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-The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman
-by James Oliver Curwood
-(#3 in our series by James Oliver Curwood)
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-Title: God's Country--And the Woman
-
-Author: James Oliver Curwood
-
-Release Date: October, 2003  [Etext #4585]
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-The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman
-by James Oliver Curwood
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-
-God's Country--And the Woman
-
-By James Oliver Curwood
-
-Author of "The Honor of the Big Snows," "Philip Steele," Etc.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER ONE
-
-
-Philip Weyman's buoyancy of heart was in face of the fact that he
-had but recently looked upon Radisson's unpleasant death, and that
-he was still in a country where the water flowed north. He laughed
-and he sang. His heart bubbled over with cheer. He talked to
-himself frankly and without embarrassment, asked himself
-questions, answered them, discussed the beauties of nature and the
-possibilities of storm as if there were three or four of him
-instead of one.
-
-At the top end of the world a man becomes a multiple being--if he
-is white. Two years along the rim of the Arctic had taught Philip
-the science by which a man may become acquainted with himself, and
-in moments like the present, when both his mental and physical
-spirits overflowed, he even went so far as to attempt poor
-Radisson's "La Belle Marie" in the Frenchman's heavy basso,
-something between a dog's sullen growl and the low rumble of
-distant thunder. It made him cough. And then he laughed again,
-scanning the narrowing sweep of the lake ahead of him.
-
-He felt like a boy, and he chuckled as he thought of the definite
-reason for it. For twenty-three months he had been like a piece of
-rubber stretched to a tension--sometimes almost to the snapping
-point. Now had come the reaction, and he was going HOME. Home! It
-was that one word that caused a shadow to flit over his face, and
-only once or twice had he forgotten and let it slip between his
-lips. At least he was returning to civilization--getting AWAY from
-the everlasting drone of breaking ice and the clack-clack tongue
-of the Eskimo.
-
-With the stub of a pencil Philip had figured out on a bit of paper
-about where he was that morning. The whalebone hut of his last
-Arctic camp was eight hundred miles due north. Fort Churchill,
-over on Hudson's Bay, was four hundred miles to the east, and Fort
-Resolution, on the Great Slave, was four hundred miles to the
-west. On his map he had drawn a heavy circle about Prince Albert,
-six hundred miles to the south. That was the nearest line of rail.
-Six days back Radisson had died after a mouth's struggle with that
-terrible thing they called "le mort rouge," or the Red Death.
-Since then Philip had pointed his canoe straight UP the Dubawnt
-waterways, and was a hundred and twenty miles nearer to
-civilization. He had been through these waterways twice before,
-and he knew that there was not a white man within a hundred and
-fifty miles of him. And as for a white woman--
-
-Weyman stopped his paddling where there was no current, and leaned
-back in his canoe for a breathing space, and to fill his pipe. A
-WHITE WOMAN! Would he stare at her like a fool when he saw her
-again for the first time? Eighteen months ago he had seen a white
-woman over at Fort Churchill--the English clerk's wife, thirty,
-with a sprinkle of gray in her blond hair, and pale blue eyes.
-Fresh from the Garden of Eden, he had wondered why the half-dozen
-white men over there regarded her as they did. Long ago, in the
-maddening gloom of the Arctic night, he had learned to understand.
-At Fond du Lac, when Weyman had first come up into the forest
-country, he had said to the factor: "It's glorious! It's God's
-Country!" And the factor had turned his tired, empty eyes upon him
-with the words: "It was--before SHE went. But no country is God's
-Country without a woman," and then he took Philip to the lonely
-grave under a huge lob-stick spruce, and told him in a few words
-how one woman had made life for him. Even then Philip could not
-fully understand. But he did now.
-
-He resumed his paddling, his gray eyes alert. His aloneness and
-the bigness of the world in which, so far as he knew, he was the
-only human atom, did not weigh heavily upon him. He loved this
-bigness and emptiness and the glory of solitude. It was middle
-autumn, and close to noon of a day unmarred by cloud above, and
-warm with sunlight. He was following close to the west shore of
-the lake. The opposite shore was a mile away. He was so near to
-the rock-lined beach that he could hear the soft throat-cries of
-the moose-birds. And what he saw, so far as his eyes could see in
-all directions, was "God's Country"--a glory of colour that was
-like a great master painting. The birch had turned to red and
-gold. From out of the rocks rose trees that were great crimson
-splashes of mountain-ash berries framed against the dark lustre of
-balsam and cedar and spruce.
-
-Without reason, Philip was listening again to the quiet lifeless
-words of Jasper, the factor over at Fond du Lac, as he described
-the day when he and his young wife first came up through the
-wonderland of the North. "No country is God's Country without a
-woman!" He found the words running in an unpleasant monotone
-through his brain. He had made up his mind that he would strike
-Fond du Lac on his way down, for Jasper's words and the hopeless
-picture he had made that day beside the little cross under the
-spruce had made them brothers in a strange sort of way. Besides,
-Jasper would furnish him with a couple of Indians, and a sledge
-and dogs if the snows came early.
-
-In a break between the rocks Philip saw a white strip of sand, and
-turned his canoe in to shore. He had been paddling since five
-o'clock, and in the six hours had made eighteen miles. Yet he felt
-no fatigue as he stood up and stretched himself. He remembered how
-different it had been four years ago when Hill, the Hudson's Bay
-Company's man down at Prince Albert, had looked him over with
-skeptical and uneasy eyes, encouraging him with the words: "You're
-going to a funeral, young man, and it's your own. You won't make
-God's House, much less Hudson's Bay!"
-
-Weyman laughed joyously.
-
-"Fooled 'em--fooled 'em all!" he told himself. "We'll wager a
-dollar to a doughnut that we're the toughest looking specimen that
-ever drifted down from Coronation Gulf, or any other gulf. A
-DOUGHNUT! I'd trade a gold nugget as big as my fist for a doughnut
-or a piece of pie right this minute. Doughnuts an' pie--real old
-pumpkin pie--an' cranberry sauce, 'n' POTATOES! Good Lord, and
-they're only six hundred miles away, carloads of 'em!"
-
-He began to whistle as he pulled his rubber dunnage sack out of
-the canoe. Suddenly he stopped, his eyes staring at the smooth
-white floor of sand. A bear had been there before him, and quite
-recently. Weyman had killed fresh meat the day before, but the
-instinct of the naturalist and the woodsman kept him from singing
-or whistling, two things which he was very much inclined to do on
-this particular day. He had no suspicion that a bear which he was
-destined never to see had become the greatest factor in his life.
-He was philosopher enough to appreciate the value and importance
-of little things, but the bear track did not keep him silent
-because he regarded it as significant, because he wanted to kill.
-He would have welcomed it to dinner, and would have talked to it
-were it as affable and good-mannered as the big pop-eyed moose-
-birds that were already flirting about near him.
-
-He emptied a half of the contents of the rubber sack out on the
-sand and made a selection for dinner, and he chuckled in his big
-happiness as he saw how attenuated his list of supplies was
-becoming. There was still a quarter of a pound of tea, no sugar,
-no coffee, half a dozen pounds of flour, twenty-seven prunes
-jealously guarded in a piece of narwhal skin, a little salt and
-pepper mixed, and fresh caribou meat.
-
-"It's a lovely day, and we'll have a treat for dinner," he
-informed himself. "No need of starving. We'll have a real feast.
-I'll cook SEVEN prunes instead of five!"
-
-He built a small fire, hung two small pots over it, selected his
-prunes, and measured out a tablespoonful of black tea. In the
-respite he had while the water heated he dug a small mirror out of
-the sack and looked at himself. His long, untrimmed hair was
-blond, and the inch of stubble on his face was brick red. There
-were tiny creases at the corners of his eyes, caused by the
-blistering sleet and cold wind of the Arctic coast. He grimaced as
-he studied himself. Then his face lighted up with sudden
-inspiration.
-
-"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "I need a shave! We'll use the prune
-water."
-
-From the rubber bag he fished out his razor, a nubbin of soap, and
-a towel. For fifteen minutes after that he sat cross-legged on the
-sand, with the mirror on a rock, and worked. When he had finished
-he inspected himself closely.
-
-"You're not half bad," he concluded, and he spoke seriously now.
-"Four years ago when you started up here you were thirty--and you
-looked forty. Now you're thirty-four, and if it wasn't for the
-snow lines in your eyes I'd say you were a day or two younger.
-That's pretty good."
-
-He had washed his face and was drying it with the towel when a
-sound made him look over beyond the rocks. It was the crackling
-sound made by a dead stick stepped upon, or a sapling broken down.
-Either meant the bear.
-
-Dropping the towel, he unbuttoned the flap to the holster of his
-revolver, took a peep to see how long he could leave the water
-before it would boil, and stepped cautiously in the direction of
-the sound. A dozen paces beyond the bulwark of rocks he came upon
-a fairly well-worn moose trail; surveying its direction from the
-top of a boulder, he made up his mind that the bear was dining on
-mountain-ash berries where he saw one of the huge crimson splashes
-of the fruit a hundred yards away.
-
-He went on quietly. Under the big ash tree there was no sign of a
-feast, recent or old. He proceeded, the trail turning almost at
-right angles from the ash tree, as if about to bury itself in the
-deeper forest. His exploratory instinct led him on for another
-hundred yards, when the trail swung once more to the left. He
-heard the swift trickling run of water among rocks, and again a
-sound. But his mind did not associate the sound which he heard
-this time with the one made by the bear. It was not the breaking
-of a stick or the snapping of brush. It was more a part of the
-musical water-sound itself, a strange key struck once to interrupt
-the monotone of a rushing stream.
-
-Over a gray hog-back of limestone Philip climbed to look down into
-a little valley of smooth-washed boulders and age-crumbled rock
-through which the stream picked its way. He descended to the white
-margin of sand and turned sharply to the right, where a little
-pool had formed at the base of a huge rock. And there he stopped,
-his heart in his throat, every fibre in his body charged with a
-sudden electrical thrill at what he beheld. For a moment he was
-powerless to move. He stood--and stared.
-
-At the edge of the pool twenty steps from him was kneeling a
-woman. Her back was toward him, and in that moment she was as
-motionless as the rock that towered over her. Along with the
-rippling drone of the stream, without reason on his part--without
-time for thought-there leaped through his amazed brain the words
-of Jasper, the factor, and he knew that he was looking upon the
-miracle that makes "God's Country"--a white woman!
-
-The sun shone down upon her bare head. Over her slightly bent
-shoulders swept a glory of unbound hair that rippled to the sand.
-Black tresses, even velvety as the crow's wing, might have meant
-Cree or half-breed. But this at which he stared--all that he saw
-of her--was the brown and gold of the autumnal tintings that had
-painted pictures for him that day.
