it."

So the days and weeks had dragged on, and now the time of Nancy's
imprisonment was drawing to its inevitable close. With Spring, and the
coming of the _Myra_, she would have to accept her freedom and all it
meant. She would be expected to return to her home in Quebec, and to
those who had employed her and sent her on her godless mission. She
understood that. But she had no intention of returning to Quebec. She
had no intention of returning to the Skandinavia.

During the long hours of her labours she had searched deeply for the
thing the future must hold for her. It was the old process over again.
That great searching she had once done at Marypoint. But now it was all
different. There had been no sense of guilt then, and the only man who
had been concerned in her life had been that unknown stepfather, whom,
in her child's heart, she had learned to hate. It had been simple enough
then. Now--now--

But she had faced the task with all the splendid, impetuous courage that
was hers. There was no shrinking. Her mind was swiftly and irrevocably
made up. She would abandon the Skandinavia for ever. She would abandon
everything and follow those dictates which had prompted her so often in
the past. Father Adam's self-sacrificing example was always before her.
The forests. Those submerged legions which peopled them. Was there not
some means by which she could join in the work of rescue? She would talk
to Father Adam. She felt he would help her. She wanted nothing for
herself. If only the rest of her life could be translated into some
small imitation of the life of that good man, then, indeed, she felt her
atonement might be counted as something commensurate.

It was not until her decision had been taken that she permitted herself
to seek beyond it. But once it was taken the crushing sense of added
desolation well-nigh paralysed her. Somehow, never before had she
understood. But now--now the sacrifice of it all swept upon her with an
overwhelming rush. Bull Sternford. Bull Sternford, the man whom with all
her power she had striven to defeat, the man whose strength and force of
character had so appealed to her, the man who must hate her as any
clean-minded man must hate a loathsome reptile, she would never see him
again.

Oh, she knew now. She made no attempt at denial. It would have been
quite useless. She loved him. From the moment she had looked into his
honest eyes, and realised his kindly purpose on her behalf at their
first meeting, she had loved him. She must cut him out of her life. It
was the penalty she must pay for her crimes.

And now the moment had arrived when she must put her plans into
operation. Time was pressing. The season was advancing. So she had
chosen the hour at which she served tea to Father Adam as the best in
which to seek his advice and support.

* * * * *

The light tap on Father Adam's door was answered instantly. Nancy passed
into the room with trepidation in her heart, but the hand bearing the
tea tray was without a tremor.

The man whose life belonged to the twilight of the northern forests was
seated in a deep rocker-chair under the window through which the setting
sun was pouring its pleasant spring light. He had been reading. But his
book was laid aside instantly, and he stood up and smiled the thanks
which his words hastily poured forth.

"You know, Nancy, you're completely spoiling me," he said. "I'm going to
hate my forest coffee out of a rusty pannikin. I don't know how I'm
going on when I pull my freight out of here."

The girl's responsive smile faded abruptly as she set the tray on the
table beside the chair.

"When are you going to--pull your freight?" she asked, with a curious,
nervous abruptness.

For a moment the man's eyes were averted. Then he straightened up his
tall, somewhat stooping figure. He flung his lean shoulders back, and
opened his arms wide. And as he did so he laughed in the pleasant
fashion which Nancy had grown accustomed to.

He was the picture of complete health. His dark face was pale. His black
hair and sparse beard were untouched by any sign of the passage of
years. There was not an ounce of superfluous flesh under the curiously
clerical garments he lived in.

"Why, right away, child," he said, with simple confidence. "I'll just
need to wait for a brief 'freeze-up' to get through the mud around
Sachigo. Once on the highlands inside there'll be snow and ice for six
weeks or more. I told Sternford this morning I was ready to pull out.
You see, thanks to you I've cheated the folk who reckoned to silence me.
I'm well, and strong, and the boys of the forest are--needing me. Every
day I remain now I'll be getting soft under the unfailing kindness of
my nurse."

Nancy poured out the tea. There were two cups on the tray and the man
was swift to notice it. She smiled up at him.

