I went down to her house in the city. A cabin
Of stone, brown as tamarack bark, trimmed with olive.
It was high as a pine that stands on a mountain.
The door was as wide as the mouth of a cavern.
At the door stood a man rigged up like a soldier;
His face was as solemn as judgment to sinners;
He looked at me some, and I looked him all over,
Then he suddenly bowed like a half-breed with manners,
And told me to enter, and he would call Madame.
The room was as large as a town house where settlers
Hold meetings to vote themselves office and wages.
The walls were like caves in far Arizona.
All covered with pictures of houses and battles;
Of ships blown onward by gales in mid-ocean;
Of children with wings, pretty queer-looking creatures;
Of men and of women, and some were half-naked.
But the floor was of oak, which gleamed like a polish;
And with mats thick as moss, and with skins it was covered,
So I felt quite at home, as there I stood looking,
And noting the size and signs of the cabin.
Then, all of a sudden, there came a soft rustle,
Like the rustle of leaves when the wind blows in autumn.
And down the wide stairway across the great hall,
To the door of the room in which I was standing,
Stately and swift, came a woman and entered.
Tall as the tallest. Made firmly, knit firmly
Both in form and in limb, but full and well rounded;
Dark of eye, dark of face, with hair like a raven,
Like the girls of Nevada, where live the old races,
Whose blood is as fire, and whose skin is of olive,
Whose mouths are as sweet as a fig when it ripens.
Arms bare to the shoulders. Neck and bosom uncovered.
Her gown of white satin gleamed and flowed downward
And round her in folds of soft, creamy whiteness.
No ring on her hand, nor in ear. Not a circle
Of gold round her throat. One armlet of silver,
And one at her wrist loosely clasped, small and slender.
So she entered and stood, and looked me all over.
Then slowly she spake. "Your name, sir, and business?"
"Madame," I said, "in the woods men call me John Norton;
John Norton, the Trapper." Then I stopped mighty sudden,
For her face it grew white to the lips and the chin,
And she swayed as a tree to the stroke of the chopper
When he sinks his axe in to the heart and it totters
And quivers. So I stopped, stopped quick and stood looking.
Then her dark face it lighted, and she said, speaking quickly:
"John Norton, I know you. I know you are honest.
You live in the woods. You are good. I can trust you.
All men, I have heard, come to you in their trouble.
Have you seen in the North, have you met in the woods,
Has there come to your cabin a man, tall as you,
Brave as you and as tender? A man like to this?"
And out of her gown, from the folds on her bosom,
She lifted a locket of pearl-colored velvet,
Touched a spring, and I saw, as the lid of it opened,
The face of the man I and Henry had buried!
"John Norton," she cried, and her eyes burned like fever.
Her hand shook and trembled, her face was as marble,
"Have you seen in the woods man like to this picture?
Speak quick and speak true as to woman in trouble.
For I did him great wrong, I thought he held lightly
My fair name and fame; held lightly my honor.
I thought he meant evil, and my heart, filled with anger,
Dismissed him in scorn; but I learned, I learned later,
He was true, and spake truth and loved me as heaven."
Then I stood and I looked and held my face steady,
So it gave her no sign of what I was thinking.
I saw she was honest, and I wished then to spare her,
But my word it was pledged, pledged to him in dying,
To stand as I stood, face to face with this woman,
In her house, in that room, and give her his message.
Beside, not to know is far worse than the knowing
At times. So I rallied and told her the message,
Word for word, as he charged, the night he lay dying
In his house on the bank above the swift rapids.
"Madame," I said, "I have seen man like that picture,
Face and form. He was brave as you say. He was tender.
He was true unto death, and he loved you as heaven.
And these are the words that he sent you in dying.
I, a man of the woods, bring you this as last message,
From one who now sleeps on the bank of the rapids
Of that northern river which pours its brown water
To the Lake of St. John from far Mistassinni.
'Tell her, John Norton, I loved her. Loved her in living,
With a love that was true, and with same love in dying.
Loved her like a man, like a saint, like a sinner,
For time now and time ever. That the one picture
She gave me I kept;—living, dying, and after.
That it lies on the breast of the man that you buried;
On the breast of the man who living did love her,
And that there it will lie until it shall crumble,
With heart underneath it, to dust. So tell her.
And in proof that I tell her the truth, and did tell it
The night when we met, and I told her I loved her,
Give her this, the watch that I wore on the evening
We met, and the evening we parted. Let her open
And see. With her eyes let her see that I loved her.
So say and no more."
Thus I spake. Word for word as he told me I spake.
I gave her the watch, and I said no word further.
I had done as I pledged, I had said as he charged me,
So I stopped and stood waiting for word of dismissal.
But she said not a word, nor made she a sign.
The watch she took from me, touched the spring and it opened,
And there, 'twixt the glass and the gold, withered and faded,
Lay a leaf of Red Rose. One leaf, and—no more.
For a moment she stood; stood, and gazed at the leaf,
Her face grew as white as her gown, and she trembled
And shook like a white swan in dying, then she cried,
"My God, I have killed him, my lover!"
And down on the floor, on the skins at her feet
She dropped as one stricken by bullet or lightning.
It was only last month that we two, in trailing,
Trailed a hundred good miles across to the rapids.
For we wanted to see before going northward
If evil had come to the grave of our comrade.
But the grave lay untouched, by beast or by human.
The grass on the mound was well rooted and growthful.
At the foot of the grave the rose-tree I planted
Was as high as my head. And the leaves of the roses
Lay as thick as red snow-flakes on the mound that was under.
And we knew that on breast, as he slept, was her picture.
So we felt, as we gazed, it was well with Jack Whitcomb.
But often at night, when alone in my cabin,
I hear the low murmur of far northern rapids.
And often I see the great house and its splendor,
And wonder if death has helped the proud woman
To lay off her grief and escape from her sorrow.
And blazed a line through the dark Valley of Shadow,
And brought her in peace to the edge of the clearing,
Where I know she would see Jack Whitcomb stand, waiting.
So I say it again, and I say it with knowledge,
That the woods have their sorrows as well as the cities.
And he knows but little of this great northern forest
Who thinks there's naught in it save trees, lakes, and mountains.