-
-Slowly she raised her head, as if something had given her warning
-of a presence behind, and as she hesitated in that birdlike,
-listening poise a breath of wind from the little valley stirred
-her hair in a shimmering veil that caught a hundred fires of the
-sun. And then, as he crushed back his first impulse to cry out, to
-speak to her, she rose erect beside the pool, her back still to
-him, and hidden to the hips in her glorious hair.
-
-Her movement revealed a towel partly spread out on the sand, and a
-comb, a brush, and a small toilet bag. Philip did not see these.
-She was turning, slowly, scanning the rocks beyond the valley.
-
-Like a thing carven out of stone he stood, still speechless, still
-staring, when she faced him.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWO
-
-
-A face like that into which Philip looked might have come to him
-from out of some dream of paradise. It was a girl's face. Eyes of
-the pure blue of the sky above met his own. Her lips were a little
-parted and a little laughing. Before he had uttered a word, before
-he could rise out of the stupidity of his wonder, the change came.
-A fear that he could not have forgotten if he had lived through a
-dozen centuries leaped into the lovely eyes. The half-laughing
-lips grew tense with terror. Quick as the flash of powder there
-had come into her face a look that was not that of one merely
-startled. It was fear--horror--a great, gripping thing that for an
-instant seemed to crush the life from her soul. In another moment
-it was gone, and she swayed back against the face of the rock,
-clutching a hand at her breast.
-
-"My God, how I frightened you!" gasped Philip.
-
-"Yes, you frightened me," she said.
-
-Her white throat was bare, and he could see the throb of it as she
-made a strong effort to speak steadily. Her eyes did not leave
-him. As he advanced a step he saw that unconsciously she cringed
-closer to the rock.
-
-"You are not afraid--now?" he asked. "I wouldn't have frightened
-you for the world. And sooner than hurt you I'd--I'd kill myself.
-I just stumbled here by accident. And I haven't seen a white
-woman--for two years. So I stared--stared--and stood there like a
-fool."
-
-Relief shot into her eyes at his words.
-
-"Two years? What do you mean?"
-
-"I've been up along the rim of h--I mean the Arctic, on a
-government wild-goose chase," he explained. "And I'm just coming
-down."
-
-"You're from the North?"
-
-There was an eager emphasis in her question.
-
-"Yes. Straight from Coronation Gulf. I ran ashore to cook a mess
-of prunes. While the water was boiling I came down here after a
-bear, and found YOU! My name is Philip Weyman; I haven't even an
-Indian with me, and there are three things in the world I'd trade
-that name for just now: One is pie, another is doughnuts, and the
-third--"
-
-She brushed back her hair, and the fear went from her eyes as she
-looked at him.
-
-"And the third?" she asked.
-
-"Is the answer to a question," he finished. "How do YOU happen to
-be here, six hundred miles from anywhere?"
-
-She stepped out from the rock. And now he saw that she was almost
-as tall as himself, and that she was as slim as a reed and as
-beautifully poised as the wild narcissus that sways like music to
-every call of the wind. She had tucked up her sleeves, baring her
-round white arms close to the shoulders, and as she looked
-steadily at him before answering his question she flung back the
-shining masses of her hair and began to braid it. Her fear for him
-was entirely gone. She was calm. And there was something in the
-manner of her quiet and soul-deep study of him that held back
-other words which he might have spoken.
-
-In those few moments she had taken her place in his life. She
-stood before him like a goddess, tall and slender and unafraid,
-her head a gold-brown aureole, her face filled with a purity, a
-beauty, and a STRENGTH that made him look at her speechless,
-waiting for the sound of her voice. In her look there was neither
-boldness nor suspicion. Her eyes were clear, deep pools of velvety
-blue that defied him to lie to her, He felt that under those eyes
-he could have knelt down upon the sand and emptied his soul of its
-secrets for their inspection.
-
-"It is not very strange that I should be here" she said at last.
-"I have always lived here. It is my home."
-
-"Yes, I believe that," breathed Philip. "It is the last thing in
-the world that one would believe--but I do; I believe it.
-Something--I don't know what--told me that you belonged to this
-world as you stood there beside the rock. But I don't understand.
-A thousand miles from a city--and you! It's unreal. It's almost
-like the dreams I've been dreaming during the past eighteen
-months, and the visions I've seen during that long, maddening
-night up on the coast, when for five months we didn't see a glow
-of the sun. But--you understand--it's hard to comprehend."
-
-From her he glanced swiftly over the rocks of the coulee, as if
-expecting to see some sign of the home she had spoken of, or at
-least of some other human presence. She understood his questioning
-look. "I am alone," she said.
-
-The quality of her voice startled him more then her words. There
-was a deeper, darker glow in her eyes as she watched their effect
-upon him. She swept out a gleaming white arm, still moist with the
-water of the pool, taking in the wide, autumn-tinted spaces about
-them.
-
-"I am alone," she repeated, still keeping her eyes on his face.
-"Entirely alone. That is why you startled me--why I was afraid.
-This is my hiding-place, and I thought--"
-
-He saw that she had spoken words that she would have recalled. She
-hesitated. Her lips trembled. In that moment of suspense a little
-gray ermine dislodged a stone from the rock ridge above them, and
-at the sound of it as it struck behind her the girl gave a start,
-and a quick flash of the old fear leaped for an instant into her
-face. And now Philip beheld something in her which he had been too
-bewildered and wonder-struck to observe before. Her first terror
-had been so acute that he had failed to see what remained after
-her fright had passed. But it was clear to him now, and the look
-that came into his own face told her that he had made the
-discovery.
-
-The beauty of her face, her eyes, her hair--the wonder of her
-presence six hundred miles from civilization--had held him
-spellbound. He had seen only the deep lustre and the wonderful
-blue of her eyes. Now he saw that those eyes, exquisite in their
-loveliness, were haunted by something which she was struggling to
-fight back--a questing, hunted look that burned there steadily,
-and of which he was not the cause. A deep-seated grief, a terror
-far back, shone through the forced calmness with which she was
-speaking to him. He knew that she was fighting with herself, that
-the nervously twitching fingers at her breast told more than her
-lips had confessed. He stepped nearer to her and held out a hand,
-and when he spoke his voice was vibrant with the thing that made
-men respect him and women have faith in him.
-
-"Tell me--what you started to say," he entreated quietly. "This is
-your hiding-place, and you thought--what? I think that I can
-guess. You thought that I was some one else, whom you have reason
-to fear."
-
-She did not answer. It was as if she had not yet completely
-measured him. Her eyes told him that. They were not looking AT
-him, but INTO him. And they were softly beautiful as wood violets.
-He found himself looking steadily into them--close, so close that
-he could have reached out and touched her. Slowly there came over
-them a filmy softness. And then, marvellously, he saw the tears
-gathering, as dew might gather over the sweet petals of a flower.
-And still for a moment she did not speak. There came a little
-quiver at her throat, and she caught herself with a quick, soft
-breath.
-
-"Yes, I thought you were some one else--whom I fear," she said
-then. "But why should I tell you? You are from down there, from
-what you please to call civilization. I should distrust you
-because of that. So why--why should I tell you?"
-
-In an instant Philip was at her side. In his rough, storm-beaten
-hand he caught the white fingers that trembled at her breast. And
-there was something about him now that made her completely
-unafraid.
-
-"Why?" he asked. "Listen, and I will tell you. Four years ago I
-came up into this country from down there--the world they call
-Civilization. I came up with every ideal and every dream I ever
-had broken and crushed. And up here I found God's Country. I found
-new ideals and new dreams. I am going back with them. But they can
-never be broken as the others were--because--now--I have found
-something that will make them live. And that something is YOU!
-Don't let my words startle you. I mean them to be as pure as the
-sun that shines over our heads. If I leave you now--if I never see
-you again--you will have filled this wonderful world for me. And
-if I could do something to prove this--to make you happier--why,
-I'd thank God for having sent me ashore to cook a mess of prunes."
-
-He released her hand, and stepped back from her.
-
-"That is why you should tell me," he finished.
-
-A swift change had come into her eyes and face. She was breathing
-quickly. He saw the sudden throbbing of her throat. A flush of
-colour had mounted into her cheeks. Her lips were parted, her eyes
-shone like stars.
-
-"You would do a great deal for me?" she questioned breathlessly.
-"A great deal--and like--A MAN?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"A MAN--one of God's men?" she repeated.
-
-He bowed his head.
-
-Slowly, so slowly that she scarcely seemed to move, she drew
-nearer to him.
-
-"And when you had done this you would be willing to go away, to
-promise never to see me again, to ask no reward? You would swear
-that?"
-
-Her hand touched his arm. Her breath came tense and fast as she
-waited for him to answer. "If you wished it, yes," he said.
-
-"I almost believe," he heard, as if she were speaking the words to
-herself. She turned to him again, and something of faith, of hope
-transfigured her face.
-
-"Return to your fire and your prunes," she said quickly, and the
-sunlight of a smile passed over her lips. "Then, half an hour from
-now, come up the coulee to the turn in the rocks. You will find me
-there."
-
-She bent quickly and picked up the little bag and the brush from
-the sand. Without looking at him again she sped swiftly beyond the
-big rock, and Philip's last vision of her was the radiant glory of
-her hair as it rippled cloudlike behind her in the sunlight.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER THREE
-
-
-That he had actually passed through the experience of the last few
-minutes, that it was a reality and not some beautiful phantasm of
-the red and gold world which again lay quiet and lifeless about
-him, Philip could scarcely convince himself as he made his way
-back to the canoe and the fire. The discovery of this girl, buried
-six hundred miles in a wilderness that was almost a terra
-incognita to the white man, was sufficient to bewilder him. And
-only now, as he kicked the burning embers from under the pails,
-and looked at his watch to time himself, did he begin to realize
-that he had not sensed a hundredth part of the miracle of it.
-
-Now that he was alone, question after question leapt unanswered
-through his mind, and every vein in his body throbbed with strange
-excitement. Not for an instant did he doubt what she had said.
-This world--the forests about him, the lakes, the blue skies
-above, were her home. And yet, struggling vainly for a solution of
-the mystery, he told himself in the next breath that this could
-not be possible. Her voice had revealed nothing of the wilderness
---except in its sweetness. Not a break had marred the purity of
-her speech. She had risen before him like the queen of some
-wonderful kingdom, and not like a forest girl. And in her face he
-had seen the soul of one who had looked upon the world as the
-world lived outside of its forest walls. Yet he believed her. This
-was her home. Her hair, her eyes, the flowerlike lithesomeness of
-her beautiful body--and something more, something that he could
-not see but which he could FEEL in her presence, told him that
-this was so. This wonder-world about him was her home. But why--
-how?
-
-He seated himself on a rock, holding the open watch in his hand.