"Won't you sit down?" she urged. "You see, I've brought a cup for
myself. I--I want to have a long talk with you. I, too, have got to
'pull my freight.'"

Father Adam obeyed. His dark eyes were deeply observant as he surveyed
the pretty face with its red glory of hair. That which was passing in
his mind found no betrayal. But his thought had suddenly leapt, and he
waited.

Nancy passed him his cup and set the toast within his reach. Then she
pulled up a chair for herself and sat down before the tea tray.

"Yes," she went on, "that's why I brought my cup. I must get away." She
smiled a little wistfully. "My imprisonment is over. Mr. Sternford set
me free long ago, but--well, anyway I'm going now, and that's why I
wanted to talk to you."

She seemed to find the whole thing an effort. But as the man's dark eyes
remained regarding her, and no word of his came to help her, she was
forced to go on.

"You know my story," she said. "You've heard it all from Mr. Sternford.
I know that. You told me so, didn't you?"

The man inclined his dark head.

"Yes," he said. "I know your story--all of it."

"Yes." The girl's tea remained untouched. Suddenly she raised one
delicate hand and passed her finger tips across her forehead. It was a
gesture of uncertainty. Then, quite suddenly, it fell back into her lap,
and, in a moment, her hands were tightly clasped. "Oh, I best tell you
at once. Never, never, never as long as I live can I go back to the
Skandinavia. All the years I've been with them I've just been lost in a
sort of dream world of ambition. I haven't seen a thing outside it. I've
just been a blind, selfish woman who believed in everybody, and most of
all in herself and her selfish aims. Can you understand? Will you? Oh,
now I know all it meant. Now I know the crime of it. And the horror of
the thing I've done, and been, has well-nigh broken my heart. Oh, I'm
not really bad, indeed I'm not. I didn't know. I didn't understand. I
can never forgive myself. Never, never! And when I think of the blood
that has been shed as the result of my work--"

"No." The man's voice broke in sharply. "Put that right out of your
mind, child. None of the blood shed is your doing. None of it lies at
your door. It lies at the door of others. It lies at the door of two men
only. The man who first set up this great mill at Sachigo, and the man
whose hate of him desired its destruction. The rest, you, those others,
Bull Sternford and Harker, here, are simply the pawns in the battle
which owes its inception to those things that happened years ago. I tell
you solemnly, child, no living soul but those two, and chiefly the first
of the two, are to blame for the things that have happened to-day. Set
your mind easy. No one blames you. No one ever will blame you. Not even
the great God to whom we all have to answer. I know the whole story of
it. It is my life to know the story of these forests. Set your mind at
rest."

"Oh, I wish I could think so. I wish I could believe. I feel, I feel you
are telling me this to comfort me. But you wouldn't just do that?"

The man shook his head.

"It's the simple truth," he said. Then he reached for his tea and drank
it quickly. "But tell me. You will never go back to the Skandinavia?
I--am glad. What will you do?"

"That's why I've come to you now."

The tension had eased. Nancy's distress gave way before the man's strong
words of comfort. She, too, drank her tea. Then she went on.

"You know, Father--"

The man stirred in his chair. It was a movement of sudden restlessness
as if that appellation on her lips disturbed him.

"--I want to--I want to--Oh, how can I tell you? You are doing the thing
I want to help in. All my life I felt the time would come when I must
devote myself to the service and welfare of others. I think it's bred in
me. My father, my real father, he, too, gave up his life to those who
could not help themselves. Well, I want to do the same in however humble
fashion. These men, these wonderful men of the forests whom you spend
your life in succouring. Can I not serve them, too? Is there no place
for me under your leadership? Can I not go out into the forests? I am
strong. I am strong to face anything, any hardship. I have no fear. The
call of these forests has got right into my blood. Don't deny me," she
appealed. "Don't tell me I'm just a woman with no strength to withstand
the rigours of the winter. I couldn't stand that. I have the strength,
and I have the will. Can you? Will you help me?"

The girl's appeal was spoken with all the ardour of youthful passion.
There was no sham in it. No hysterical impulse. It was irresistibly
real.