-Of one thing he was sure. She was oppressed by a strange fear. It
-was not the fear of being alone, of being lost, of some happen-
-chance peril that she might fancy was threatening her. It was a
-deeper, bigger thing than that. And she had confessed to him--not
-wholly, but enough to make him know--that this fear was of man. He
-felt at this thought a little thrill of joy, of undefinable
-exultation. He sprang from the rock and went down to the shore of
-the lake, scanning its surface with eager, challenging eyes. In
-these moments he forgot that civilization was waiting for him,
-that for eighteen months he had been struggling between life and
-death at the naked and barbarous end of the earth. All at once, in
-the space of a few minutes, his world had shrunken until it held
-but two things for him--the autumn-tinted forests, and the girl.
-Beyond these he thought of nothing except the minutes that were
-dragging like thirty weights of lead.
-
-As the hand of his watch marked off the twenty-fifth of the
-prescribed thirty he turned his steps in the direction of the
-pool. He half expected that she would be there when he came over
-the ridge of rock. But she had not returned. He looked up the
-coulee, end then at the firm white sand close to the water. The
-imprints of her feet were there--small, narrow imprints of a
-heeled shoe. Unconsciously he smiled, for no other reason than
-that each surprise he encountered was a new delight to him. A
-forest girl as he had known them would have worn moccasins--six
-hundred miles from civilization.
-
-As he was about to leap across the narrow neck of the pool he
-noticed a white object almost buried in the dry sand, and picked
-it up. It was a handkerchief; and this, too, was a surprise. He
-had not particularly noticed her dress, except that it was soft
-and clinging blue. The handkerchief he looked at more closely. It
-was of fine linen with a border of lace, and so soft that he could
-have hidden it in the palm of his hand. From it rose a faint,
-sweet scent of the wild rock violet. He knew that it was rock
-violet, because more than once he had crushed the blossoms between
-his hands. He thrust the bit of fabric in the breast of his
-flannel shirt, and walked swiftly up the coulee.
-
-A hundred yards above him the stream turned abruptly, and here a
-strip of forest meadow grew to the water's edge. He sprang up the
-low bank, and stood face to face with the girl.
-
-She had heard his approach, and was waiting for him, a little
-smile of welcome on her lips. She had completed her toilet. She
-had braided her wonderful hair, and it was gathered in a heavy,
-shimmering coronet about her head. There was a flutter of lace at
-her throat, and little fluffs of it at her wrists. She was more
-beautiful, more than ever like the queen of a kingdom as she stood
-before him now. And she was alone. He saw that in his first swift
-glance.
-
-"You didn't eat the prunes?" she asked, and for the first time he
-saw a bit of laughter in her eyes.
-
-"No--I--I kicked the fire from under them," he said.
-
-He caught the significance of her words, and her sudden sidewise
-gesture. A short distance from them was a small tent, and on the
-grass in front of the tent was spread a white cloth, on which was
-a meal such as he had not looked upon for two years.
-
-"I am glad," she said, and again her eyes met his with their glow
-of friendly humour. "They might have spoiled your appetite, and I
-have made up my mind that I want you to have dinner with me. I
-can't offer you pie or doughnuts. But I have a home-made fruit
-cake, and a pot of jam that I made myself. Will you join me?"
-
-They sat down, with the feast between them, and the girl leaned
-over to turn him a cup of tea from a pot that was already made and
-waiting. Her lovely head was near him, and he stared with hungry
-adoration at the thick, shining braids, and the soft white contour
-of her cheek and neck. She leaned back suddenly, and caught him.
-The words that were on her lips remained unspoken. The laughter
-went from her eyes. In a hot wave the blood flushed his own face.
-
-"Forgive me if I do anything you don't understand," he begged.
-"For weeks past I have been wondering how I would act when I met
-white people again. Perhaps you can't understand. But eighteen
-months up there--eighteen months without the sound of a white
-woman's voice, without a glimpse of her face, with only dreams to
-live on--will make me queer for a time. Can't you understand--a
-little?"
-
-"A great deal," she replied so quickly that she put him at ease
-again. "Back there I couldn't quite believe you. I am beginning to
-now. You are honest. But let us not talk of ourselves until after
-dinner. Do you like the cake?"
-
-She had given him a piece as large as his fist, and he bit off the
-end of it.
-
-"Delicious!" he cried instantly. "Think of it--nothing but
-bannock, bannock, bannock for two years, and only six ounces of
-that a day for the last six months! Do you care if I eat the whole
-of it--the cake, I mean?"
-
-Seriously she began cutting the remainder of the cake into
-quarters.
-
-"It would be one of the biggest compliments you could pay me," she
-said. "But won't you have some boiled tongue with it, a little
-canned lobster, a pickle--"
-
-"Pickles!" he interrupted. "Just cake and pickles--please! I've
-dreamed of pickles up there. I've had 'em come to me at night as
-big as mountains, and one night I dreamed of chasing a pickle with
-legs for hours, and when at last I caught up with the thing it had
-turned into an iceberg. Please let me have just pickles and cake!"
-
-Behind the lightness of his words she saw the truth--the craving
-of famine. Ashamed, he tried to hide it from her. He refused the
-third huge piece of cake, but she reached over and placed it in
-his hand. She insisted that he eat the last piece, and the last
-pickle in the bottle she had opened.
-
-When he finished, she said:
-
-"Now--I know."
-
-"What?"
-
-"That you have spoken the truth, that you have come from a long
-time in the North, and that I need not fear--what I did fear."
-
-"And that fear? Tell me--"
-
-She answered calmly, and in her eyes and the lines of her face
-came a look of despair which she had almost hidden from him until
-now.
-
-"I was thinking during those thirty minutes you away," she said.
-"And I realized what folly it was in me to tell you as much as I
-have. Back there, for just one insane moment, I thought that you
-might help me in a situation which is as terrible as any you may
-have faced in your months of Arctic night. But it is impossible.
-All that I can ask of you now--all that I can demand of you to
-prove that you are the man you said you were--is that you leave
-me, and never whisper a word into another ear of our meeting. Will
-you promise that?"
-
-"To promise that--would be lying," he said slowly, and his hand
-unclenched and lay listlessly on his knee. "If there is a reason--
-some good reason why I should leave you--then I will go."
-
-"Then--you demand a reason?"
-
-"To demand a reason would be--"
-
-He hesitated, and she added:
-
-"Unchivalrous."
-
-"Yes--more than that," he replied softly. He bowed his head, and
-for a moment she saw the tinge of gray in his blond hair, the
-droop of his clean, strong shoulders, the SOMETHING of
-hopelessness in his gesture. A new light flashed into her own
-face. She raised a hand, as if to reach out to him, and dropped it
-as he looked up.
-
-"Will you let me help you?" he asked.
-
-She was not looking at him, but beyond him. In her face he saw
-again the strange light of hope that had illumined it at the pool.
-
-"If I could believe," she whispered, still looking beyond him. "If
-I could trust you, as I have read that the maidens of old trusted
-their knights. But--it seems impossible. In those days, centuries
-and centuries ago, I guess, womanhood was next to--God. Men fought
-for it, and died for it, to keep it pure and holy. If you had come
-to me then you would have levelled your lance and fought for me
-without asking a question, without demanding a reward, without
-reasoning whether I was right or wrong--and all because I was a
-woman. Now it is different. You are a part of civilization, and if
-you should do all that I might ask of you it would be because you
-have a price in view. I know. I have looked into you. I
-understand. That price would be--ME!"
-
-She looked at him now, her breast throbbing, almost a sob in her
-quivering voice, defying him to deny the truth of her words.
-
-"You have struck home," he said, and his voice sounded strange to
-himself. "And I am not sorry. I am glad that you have seen--and
-understand. It seems almost indecent for me to tell you this, when
-I have known you for such a short time. But I have known you for
-years--in my hopes and dreams. For you I would go to the end of
-the world. And I can do what other men have done, centuries ago.
-They called them knights. You may call me a MAN!"
-
-At his words she rose from where she had been sitting. She faced
-the radiant walls of the forests that rolled billow upon billow in
-the distance, and the sun lighted up her crown of hair in a glory.
-One hand still clung to her breast. She was breathing even more
-quickly, and the flush had deepened in her cheek until it was like
-the tender stain of the crushed bakneesh. Philip rose and stood
-beside her. His shoulders were back. He looked where she looked,
-and as he gazed upon the red and gold billows of forest that
-melted away against the distant sky he felt a new and glorious
-fire throbbing in his veins. From the forests their eyes turned--
-and met. He held out his hand. And slowly her own hand fluttered
-at her breast, and was given to him.
-
-"I am quite sure that I understand you now," he said, and his
-voice was the low, steady, fighting voice of the man new-born. "I
-will be your knight, as you have read of the knights of old. I
-will urge no reward that is not freely given. Now--will you let me
-help you?"
-
-For a moment she allowed him to hold her hand. Then she gently
-withdrew it and stepped back from him.
-
-"You must first understand before you offer yourself," she said.
-"I cannot tell you what my trouble is. You will never know. And
-when it is over, when you have helped me across the abyss, then
-will come the greatest trial of all for you. I believe--when I
-tell you that last thing which you must do--that you will regard
-me as a monster, and draw back. But it is necessary. If you fight
-for me, it must be in the dark. You will not know why you are
-doing the things I ask you to do. You may guess, but you would not
-guess the truth if you lived a thousand years. Your one reward
-will be the knowledge that you have fought for a woman, and that
-you have saved her. Now, do you still want to help me?'
-
-"I can't understand," he gasped. "But--yes--I would still accept
-the inevitable. I have promised you that I will do as you have
-dreamed that knights of old have done. To leave you now would be"
---he turned his head with a gesture of hopelessness--"an empty
-world forever. I have told you now. But you could not understand
-and believe unless I did. I love you."
-
-He spoke as quietly and with as little passion in his voice as if
-he were speaking the words from a book. But their very quietness
-made them convincing. She started, and the colour left her face.
-Then it returned, flooding her cheeks with a feverish glow.
-
-"In that is the danger," she said quickly. "But you have spoken
-the words as I would have had you speak them. It is this danger
-that must be buried--deep--deep. And you will bury it. You will
-urge no questions that I do not wish to answer. You will fight for
-me, blindly, knowing only that what I ask you to do is not sinful
-nor wrong. And in the end--"
-
-She hesitated. Her face had grown as tense as his own.
-
-"And in the end," she whispered, "your greatest reward can be only
-the knowledge that in living this knighthood for me you have won
-what I can never give to any man. The world can hold only one such
-man for a woman. For your faith must be immeasurable, your love as
-pure as the withered violets out there among the rocks if you live
-up to the tests ahead of you. You will think me mad when I have
-finished. But I am sane. Off there, in the Snowbird Lake country,
-is my home. I am alone. No other white man or woman is with me. As
-my knight, the one hope of salvation that I cling to now, you will
-return with me to that place--as my husband. To all but ourselves
-we shall be man and wife. I will bear your name--or the one by
-which you must be known. And at the very end of all, in that hour
-of triumph when you know that you have borne me safely over that
-abyss at the brink of which I am hovering now, you will go off
-into the forest, and--"
-
-She approached him, and laid a hand on his arm. "You will not come
-back," she finished, so gently that he scarcely heard her words.
-"You will die--for me--for all who have known you."
-
-"Good God!" he breathed, and he stared over her head to where the
-red and gold billows of the forests seemed to melt away into the
-skies.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER FOUR
-
-
-Thus they stood for many seconds. Never for an instant did her
-eyes leave his face, and Philip looked straight over her head into
-that distant radiance of the forest mountains. It was she whose
-emotions revealed themselves now. The blood came and went in her
-cheeks. The soft lace at her throat rose and fell swiftly. In her
-eyes and face there was a thing which she had not dared to reveal
-to him before--a prayerful, pleading anxiety that was almost ready
-to break into tears.
-
-At last she had come to see and believe in the strength and wonder
-of this man who had come to her from out of the North, and now he
-stared over her head with that strange white look, as if the
-things she had said had raised a mountain between them. She could
-feel the throb of his arm on which her hand rested. All at once
-her calm had deserted her. She had never known a man like this,
-had never expected to know one; and in her face there shone the
-gentle loveliness of a woman whose soul and not her voice was
-pleading a great cause. It was pleading for her self. And then he
-looked down.
-
-"You want to go--now," she whispered. "I knew that you would."
-
-"Yes, I want to go," he replied, and his two hands took hers, and
-held them close to his breast, so that she felt the excited
-throbbing of his heart. "I want to go--wherever you go. Perhaps in
-those years of centuries ago there lived women like you to fight
-and die for. I no longer wonder at men fighting for them as they
-have sung their stories in books. I have nothing down in that
-world which you have called civilization--nothing except the
-husks of murdered hopes, ambitions, and things that were once
-joys. Here I have you to love, to fight for. For you cannot tell
-me that I must not love you, even though I swear to live up to
-your laws of chivalry. Unless I loved you as I do there would not
-be those laws."
-
-"Then you will do all this for me--even to the end--when you must
-sacrifice all of that for which you have struggled, and which you
-have saved?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"If that is so, then I trust you with my life and my honour. It is
-all in your keeping--all."
-
-Her voice broke in a sob. She snatched her hands from him, and
-with that sob still quivering on her lips she turned and ran
-swiftly to the little tent. She did not look back as she
-disappeared into it, and Philip turned like one in a dream and
-went to the summit of the bare rock ridge, from which he could
-look over the quiet surface of the lake and a hundred square miles
-of the unpeopled world which had now become so strangely his own.
-An hour--a little more than that--had changed the course of his
-life as completely as the master-strokes of a painter might have
-changed the tones of a canvas epic. It did not take reason or
-thought to impinge this fact upon him. It was a knowledge that
-engulfed him overwhelmingly. So short a time ago that even now he
-could not quite comprehend it all, he was alone out on the lake,
-thinking of the story of the First Woman that Jasper had told him
-down at Fond du Lac. Since then he had passed through a lifetime.
-What had happened might well have covered the space of months--or
-of years. He had met a woman, and like the warm sunshine she had
-become instantly a part of his soul, flooding him with those
-emotions which make life beautiful. That he had told her of this
-love as calmly as if she had known of it slumbering within his
-breast for years seemed to him to be neither unreal nor
-remarkable.
-
-He turned his face back to the tent, but there was no movement
-there. He knew that there--alone--the girl was recovering from
-the tremendous strain under which she had been fighting. He sat
-down, facing the lake. For the first time his mental faculties
-began to adjust themselves and his blood to flow less heatedly
-through his veins. For the first time, too, the magnitude of his
-promise--of what he had undertaken--began to impress itself upon
-him. He had thought that in asking him to fight for her she had
-spoken with the physical definition of that word in mind. But at
-the outset she had plunged him into mystery. If she had asked him
-to draw the automatic at his side and leap into battle with a
-dozen of his kind he would not have been surprised. He had
-expected something like that. But this other--her first demand
-upon him! What could it mean? Shrouded in mystery, bound by his
-oath of honour to make no effort to uncover her secret, he was to
-accompany her back to her home AS HER HUSBAND! And after that--at
-the end--he was to go out into the forest, and die--for her, for
-all who had known him. He wondered if she had meant these words
-literally, too. He smiled, and slowly his eyes scanned the lake.
-He was already beginning to reason, to guess at the mystery which
-she had told him he could not unveil if he lived a thousand years.
-But he could at least work about the edges of it.
-
-Suddenly he concentrated his gaze at a point on the lake three
-quarters of a mile away. It was close to shore, and he was certain
-that he had seen some movement there--a flash of sunlight on a
-shifting object. Probably he had caught a reflection of light from
-the palmate horn of a moose feeding among the water-lily roots. He
-leaned forward, and shaded his eyes. In another moment his heart
-gave a quicker throb. What he had seen was the flash of a paddle.
-He made out a canoe, and then two. They were moving close in-
-shore, one following the other, and apparently taking advantage of
-the shadows of the forest. Philip's hand shifted to the butt of
-his automatic. After all there might be fighting of the good old-
-fashioned kind. He looked back in the direction of the tent.
-
-The girl had reappeared, and was looking at him. She waved a hand,
-and he ran down to meet her. She had been crying. The dampness of
-tears still clung to her lashes; but the smile on her lips was
-sweet and welcoming, and now, so frankly that his face burned with
-pleasure, she held out a hand to him.
-
-"I was rude to run away from you in that way," she apologized.
-"But I couldn't cry before you. And I wanted to cry."
-
-"Because you were glad, or sorry?" he asked.
-
-"A little of both," she replied. "But mostly glad. A few hours ago
-it didn't seem possible that there was any hope for me. Now--"
-
-"There is hope," he urged.
-
-"Yes, there is hope."
-
-For an instant he felt the warm thrill of her fingers as they
-clung tighter to his. Then she withdrew her hand, gently, smiling
-at him with sweet confidence. Her eyes were like pure, soft
-violets. He wanted to kneel at her feet, and cry out his thanks to
-God for sending him to her. Instead of betraying his emotion, he
-spoke of the canoes.
-
-"There are two canoes coming along the shore of the lake," he
-said. "Are you expecting some one?"
-
-The smile left her lips. He was startled by the suddenness with
-which the colour ebbed from her face and the old fear leapt back
-into her eyes.
-
-"Two? You are sure there are two?" Her fingers clutched his arm
-almost fiercely. "And they are coming this way?"
-
-"We can see them from the top of the rock ridge," he said. "I am
-sure there are two. Will you look for yourself?"
-
-She did not speak as they hurried to the bald cap of the ridge.
-From the top Philip pointed down the lake. The two canoes were in
-plain view now. Whether they contained three or four people they
-could not quite make out. At sight of them the last vestige of
-colour had left the girl's cheeks. But now, as she stood there
-breathing quickly in her excitement, there came a change in her.
-She threw back her head. Her lips parted. Her blue eyes flashed a
-fire in which Philip in his amazement no longer saw fear, but
-defiance. Her hands were clenched. She seemed taller. Back into
-her cheeks there burned swiftly two points of flame. All at once
-she put out a hand and drew him back, so that the cap of the ridge
-concealed them from the lake.
-
-"An hour ago those canoes would have made me run off into the
-forest--and hide," she said. "But now I am not afraid! Do you
-understand?"
-
-"Then you trust me?"
-
-"Absolutely."
-
-"But--surely--there is something that you should tell me: Who they
-are, what your danger is, what I am to do."
-
-"I am hoping that I am mistaken," she replied. "They may not be
-those whom I am dreading--and expecting. All I can tell you is
-this: You are Paul Darcambal. I am Josephine, your wife. Protect
-me as a wife. I will be constantly at your side. Were I alone I
-would know what to expect. But--with you--they may not offer me
-harm. If they do not, show no suspicion. But be watchful. Don't
-let them get behind you. And be ready always--always--to use
-that--if a thing so terrible must be done!" As she spoke she lay a
-hand on his pistol. "And remember: I am your wife!"
-
-"To live that belief, even in a dream, will be a joy as
-unforgettable as life itself," he whispered, so low that, in
-turning her head, she made as if she had not heard him.
-
-"Come," she said. "Let us follow the coulee down to the lake. We
-can watch them from among the rocks."
-
-She gave him her hand as they began to traverse the boulder-strewn
-bed of the creek. Suddenly he said:
-
-"You will not suspect me of cowardice if I suggest that there is
-not one chance in a hundred of them discovering us?"
-
-"No," she replied, with a glance so filled with her confidence and
-faith that involuntarily he held her hand closer in his own. "But
-I want them to find us--if they are whom I fear. We will show
-ourselves on the shore."
-
-He looked at her in amazement before the significance of her words
-had dawned upon him. Then he laughed.
-
-"That is the greatest proof of your faith you have given me," he
-said. "With me you are anxious to face your enemies. And I am as
-anxious to meet them."
-
-"Don't misunderstand me," she corrected him quickly. "I am praying
-that they are not the ones I suspect. But if they are--why, yes, I
-want to face them--with you."
-
-They had almost reached the lake when he said:
-
-"And now, I may call you Josephine?"
-
-"Yes, that is necessary."
-
-"And you will call me--"
-
-"Paul, of course--for you are Paul Darcambal."
-
-"Is that quite necessary?" he asked. "Is it not possible that you
-might allow me to retain at least a part of my name, and call me
-Philip? Philip Darcambal?"
-
-"There really is no objection to that," she hesitated. "If you
-wish I will call you Philip, But you must also be Paul--your
-middle name, perhaps."
-
-"In the event of certain exigencies," he guessed.
-
-"Yes."
-
-He had still assisted her over the rocks by holding to her hand,
-and suddenly her fingers clutched his convulsively. She pointed to
-a stretch of the open lake. The canoes were plainly visible not
-more than a quarter of a mile away. Even as he felt her trembling
-slightly he laughed.
-
-"Only three!" he exclaimed. "Surely it is not going to demand a
-great amount of courage to face that number, Josephine?"
-
-"It is going to take all the courage in the world to face one of
-them," she replied in a low, strained voice. "Can you make them
-out? Are they white men or Indians?"
-
-"The light is not right--I can't decide," he said, after a
-moment's scrutiny. "If they are Indians--"
-
-"They are friends," she interrupted. "Jean--my Jean Croisset--left
-me hiding here five days ago. He is part French and part Indian.
-But he could not be returning so soon. If they are white--"
-
-"We will expose ourselves on the beach," he finished
-significantly.