The man's eyes were deeply regarding her. But he was thinking far less
of her words than of the girl herself. Her amazing beauty, the
passionate youth and strength. The perfection of her splendid womanhood.
These things held him, and his mind travelled swiftly back over years to
other scenes and other emotions.

When at last he spoke his words came slowly and were carefully
considered.

"I think, perhaps, I can help you," he said. "You are determined? You
want to help those who need help? The men of the forests?" He shook his
head. "I don't see why you shouldn't help the men of these forests
who--need your help."

Nancy drew a deep breath. A wonderful smile sprang into her pretty eyes.
It was a glad smile of thanks such as no words of hers could have
expressed.

"Oh, thank you, Father--thank you."

Again came the man's restless movement at the word "Father." He abruptly
leant forward and held his cup out for replenishment.

"May I?" he asked. Then his smile broke out again. "But tell me," he
went on. "What have you done about the Skandinavia?"

"Nothing."

Nancy returned him his cup with an unsteady hand.

"Nothing? But you must communicate with them. You should write and tell
them of your decision. You should tell them you don't intend to return
to them."

Father Adam sipped his tea. He was watching intently but unobtrusively
the transparent display of emotions which his words had conjured.

"I hadn't thought about it," Nancy said at last, not without some
disappointment. "Do you really think I should write? But it will take so
long to reach them. I can't wait for that. It--"

"Wire."

"Yes. I suppose I could--wire."

"Sternford will have it sent for you."

In a moment the light of hope died out of the girl's eyes. The excited
flush on her cheeks paled. And the man saw, and read the sign he beheld.

He waited. But Nancy remained silent, crushed under the feeling of utter
desolation to which the mention of Bull Sternford's name had reduced
her.

Father Adam set his cup down.

"Don't let the sending of that message worry, child," he said quickly.
"These people deserve no better treatment after the thing they've done
to you. All you need say is, 'You will accept my resignation forthwith.'
Write that out on a piece of paper, and sign it. Then take it along to
Mr. Sternford. Tell him of your decision, and ask him to have it sent by
the wireless. He'll do it, my dear. And after that--why, after that, if
you still feel the same about things, and want to turn missionary in the
lumber camps, come right back to me here, and I'll do for you as you
ask. It's a great thought, Nancy, and I honour you for it. It's a hard,
desperate sort of life, without comfort or earthly reward. Once the
twilight of the forest claims you, and its people know you, there's
nothing to do but to go on and on to the end. Will you go--and send just
that message?"

Nancy inclined her head.

"Yes. I'll go right away, just as soon as I've taken this tray back."

She rose abruptly. She gathered the remains of the meal on to the tray
and picked it up. And the manner of her movements betrayed her. She
stood for a moment, and the man saw the struggle for composure that was
going on behind her pretty eyes.

"Father," she said at last, and the man abruptly rose from his chair and
moved away, "I just can't thank you--for this. It's given me fresh hope.
A hope I never thought would be mine. Some day--"

Her voice broke and the man turned at once. He was smiling again.

"Don't say a word, my dear. Not a word. Go and write that message, and
take it to Sternford. And then--why--"

He moved over to the door and held it open for her. As she passed out he
nodded kindly, and looked after her till she vanished into the kitchen
at the end of the passage.

* * * * *

Father Adam was alone again in the room that had been his for so many
weeks. The door was closed and he stood at the window gazing out at the
dreary world beyond. But he saw nothing of it. He was thinking with the
speed of a mind chafing at delay. He was wondering and hoping,
and--fearing.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE MESSAGE

It was a woman of desperately fortified resolve who turned the handle of
the office door in response to Bull Sternford's peremptory summons. The
thought of the coming interview terrified Nancy, and her terror had
nothing whatever to do with the sending of her message.

Bull failed to look up from the mass of papers that littered his desk.
His sharp "Well," as Nancy approached him, was utterly impatient at the
interruption. And its effect was crushing upon the girl in her present
dispirited mood. She felt like headlong flight. She stood her ground,
however, and the sound of her little nervous clearing of the throat came
to the man at the table.

Bull looked up. In an instant his whole attitude underwent a complete
change. His eyes lit, and he sprang from his seat behind the desk. He
came towards the shrinking girl, eager and smiling with the welcome his
love inspired.

"Why, say, Nancy," he cried. "I just hadn't a notion it was you. I was
up to my neck in all this stuff," he said, indicating the litter on his
desk, "and I hadn't a thought but it was the darn Chink come to worry
with food." He laughed. "You certainly have handed me some scare since
you got a grip on our crazy household. I've got a nightmare all the time
I've got to eat. And the trouble is I'd hate to miss any of it. Will you
come right over to the window and sit? There's daylight enough still. We
don't need to use Skert's electric juice till we have to. I'm real glad
you came along."

The man's delight was transparent. Nancy remained unresponsive, however.
She was blind to everything but the thing she had come to do, and the
hopelessness that weighed so heavily upon her.

"I'm sorry," she said simply, accepting the chair he set for her. "I
didn't think you'd--you see, I waited till I guessed you'd be through.
But I won't keep you. It's just a small favour, that's all."

Bull observed her closely. She was so amazingly and completely charming.
She was no longer clad in the rough, warm garments of the trail. Even
the cotton overall she used in the work of the house had been removed.
Now a dainty frock, that had no relation to the rigours of Labrador,
displayed the delicate beauty of her figure, and perfectly harmonised
with the colouring of her wonderful hair. Somehow it seemed to the man
her beauty had intensified in its appeal since the day of her supreme
confidence in the cause for which she had so devotedly fought.

"A favour?" he laughed. "Why, I'm just glad."

Even while he spoke Bull remembered his talk with Bat Harker when he had
listened to a wealth of pitying comment upon the feelings and opinions
he had then laid bare. The girl's unsmiling eyes troubled him.

"What's the favour?" he asked simply, as Nancy remained silent.

The girl started. She had turned to the evening light pouring in through
the window. Her thought had wandered to that grim, dark future when the
twilit forests would close about her, and the strong tones of this
man's voice would never again be able to reach her.

She drew a folded paper from the bosom of her frock.

"Would you let them send it for me--wireless?" she asked timidly.
"It's--it's to Mr. Peterman."

All Bull's desire to smile had passed. He nodded.

"Yes," he said. "If you wish it. It shall be sent right off."

His tone had suddenly lost its warmth. It seemed as if the mention of
Peterman's name had destroyed his goodwill.

Nancy searched his face anxiously. The man's brows had depressed and his
strong jaws had become set. She knew that expression. Usually it was the
prelude to uncompromising action.

She drew a deep breath.

"Oh, I know," she cried. "I know the thing you're thinking. You're
reminding yourself of all I've done, and of the injury I've striven to
inflict on you. You're wondering at my temerity in asking you to help me
communicate with your enemies. But please, please don't think worse of
me than you can help. I'm not just trying to use you. It's not that.
Will you read the message? Maybe it'll tell you better than any words of
mine."

The paper was held out to him in an unsteady hand. Bull ignored it. He
shook his head.

"No," he said.

Nancy sprang to her feet.

"But you must read it," she cried. "If you don't I--oh, I won't send it.
I couldn't. Don't make me sorry I asked this favour. It is so little to
you, and--and it means so much to me."

She stood waiting, but Bull showed no sign of yielding. He was thinking
of the man, Peterman. He remembered his good-looking Teutonic face, and
the favour with which Nancy had seemed to regard him. A smouldering
jealousy had suddenly blazed up within him.

Nancy turned away in desperation. She moved to depart.

"I'm sorry," she said. And even in her trouble there was a coldness in
her tone no less than his.

Bull choked down his feelings.

"Please don't go," he cried, urgently. "It would please me very much to
have that message sent. Say, I wasn't thinking the way you reckoned. I
wasn't thinking of the message at all."

"Then you will read it?" The girl came back readily.

"Why should I?" Bull asked smilingly. "Say, a friend asking me to send a
message for him, a message no concern of mine, what would you think,
what would he feel, if I demanded to read its contents?"