-
-She nodded. He saw that in spite of her struggle to remain calm
-she was seized again by the terror of what might be in the
-approaching canoes. He was straining his eyes to make out their
-occupants when a low cry drew his gaze to her.
-
-"It is Jean," she gasped, and he thought that he could hear her
-heart beating. "It is Jean--and the others are Indians! Oh, my
-God, how thankful I am--"
-
-She turned to him.
-
-"You will go back to the camp--please. Wait for us there, I must
-see Jean alone. It is best that you should do this."
-
-To obey without questioning her or expostulating against his
-sudden dismissal, he knew was in the code of his promise to her.
-And he knew by what he saw in her face that Jean's return had set
-the world trembling under her feet, that for her it was charged
-with possibilities as tremendous as if the two canoes had
-contained those whom she had at first feared.
-
-"Go," she whispered. "Please go."
-
-Without a word he returned in the direction of the camp.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER FIVE
-
-
-Close to the tent Philip sat down, smoked his pipe, and waited.
-Not only had the developments of the last few minutes been
-disappointing to him, but they had added still more to his
-bewilderment. He had expected and hoped for immediate physical
-action, something that would at least partially clear away the
-cloud of mystery. And at this moment, when he was expecting things
-to happen, there had appeared this new factor, Jean, to change the
-current of excitement under which Josephine was fighting. Who
-could Jean be? he asked himself. And why should his appearance at
-this time stir Josephine to a pitch of emotion only a little less
-tense than that roused by her fears of a short time before? She
-had told him that Jean was part Indian, part French, and that he
-"belonged to her." And his coming, he felt sure, was of tremendous
-significance to her.
-
-He waited impatiently. It seemed a long time before he heard
-voices and the sound of footsteps over the edge of the coulee. He
-rose to his feet, and a moment later Josephine and her companion
-appeared not more than a dozen paces from him. His first glance
-was at the man. In that same instant Jean Croisset stopped in his
-tracks and looked at Philip. Steadily, and apparently oblivious of
-Josephine's presence, they measured each other, the half-breed
-bent a little forward, the lithe alertness of a cat in his
-posture, his eyes burning darkly. He was a man whose age Philip
-could not guess. It might have been forty. Probably it was close
-to that. He was bareheaded, and his long coarse hair, black as an
-Indian's, was shot with gray. At first it would have been
-difficult to name the blood that ran strongest in his veins. His
-hair, the thinness of his face and body, his eyes, and the tense
-position in which he had paused, were all Indian. Then, above
-these things, Philip saw the French. Swiftly it became the
-dominant part of the man before him, and he was not surprised when
-Jean advanced with outstretched hand, and said:
-
-"M'sieur Philip, I am Jean--Jean Jacques Croisset--and I am glad
-you have come."
-
-The words were spoken for Philip alone, and where she stood
-Josephine did not catch the strange flash of fire in the half-
-breed's eyes, nor did she hear his still more swiftly spoken
-words: "I am glad it is YOU that chance has sent to us, M'sieur
-Weyman!"
-
-The two men gripped hands. There was something about Jean that
-inspired Philip's confidence, and as he returned the half-breed's
-greeting his eyes looked for a moment over the other's shoulder
-and rested on Josephine. He was astonished at the change in her.
-Evidently Jean had not brought her bad news. She held the pages of
-an open letter in her hand, and as she caught Philip's look she
-smiled at him with a gladness which he had not seen in her face
-before. She came forward quickly, and placed a hand on his arm.
-
-"Jean's coming was a surprise," she explained. "I did not expect
-him for a number of days, and I dreaded what he might have to tell
-me. But this letter has brought me fresh cause for thankfulness,
-though it may enslave you a little longer to your vows of
-knighthood. We start for home this afternoon. Are you ready?"
-
-"I have a little packing to do," he said, looking after Jean, who
-was moving toward the tent. "Twenty-seven prunes and--"
-
-"Me," laughed Josephine. "Is it not necessary that you make room
-in your canoe for me?"
-
-Philip's face flushed with pleasure.
-
-"Of course it is," he cried. "Everything has seemed so wonderfully
-unreal to me that for a moment I forgot that you were my--my wife.
-But how about Jean? He called me M'sieur Weyman."
-
-"He is the one other person in the world who knows what you and I
-know," she explained. "That, too, was necessary. Will you go and
-arrange your canoe now? Jean will bring down my things and
-exchange them for some of your dunnage." She left him to run into
-the tent, reappearing quickly with a thick rabbit-skin blanket and
-two canoe pillows.
-
-"These make my nest--when I'm not working," she said, thrusting
-them into Philip's arms. "I have a paddle, too. Jean says that I
-am as good as an Indian woman with it."
-
-"Better, M'sieur," exclaimed Jean, who had come out of the tent.
-"It makes you work harder to see her. She is--what you call it--
-gwan-auch-ewin--so splendid! Out of the Cree you cannot speak it."
-
-A tender glow filled Josephine's eyes as Jean began pulling up the
-pegs of the tent.
-
-"A little later I will tell you about Jean," she whispered. "But
-now, go to your canoe. We will follow you in a few minutes."
-
-He left her, knowing that she had other things to say to Jean
-which she did not wish him to hear. As he turned toward the coulee
-he noticed that she still held the opened letter in her hand.
-
-There was not much for him to do when he reached his canoe. He
-threw out his sleeping bag and tent, and arranged Josephine's robe
-and pillows so that she would sit facing him. The knowledge that
-she was to be with him, that they were joined in a pact which
-would make her his constant companion, filled him with joyous
-visions and anticipations. He did not stop to ask himself how long
-this mysterious association might last, how soon it might come to
-the tragic end to which she had foredoomed it. With the spirit of
-the adventurer who had more than once faced death with a smile, he
-did not believe in burning bridges ahead of him. He loved
-Josephine. To him this love had come as it had come to Tristan and
-Isolde, to Paola and Francesca--sudden and irresistible, but,
-unlike theirs, as pure as the air of the world which he breathed.
-That he knew nothing of her, that she had not even revealed her
-full name to him, did not affect the depth or sincerity of his
-emotion. Nor had her frank avowal that he could expect no reward
-destroyed his hope. The one big thought that ran through his brain
-now, as he arranged the canoe, was that there was room for hope,
-and that she had been free to accept the words he had spoken to
-her without dishonour to herself. If she belonged to some other
-man she would not have asked him to play the part of a husband.
-Her freedom and his right to fight for her was the one consuming
-fact of significance to him just now. Beside that all others were
-trivial and unimportant, and every drop of blood in his veins was
-stirred by a strange exultation.
-
-He found himself whistling again as he refolded his blankets and
-straightened out his tent. When he had finished this last task he
-turned to find Jean standing close behind him, his dark eyes
-watching him closely. As he greeted the half-breed, Philip looked
-for Josephine.
-
-"I am alone, M'sieur," said Jean, coming close to Philip. "I
-tricked her into staying behind until I could see you for a moment
-as we are, alone, man to man. Why is it that our Josephine has
-come to trust you as she does?"
-
-His voice was low--it was almost soft as a woman's, but deep in
-his eyes Philip saw the glow of a strange, slumbering fire.
-
-"Why is it?" he persisted.
-
-"God only knows," exclaimed Philip, the significance of the
-question bursting upon him for the first time. "I hadn't thought
-of it, Jean. Everything has happened so quickly, so strangely,
-that there are many things I haven't thought of. It must be
-because--she thinks I'm a MAN!"
-
-"That is it, M'sieur," replied Jean, as quietly as before. "That,
-and because you have come from two years in the North. I have been
-there. I know that it breeds men. And our Josephine knows. I could
-swear that there is not one man in a million she would trust as
-she has put faith in you. Into your hands she has given herself,
-and what you do means for her life or death. And for you--"
-
-The fires in his eyes were nearer the surface now.
-
-"What?" asked Philip tensely.
-
-"Death--unless you play your part as a man," answered Jean. There
-was neither threat nor excitement in his voice, but in his eyes
-was the thing that Philip understood. Silently he reached out and
-gripped the half-breed's hand, For an instant they stood, their
-faces close, looking into each other's eyes. And as men see men
-where the fires of the earth burn low, so they read each other's
-souls, and their fingers tightened in a clasp of understanding.
-
-"What that part is to be I cannot guess," said Philip, then. "But
-I will play it, and it is not fear that will hold me to my promise
-to her. If I fail, why--kill me!"
-
-"That is the North," breathed Jean, and in his voice was the
-thankfulness of prayer.
-
-Without another word he stooped and picked up the tent and
-blankets. Philip was about to stop him, to speak further with him,
-when he saw Josephine climbing over the bulwark of rocks between
-them and the trail. He hurried to meet her. Her arms were full,
-and she allowed him to take a part of her load. With what Jean had
-brought this was all that was to go in Philip's canoe, and the
-half-breed remained to help them off.
-
-"You will go straight across the lake," he said to Philip. "If you
-paddle slowly, I will catch up with you."
-
-Philip seated himself near the stern, facing Josephine, and Jean
-gave the canoe a shove that sent it skimming like a swallow on the
-smooth surface of the lake. For a moment Philip did not dip his
-paddle. He looked at the girl who sat so near to him, her head
-bent over in pretence of seeing that all was right, the sun
-melting away into rich colours in the thick coils of her hair.
-There filled him an overwhelming desire to reach over and touch
-the shining braids, to feel the thrill of their warmth and
-sweetness, and something of this desire was in his face when she
-looked up at him, a look of gentle thankfulness disturbed a little
-by anxiety in her eyes. He had not noticed fully how wonderfully
-blue her eyes were until now, and soft and tender they were when
-free of the excitement of fear and mental strain. They were more
-than ever like the wild wood violets, flecked with those same
-little brown spots which had made him think sometimes that the
-flowers were full of laughter. There was something of wistfulness,
-of thought for him in her eyes now, and in pure joy he laughed.
-
-"Why do you laugh?" she asked.
-
-"Because I am happy," he replied, and sent the canoe ahead with a
-first deep stroke. "I have never been happier in my life. I did
-not know that it was possible to feel as I do."
-
-"And I am just beginning to feel my selfishness," she said. "You
-have thought only of me. You are making a wonderful sacrifice for
-me. You have nothing to gain, nothing to expect but the things
-that make me shudder. And I have thought of myself alone,
-selfishly, unreasonably. It is not fair, and yet this is the only
-way that it can be."
-
-"I am satisfied," he said. "I have nothing much to sacrifice,
-except myself."
-
-She leaned forward, with her chin in the cup of her hands, and
-looked at him steadily.
-
-"You have people?"
-
-"None who cares for me. My mother was the last. She died before I
-came North."
-
-"And you have no sisters--or brothers?"
-
-"None living."
-
-For a moment she was silent. Then she said gently, looking into
-his eyes:
-
-"I wish I had known--that I had guessed--before I let you come
-this far. I am sorry now--sorry that I didn't send you away. You
-are different from other men I have known--and you have had your
-suffering. And now--I must hurt you again. It wouldn't be so bad
-if you didn't care for me. I don't want to hurt you--because--I
-believe in you."
-
-"And is that all--because you believe me?"
-
-She did not answer. Her hands clasped at her breast. She looked
-beyond him to the shore they were leaving.
-
-"You must leave me," she said then, and her voice was as lifeless
-as his had been. "I am beginning to see now. It all happened so
-suddenly that I could not think. But if you love me you must not
-go on. It is impossible. I would rather suffer my own fate than
-have you do that. When we reach the other shore you must leave
-me."
-
-She was struggling to keep back her emotion, fighting to hold it
-within her own breast.
-
-"You must go back," she repeated, staring into his set face. "If
-you don't, you will be hurt terribly, terribly!"
-
-And then, suddenly, she slipped lower among the cushions he had
-placed for her, and buried her face in one of them with a moaning
-grief that cut to his soul. She was sobbing now, like a child. In
-this moment Philip forgot all restraint. He leaned forward and put
-a hand on her shining head, and bent his face close down to hers.
-His free hand touched one of her hands, and he held it tightly.
-
-"Listen, my Josephine," he whispered. "I am not going to turn
-back, I am going on with you. That is our pact. At the end I know
-what to expect. You have told me; and I, too, believe. But
-whatever happens, in spite of all that may happen, I will still
-have received more than all else in the world could give me. For I
-will have known you, and you will be my salvation. I am going on."
-
-For an instant he felt the fluttering pressure of her fingers on
-his. It was an answer a thousand times more precious to him than
-words, and he knew that he had won. Still lower he bent his head,
-until for an instant his lips touched the soft, living warmth of
-her hair. And then he leaned back, freeing her hand, and into his
-face had leaped soul and life and fighting strength; and under his
-breath he gave new thanks to God, and to the sun, and the blue sky
-above, while from behind them came skimming over the water the
-slim birchbark canoe of Jean Jacques Croisset.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER SIX
-
-
-At the touch of Weyman's lips to her hair Josephine lay very
-still, and Philip wondered if she had felt that swift, stolen
-caress. Almost he hoped that she had. The silken tress where for
-an instant his lips had rested seemed to him now like some
-precious communion cup in whose sacredness he had pledged himself.
-Yet had he believed that she was conscious of his act he would
-have begged her forgiveness. He waited, breathing softly, putting
-greater sweep into his paddle to keep Jean well behind them.
-
-Slowly the tremulous unrest of Josephine's shoulders ceased. She
-raised her head and looked at him, her lovely face damp with
-tears, her eyes shimmering like velvety pools through their mist.
-She did not speak. She was woman now--all woman. Her strength, the
-bearing which had made him think of her as a queen, the fighting
-tension which she had been under, were gone. Until she looked at
-him through her tears her presence had been like that of some
-wonderful and unreal creature who held the control to his every
-act in the cup of her hands. He thought no longer of himself now.
-He knew that to him she had relinquished the mysterious fight
-under which she had been struggling. In her eyes he read her
-surrender. From this hour the fight was his. She told him, without
-speaking. And the glory of it all thrilled him with a sacred
-happiness so that he wanted to drop his paddle, draw her close
-into his arms, and tell her that there was no power in the world
-that could harm her now. But instead of this he laughed low and
-joyously full into her eyes, and her lips smiled gently back at
-him. And so they understood without words.
-
-Behind them, Jean had been coming up swiftly, and now they heard
-him break for an instant into the chorus of one of the wild half-
-breed songs, and Philip listened to the words of the chant which
-is as old in the Northland as the ancient brass cannon and the
-crumbling fortress rocks at York Factory:
-
-    "O, ze beeg black bear, he go to court,
-    He go to court a mate;
-    He court to ze Sout',
-    He court to ze Nort',
-    He court to ze shores of ze Indian Lake."
-
-And then, in the moment's silence that followed, Philip threw back
-his head, and in a voice almost as wild and untrained as Jean
-Croisset's, he shouted back:
-
-    "Oh! the fur fleets sing on Temiskaming,
-      As the ashen paddles bend,
-    And the crews carouse at Rupert's House,
-      At the sullen winter's end.
-    But my days are done where the lean wolves run,
-      And I ripple no more the path
-    Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face
-      From the white wind's Arctic wrath."
-
-The suspense was broken. The two men's voices, rising in their
-crude strength, sending forth into the still wilderness both
-triumph and defiance, brought the quick flush of living back into
-Josephine's face. She guessed why Jean had started his chant--to
-give her courage. She KNEW why Philip had responded. And now Jean
-swept up beside them, a smile on his thin, dark face.
-
-"The Good Virgin preserve us, M'sieur, but our voices are like
-those of two beasts," he cried.
-
-"Great, true, fighting beasts," whispered Josephine under her
-breath. "How I would hate almost--"
-
-She had suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair.
-
-"What?" asked Philip.
-
-"To hear men sing like women," she finished.
-
-As swiftly as he had come up Jean and his canoe had sped on ahead
-of them.
-
-"You should have heard us sing that up in our snow hut, when for
-five months the sun never sent a streak above the horizon," said
-Philip. "At the end--in the fourth month--it was more like the
-wailing of madmen. MacTavish died then: a young half Scot, of the
-Royal Mounted. After that Radisson and I were alone, and sometimes
-we used to see how loud we could shout it, and always, when we
-came to those two last lines--"
-
-She interrupted him:
-
-    "Where the gray geese race 'cross the red moon's face
-    From the white wind's Arctic wrath."
-
-
-"Your memory is splendid!" he cried admiringly.
-
-"Yes, always when we came to the end of those lines, the white
-foxes would answer us from out on the barrens, and we would wait
-for the sneaking yelping of them before we went on. They haunted
-us like little demons, those foxes, and never once could we catch
-a glimpse of them during the long night. They helped to drive
-MacTavish mad. He died begging us to keep them away from him. One
-day I was wakened by Radisson crying like a baby, and when I sat
-up in my ice bunk he caught me by the shoulders and told me that
-he had seen something that looked like the glow of a fire
-thousands and thousands of miles away. It was the sun, and it came
-just in time."
-
-"And this other man you speak of, Radisson?" she asked.
-
-"He died two hundred miles back," replied Philip quietly. "But
-that is unpleasant to speak of. Look ahead. Isn't that ridge of
-the forest glorious in the sunlight?"
-
-She did not take her eyes from his face.
-
-"Do you know, I think there is something wonderful about you," she
-said, so gently and frankly that the blood rushed to his cheeks.
-"Some day I want to learn those words that helped to keep you
-alive up there. I want to know all of the story, because I think I
-can understand. There was more to it--something after the foxes
-yelped back at you?"
-
-"This," he said, and ahead of them Jean Croisset rested on his
-paddle to listen to Philip's voice:
-
-    "My seams gape wide, and I'm tossed aside
-      To rot on a lonely shore,
-    While the leaves and mould like a shroud enfold,
-      For the last of my trails are o'er;
-    But I float in dreams on Northland streams
-      That never again I'll see,
-    As I lie on the marge of the old Portage,
-      With grief for company."
-
-"A canoe!" breathed the girl, looking back over the sunlit lake.
-
-"Yes, a canoe, cast aside, forgotten, as sometimes men and women
-are forgotten when down and out."
-
-"Men and women who live in dreams," she added. "And with such
-dreams there must always be grief."
-
-There was a moment of the old pain in her face, a little catch in
-her breath, and then she turned and looked at the forest ridge to
-which he had called her attention.
-
-"We go deep into that forest," she said. "We enter a creek just
-beyond where Jean is waiting for us, and Adare House is a hundred
-miles to the south and east." She faced him with a quick smile.
-"My name is Adare," she explained, "Josephine Adare."
-
-"Is--or was?" he asked.
-
-"Is," she said; then, seeing the correcting challenge in his eyes
-she added quickly: "But only to you. To all others I am Madame
-Paul Darcambal."
-
-"Paul?"
-
-"Pardon me, I mean Philip."
-
-They were close to shore, and fearing that Jean might become
-suspicious of his tardiness, Philip bent to his paddle and was
-soon in the half-breed's wake. Where he had thought there was only
-the thick forest he saw a narrow opening toward which Jean was
-speeding in his canoe. Five minutes later they passed under a
-thick mass of overhanging spruce boughs into a narrow stream so
-still and black in the deep shadows of the forest that it looked
-like oil. There was something a little awesome in the suddenness
-and completeness with which they were swallowed up. Over their
-heads the spruce and cedar tops met and shut out the sunlight. On
-both sides of them the forest was thick and black. The trail of
-the stream itself was like a tunnel, silent, dark, mysterious. The
-paddles dipped noiselessly, and the two canoes travelled side by
-side.
-
-"There are few who know of this break into the forest," said Jean
-in a low voice. "Listen, M'sieur!"
-
-From out of the gloom ahead of them there came a faint, oily
-splashing.
-
-"Otter," whispered Jean. "The stream is like this for many miles,
-and it is full of life that you can never see because of the
-darkness."
-
-Something in the stillness and the gloom held them silent. The
-canoes slipped along like shadows, and sometimes they bent their
-heads to escape the low-hanging boughs. Josephine's face shone
-whitely in the dusk. She was alert and listening. When she spoke
-it was in a voice strangely subdued.
-
-"I love this stream," she whispered. "It is full of life. On all
-sides of us, in the forest, there is life. The Indians do not come
-here, because they have a superstitious dread of this eternal
-gloom and quiet. They call it the Spirit Stream. Even Jean is a
-little oppressed by it. See how closely he keeps to us. I love it,
-because I love everything that is wild. Listen! Did you hear
-that?"
-
-"Mooswa," spoke Jean out of the gloom close to them.
-
-"Yes, a moose," she said. "Here is where I saw my first moose, so
-many years ago that it is time for me to forget," she laughed
-softly. "I think I had just passed my fourth birthday."
-
-"You were four on the day we started, ma Josephine," came Jean's
-voice as his canoe shot slowly ahead where the stream narrowed;
-and then his voice came back more faintly: "that was sixteen years
-ago to-day."
-
-A shot breaking the dead stillness of the sunless world about him
-could not have sent the blood rushing through Philip's veins more
-swiftly than Jean's last words. For a moment he stopped his
-paddling and leaned forward so that he could look close into
-Josephine's face.
-
-"This is your birthday?"
-
-"Yes. You ate my birthday cake."