He ran the fingers of one hand through his mane of hair and stood
smiling down into the girl's pretty eyes.

"You know this thing makes me want to talk. I've just got to talk. The
position's sort of impossible as it stands. Maybe you don't guess the
thing I'm feeling, and maybe I don't just know how it is with you. We've
got to talk right out and show down our hands. If we don't--"

He turned away and glanced out of window. Then his eyes came back
claimed by the magnetism which the girl exercised.

"You know, Nancy, our war is over. The war between you and me. We
declared war, didn't we? We declared it in Quebec, and we both promised
to do our best, or--worst. It was a sort of compact. We made it meaning
it, and understanding the meaning of it. If you got the drop on me you
were to use it. The same with me. It was one of those friendly things,
between friends, which might easily mean life or death. We knew that,
and were ready to stand just for whatever came along. Well, we fought
our battle. It's over. It's done. Now for God's sake let's forget it.
It's easy for me. You see, I'm a rough, hard sort of product of these
forests that doesn't worry with scruples and things. I'm not a woman
who's full of the notions belonging to her sex. I can wipe the whole
thing out of my mind. I can feel glad for the scrap you put up. I can
think one hell of a great piece of you for it. Maybe it's different with
you, being a woman. I guess it's not going to be easy forgiving the way
I had to handle you back out there on the trail. Or the way you were
forced to live our camp life on the way down here. Or how I've had to
hold you prisoner in a rough household of rougher men. I get all that. I
know the thing it is to a woman. All it means. Still, it must have been
plain to you the chances of that sort of thing before you started in.
That is if I was worth my salt as a fighter. Well, can you kind of
forgive it? Can't you try to forget? Can't you figger the whole darn
thing's past and done with, and we're back at where we were in those
days in Quebec, when you didn't hate me to death, and felt good taking
dinner in my company? Say, do you remember the old _Myra_ you'll soon be
boarding again? You remember our talk on the deck, when the howling gale
hit us? We were talking of the sense of things in Nature, and how she
mussed them up. And how we'd have done a heap better if the job had been
ours. Well?" His smile deepened. "Here we are standing in the sort of
fool position of--what'll I call it? Antagonism? Anyway we agreed to
fight, and stand for all it meant to us, and we're both feeling all
broken up at the way we had to act to hurt each other most." He shook
his head. "Where's our boasted sense of things? We ought to be sitting
right here talking it over, and laughing to beat the band, that I had to
treat you like a dangerous bunch of goods li'ble to get me by the
throat, and choke the life out of me, while you were chasing every old
notion folks could stuff into your dandy head to set me broke and busted
so I wouldn't know where to collect a square feed once a week. That's
what we ought to be doing, if we had the sense we guess. Instead of that
you're feeling badly at me for the things I had to do to you. And I'm
worried to death I'll never get a laugh from you for the fool talk I
don't know better than to make. You need me to send that message to
Peterman. Why, sure I'll send it, even if it's to tell him how mighty
glad you are to be quitting the prison I'd condemned you to, and the joy
it's going to hand you to see his darnation Teuton face again. Sure I'll
send it. It's the least I can do to make up to you for those things I've
done to you. But--but for God's sake don't ask me to read it."

The man concluded with a gesture that betrayed his real feelings. He was
in desperate earnest for all his attempt at lightness. His words came
swiftly, in that headlong fashion so characteristic of his most earnest
mood. And Nancy listening to him, caught something of that which lay
behind them. The faintest shadow of a smile struggled into her eyes. She
shook her head.

"I haven't a thought in my head about you--that way," she said. "It's
not been that way with me. No." She averted her gaze from the eager eyes
before her. "It's the thing I've done and been. It's the thing you, and
every other honest creature, must feel about me. Oh, don't you see? The
killing, the bloodshed and suffering--But I can't talk about it even
now. It's all too dreadful still. I'm quitting when Father Adam goes,
and--and--But believe me no judgment you can pass on me can begin to
express the thing I feel about myself. Please don't think I bear one
single hard thought against you."

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