-
-She heard the strange, happy catch in his breath as he
-straightened back and resumed his work. Mile after mile they wound
-their way through the mysterious, subterranean-like stream,
-speaking seldom, and listening intently for the breaks in the
-deathlike stillness that spoke of life. Now and then they caught
-the ghostly flutter of owls in the gloom, like floating spirits;
-back in the forest saplings snapped and brush crashed underfoot as
-caribou or moose caught the man-scent; they heard once the
-panting, sniffing inquiry of a bear close at hand, and Philip
-reached forward for his rifle. For an instant Josephine's hand
-fluttered to his own, and held it back, and the dark glow of her
-eyes said: "Don't kill." Here there were no big-eyed moose-birds,
-none of the mellow throat sounds of the brush sparrow, no harsh
-janglings of the gaudily coloured jays. In the timber fell the
-soft footpads of creatures with claw and fang, marauders and
-outlaws of darkness. Light, sunshine, everything that loved the
-openness of day were beyond. For more than an hour they had driven
-their canoes steadily on, when, as suddenly as they had entered
-it, they slipped out from the cavernous gloom into the sunlight
-again.
-
-Josephine drew a deep breath as the sunlight flooded her face and
-hair.
-
-"I have my own name for that place," she said. "I call it the
-Valley of Silent Things. It is a great swamp, and they say that
-the moss grows in it so deep that caribou and deer walk over it
-without breaking through."
-
-The stream was swelling out into a narrow, finger-like lake that
-stretched for a mile or more ahead of them, and she turned to nod
-her head at the spruce and cedar shores with their colourings of
-red and gold, where birch, and poplar, and ash splashed vividly
-against the darker background.
-
-"From now on it is all like that." she said. "Lake after lake,
-most of them as narrow as this, clear to the doors of Adare House.
-It is a wonderful lake country, and one may easily lose one's
-self--hundreds of lakes, I guess, running through the forests like
-Venetian canals."
-
-"I would not be surprised if you told me you had been in Venice,"
-he replied. "To-day is your birthday--your twentieth. Have you
-lived all those years here?"
-
-He repressed his desire to question her, because he knew that she
-understood that to be a part of his promise to her. In what he now
-asked her he could not believe that he was treading upon
-prohibited ground, and in the face of their apparent innocence he
-was dismayed at the effect his words had upon her. It seemed to
-him that her eyes flinched when he spoke, as if he had struck at
-her. There passed over her face the look which he had come to
-dread: a swift, tense betrayal of the grief which he knew was
-eating at her soul, and which she was fighting so courageously to
-hide from him. It had come and gone in a flash, but the pain of it
-was left with him. She smiled at him a bit tremulously.
-
-"I understand why you ask that," she said, "and it is no more than
-fair that I should tell you. Of course you are wondering a great
-deal about me. You have just asked yourself how I could ever hear
-of such a place as Venice away up here among the Indians. Why, do
-you know"--she leaned forward, as if to whisper a secret, her blue
-eyes shilling with a sudden laughter--"I've even read the 'Lives'
-of Plutarch, and I'm waiting patiently for the English to bang a
-few of those terrible Lucretia Borgias who call themselves
-militant suffragettes!"
-
-"I--I--beg your pardon," he stammered helplessly.
-
-She no longer betrayed the hurt of his question, and so sweet was
-the laughter of her eyes and lips that he laughed back at her, in
-spite of his embarrassment. Then, all at once, she became serious.
-
-"I am terribly unfair to you," she apologized gently; and then,
-looking across the water, she added: "Yes, I've lived almost all
-of those twenty years up here--among the forests. They sent me to
-the Mission school at Fort Churchill, over on Hudson's Bay, for
-three years; and after that, until I was seventeen, I had a little
-white-haired English governess at Adare House. If she had lived--
-" Her hands clenched the sides of the canoe, and she looked
-straight away from Philip. She seemed to force the words that came
-from her lips then: "When I was eighteen I went to Montreal--and
-lived there a year, That is all--that one year--away from--my
-forests--"
-
-He almost failed to hear the last words, and he made no effort to
-reply. He kept his canoe nearer to Jean's, so that frequently they
-were running side by side. In the quick fall of the early northern
-night the sun was becoming more and more of a red haze in the sky
-as it sank farther toward the western forests. Josephine had
-changed her position, so that she now sat facing the bow of the
-canoe. She leaned a little forward, her elbows resting in her lap,
-her chin tilted in the cup of her hands, looking steadily ahead,
-and for a long time no sound but the steady dip, dip, dip of the
-two paddles broke the stillness of their progress. Scarcely once
-did Philip take his eyes from her. Every turn, every passing of
-shadow and light, each breath of wind that set stirring the
-shimmering tresses of her hair, made her more beautiful to him.
-From red gold to the rich and lustrous brown of the ripened wintel
-berries he marked the marvellous changing of her hair with the
-setting of the sun. A quick chill was growing in the air now and
-after a little he crept forward and slipped a light blanket about
-the slender shoulders. Even then Josephine did not speak, but
-looked up at him, and smiled her thanks. In his eyes, his touch,
-even his subdued breath, were the whispers of his adoration.
-
-Movement roused Jean from his Indian-like silence. As Philip moved
-back, he called:
-
-"It is four o'clock, M'sieur. We will have darkness in an hour.
-There is a place to camp and tepee poles ready cut on the point
-ahead of us."
-
-Fifteen minutes later Philip ran his canoe ashore close to Jean
-Croisset's on a beach of white sand. He could not help seeing
-that, from the moment she had answered his question out on the
-lake, a change had come over Josephine. For a short time that
-afternoon she had risen from out of the thing that oppressed her,
-and once or twice there had been almost happiness in her smile and
-laughter. Now she seemed to have sunk again under its smothering
-grip. It was as if the chill and dismal gloom of approaching night
-had robbed her cheeks of colour, and had given a tired droop to
-her shoulders as she sat silently, and waited for them to make her
-tent comfortable. When it was up, and the blankets spread, she
-went in and left them alone, and the last glimpse that he had of
-her face left with Philip a cameo-like impression of hopelessness
-that made him want to call out her name, yet held him speechless.
-He looked closely at Jean as they put up their own tent, and for
-the first time he saw that the mask had fallen from the half-
-breed's face, and that it was filled with that same mysterious
-hopelessness and despair. Almost roughly he caught him by the
-shoulder.
-
-"See here, Jean Croisset," he cried impatiently, "you're a man.
-What are you afraid of?"
-
-"God," replied Jean so quietly that Philip dropped his hand from
-his shoulder in astonishment. "Nothing else in the world am I
-afraid of, M'sieur!"
-
-"Then why--why in the name of that God do you look like this?"
-demanded Philip. "You saw her go into the tent. She is
-disheartened, hopeless because of something that I can't guess at,
-cold and shivering and white because of a FEAR of something. She
-is a woman. You are a man. Are YOU afraid?"
-
-"No, not afraid, M'sieur. It is her grief that hurts me, not fear.
-If it would help her I would let you take this knife at my side
-and cut me into pieces so small that the birds could carry them
-away. I know what you mean. You think I am not a fighter. Our Lady
-in Heaven, if fighting could only save her!"
-
-"And it cannot?"
-
-"No, M'sieur. Nothing can save her. You can help, but you cannot
-save her. I believe that nothing like this terrible thing that has
-come to her has happened before since the world began. It is a
-mistake that it has come once. The Great God would not let it
-happen twice."
-
-He spoke calmly. Philip could find no words with which to reply.
-His hand slipped from Jean's arm to his hand, and their fingers
-gripped. Thus for a space they stood. Philip broke the silence.
-
-"I love her, Jean," he spoke softly.
-
-"Every one loves her, M'sieur. All our forest people call her
-'L'Ange.'"
-
-"And still you say there is no hope?"
-
-"None."
-
-"Not even--if we fight--?"
-
-Jean's fingers tightened about his like cords of steel.
-
-"We may kill, M'sieur, but that will not save hearts crushed like
---See!--like I crush these ash berries under my foot! I tell you
-again, nothing like this has ever happened before since the world
-began, and nothing like it will ever happen again!"
-
-Steadily Philip looked into Jean's eyes.
-
-"You have seen something of the world, Jean?"
-
-"A good deal, M'sieur. For seven years I went to school at
-Montreal, and prepared myself for the holy calling of Missioner.
-That was many years ago. I am now simply Jean Jacques Croisset, of
-the forests."
-
-"Then you know--you must know, that where there is life there is
-hope," argued Philip eagerly, "I have promised not to pry after
-her secret, to fight for her only as she tells me to fight. But if
-I knew, Jean. If I knew what this trouble is--how and where to
-fight! Is this knowledge--impossible?"
-
-"Impossible, M'sieur!"
-
-Slowly Jean withdrew his hand.
-
-"Don't take it that way, man," exclaimed Philip quickly. "I'm not
-ferreting for her secret now. Only I've got to know--is it
-impossible for her to tell me?"
-
-"As impossible, M'sieur, as it would be for me. And Our Lady
-herself could not make me do that if I heard Her voice commanding
-me out of Heaven. All that I can do is to wait, and watch, and
-guard. And all that you can do, M'sieur, is to play the part she
-has asked of you. In doing that, and doing it well, you will keep
-the last bit of life in her heart from being trampled out. If you
-love her"--he picked up a tepee pole before he finished, and then,
-said--"you will do as you have promised!"
-
-There was a finality in the shrug of Jean's shoulders which Philip
-did not question. He picked up an axe, and while Jean arranged the
-tepee poles began to chop down a dry birch. As the chips flew his
-mind flew faster. In his optimism he had half believed that the
-cloud of mystery in which Josephine had buried him would, in time,
-be voluntarily lifted by her. He had not been able to make himself
-believe that any situation could exist where hopelessness was as
-complete as she had described. Without arguing with himself he had
-taken it for granted that she had been labouring under a
-tremendous strain, and that no matter what her trouble was it had
-come to look immeasurably darker to her than it really was. But
-Jean's attitude, his low and unexcited voice, and the almost
-omniscient decisiveness of his words had convinced him that
-Josephine had not painted it as blackly as she might. She, at
-least, had seemed to see a ray of hope. Jean saw none, and Philip
-realized that the half-breed's calm and unheated judgment was more
-to be reckoned with than hers. At the same time, he did not feel
-dismayed. He was of the sort who have born in them the fighting
-instinct, And with this instinct, which is two thirds of life's
-battle won, goes the sort of optimism that has opened up raw
-worlds to the trails of men. Without the one the other cannot
-exist.
-
-As the blows of his axe cut deep into the birch, Philip knew that
-so long as there is life and freedom and a sun above it is
-impossible for hope to become a thing of char and ash. He did not
-use logic. He simply LIVED! He was alive, and he loved Josephine.
-
-The muscles of his arms were like sinews of rawhide. Every fibre
-in his body was strung with a splendid strength. His brain was as
-clear as the unpolluted air that drifted over the cedar and
-spruce. And now to these tremendous forces had come the added
-strength of the most wonderful thing in the world: love of a
-woman. In spite of all that Josephine and Jean had said, in spite
-of all the odds that might be against him, he was confident of
-winning whatever fight might be ahead of him.
-
-He not only felt confident, but cheerful. He did not try to make
-Jean understand what it meant to be in camp with the company of a
-woman for the first time in two years. Long after the tents were
-up and the birch-fire was crackling cheerfully in the darkness
-Josephine still remained in her tent. But the mere fact that she
-was there lifted Philip's soul to the skies.
-
-And Josephine, with a blanket drawn about her shoulders, lay in
-the thick gloom of her tent and listened to him. His far-reaching,
-exuberant whistling seemed to warm her. She heard him laughing and
-talking with Jean, whose voice never came to her; farther back,
-where he was cutting down another birch, she heard him shout out
-the words of a song between blows; and once, sotto voce, and close
-to her tent, she quite distinctly heard him say "Damn!" She knew
-that he had stumbled with an armful of wood, and for the first
-time in that darkness and her misery she smiled. That one word
-alone Philip had not intended that she should hear. But when it
-was out he picked himself up and laughed.
-
-He did not meddle with Jean's cook-fire, but he built a second
-fire where the cheer of it would light up Josephine's tent, and
-piled dry logs on it until the flame of it lighted up the gloom
-about them for a hundred feet. And then, with a pan in one hand
-and a stick in the other, he came close and beat a din that could
-have been heard a quarter of a mile away.
-
-Josephine came out full in the flood-light of the fire, and he saw
-that she had been crying. Even now there was a tremble of her lips
-as she smiled her gratitude. He dropped his pan and stick, and
-went to her. It seemed as if this last hour in the darkness of
-camp had brought her nearer to him, and he gently took her hands
-in his own and held them for a moment close to him. They were cold
-and trembling, and one of them that had rested under her cheek was
-damp with tears.
-
-"You mustn't do this any more," he whispered.
-
-"I'll try not to," she promised. "Please let me stand a little in
-the warmth of the fire. I'm cold."
-
-He led her close to the flaming birch logs and the heat soon
-brought a warm flush into her cheeks. Then they went to where Jean
-had spread out their supper on the ground. When she had seated
-herself on the pile of blankets they had arranged for her,
-Josephine looked across at Philip, squatted Indian-fashion
-opposite her, and smiled apologetically.
-
-"I'm afraid your opinion of me isn't getting better," she said.
-"I'm not much of a--a--sport--to let you men get supper by
-yourselves, am I? You see--I'm taking advantage of my birthday."
-
-"Oui, ma belle princesse," laughed Jean softly, a tender look
-coming into his thin, dark face. "And do you remember that other
-birthday, years and years ago, when you took advantage of Jean
-Croisset while he was sleeping? Non, you do not remember?"
-
-"Yes, I remember."
-
-"She was six, M'sieur," explained Jean, "and while I slept,
-dreaming of one gr-r-rand paradise, she cut off my moustaches.
-They were splendid, those moustaches, but they would never grow
-right after that, and so I have gone shaven."
-
-In spite of her efforts to appear cheerful, Philip could see that
-Josephine was glad when the meal was over, and that she was
-forcing herself to sip at a second cup of tea on their account. He
-accompanied her back to the tent after she had bade Jean good-
-night, and as they stood for a moment before the open flap there
-filled the girl's face a look that was partly of self-reproach and
-partly of wistful entreaty for his understanding and forgiveness.
-
-"You have been good to me," she said. "No one can ever know how
-good you have been to me, what it has meant to me, and I thank
-you."
-
-She bowed her head, and again he restrained the impulse to gather
-her close up in his arms. When she looked up he was holding
-something toward her in the palm of his hand. It was a little
-Bible, worn and frayed at the edges, pathetic in its raggedness.
-
-"A long time ago, my mother gave me this Bible," he said. "She
-told me that as long as I carried it, and believed in it, no harm
-could come to me, and I guess she was right. It was her first
-Bible, and mine. It's grown old and ragged with me, and the water
-and snow have faded it. I've come to sort of believe that mother
-is always near this Book. I'd like you to have it, Josephine. It's
-the only thing I've got to offer you on your birthday."
-
-While he was speaking he had taken one of her hands and thrust his
-precious gift into it. Slowly Josephine raised the little Bible to
-her breast. She did not speak, but for a moment Philip saw in her
-eyes the look for which he would have sacrificed the world; a look
-that told him more than all the volumes of the earth could have
-told of a woman's trust and faith.
-
-He bent his head lower and whispered:
-
-"To-night, my Josephine--just this night--may I wish you all the
-hope and happiness that God and my Mother can bring you, and kiss
-you--once--"
-
-In that moment's silence he heard the throbbing of her heart. She
-seemed to have ceased breathing, and then, slowly, looking
-straight into his eyes, she lifted her lips to him, and as one who
-meets a soul of a thing too sanctified to touch with hands, he
-kissed her. Scarcely had the warm sweetness of her lips thrilled
-his own than she had turned from him, and was gone.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER SEVEN
-
-
-For a time after they had cleared up the supper things Philip sat
-with Jean close to the fire and smoked. The half-breed had lapsed
-again into his gloom and silence. Two or three times Philip caught
-Jean watching him furtively. He made no effort to force a
-conversation, and when he had finished his pipe he rose and went
-to the tent which they were to share together. At last he found
-himself not unwilling to be alone. He closed the flap to shut out
-the still brilliant illumination of the fire, drew a blanket about
-him, and stretched himself out on the top of his sleeping bag. He
-wanted to think.
-
-He closed his eyes to bring back more vividly the picture of
-Josephine as she had given him her lips to kiss. This, of all the
-unusual happenings of that afternoon, seemed most like a dream to
-him, yet his brain was afire with the reality of it. His mind
-struggled again with the hundred questions which he had asked
-himself that day, and in the end Josephine remained as completely
-enshrouded in mystery as ever. Yet of one thing was he convinced.
-The oppression of the thing under which Jean and the girl were
-fighting had become more acute with the turning of their faces
-homeward. At Adare House lay the cause of their hopelessness, of
-Josephine's grief, and of the gloom under which the half-breed had
-fallen so completely that night. Until they reached Adare House he
-could guess at nothing. And there--what would he find?
-
-In spite of himself he felt creeping slowly over him a shuddering
-fear that he had not acknowledged before. The darkness deepening
-as the fire died away, the stillness of the night, the low wailing
-of a wind growing out of the north roused in him the unrest and
-doubt that sunshine and day had dispelled. An uneasy slumber came
-at last with this disquiet. His mind was filled with fitful
-dreams. Again he was back with Radisson and MacTavish, listening
-to the foxes out on the barrens. He heard the Scotchman's moaning
-madness and listened to the blast of storm. And then he heard a
-cry--a cry like that which MacTavish fancied he had heard in the
-wind an hour before he died. It was this dream-cry that roused
-him.
-
-He sat up, and his face and hands were damp. It was black in the
-tent. Outside even the bit of wind had died away. He reached out a
-hand, groping for Jean. The half-breed's blankets had not been
-disturbed. Then for a few moments he sat very still, listening,
-and wondering if the cry had been real. As he sat tense and still
-in the half daze of the sleep it came again. It was the shrill
-laughing carnival of a loon out on the lake. More than once he had
-laughed at comrades who had shivered at that sound and cowered
-until its echoes had died away in moaning wails. He understood
-now. He knew why the Indians called it moakwa--"the mad thing." He
-thought of MacTavish, and threw the blanket from his shoulders,
-and crawled out of the tent.
-
-Only a few faintly glowing embers remained where he had piled the
-birch logs. The sky was full of stars. The moon, still full and
-red, hung low in the west. The lake lay in a silvery and unruffled
-shimmer. Through the silence there came to him from a great
-distance the coughing challenge of a bull moose inviting a rival
-to battle. Then Philip saw a dark object huddled close to
-Josephine's tent.
-
-He moved toward it, his moccasined feet making no sound. Something
-impelled him to keep as quiet as the night itself. And when he
-came near--he was glad. For the object was Jean. He sat with his
-back to a block of birch twenty paces from the door of Josephine's
-tent. His head had fallen forward on his chest. He was asleep, but
-across his knees lay his rifle, gripped tightly in both hands.
-Quick as a flash the truth rushed upon Philip. Like a faithful dog
-Jean was guarding the girl. He had kept awake as long as he could,
-but even in slumber his hands did not give up their hold on the
-rifle.
-
-Against whom was he guarding her? What danger could there be in
-this quiet, starlit night for Josephine? A sudden chill ran
-through Philip. Did Jean mistrust HIM? Was it possible that
-Josephine had secretly expressed a fear which made the Frenchman
-watch over her while she slept? As silently as he had approached
-he moved away until he stood in the sand at the shore of the lake.
-There he looked back. He could just see Jean, a dark blot; and all
-at once the unfairness of his suspicion came upon him. To him
-Josephine had given proofs of her faith which nothing could
-destroy. And he understood now the reason for that tired, drawn
-look in Jean's face. This was not the first night he had watched.
-Every night he had guarded her until, in the small hours of dawn,
-his eyes had closed heavily as they were closed now.
-
-The beginning of the gray northern dawn was not far away. Philip
-knew that without looking at the hour. He sensed it. It was in the
-air, the stillness of the forest, in the appearance of the stars
-and moon. To prove himself he looked at his watch with the match
-with which he lighted his pipe. It was half-past three. At this
-season of the year dawn came at five.
-
-He walked slowly along the strip of sand between the dark wall of
-the forest and the lake. Not until he was a mile away from the
-camp did he stop. Then something happened to betray the uneasy
-tension to which his nerves were drawn. A sudden crash in the
-brush close at hand drew him about with a start, and even while he
-laughed at himself he stood with his automatic in his hand.
-
-He heard the whimpering, babyish-like complaint of the porcupine
-that had made the sound, and still chuckling over his nervousness
-he seated himself on a white drift-log that had lain bleaching for
-half a century in the sand.
-
-The moon had fallen behind the western forests; the stars were
-becoming fainter in the sky, and about him the darkness was
-drawing in like a curtain. He loved this hour that bridged the
-northern night with the northern day, and he sat motionless and
-still, covering the glow of fire in his pipe bowl with the palm of
-his hand.
-
-Out of the brush ambled the porcupine, chattering and talking to
-itself in its queer and good-humoured way, fat as a poplar bud
-ready to burst, and so intent on reaching the edge of the lake
-that it passed in its stupid innocence so close that Philip might
-have struck it with a stick. And then there swooped down from out
-of the cover of the black spruce a gray cloudlike thing that came
-with the silence and lightness of a huge snowflake, hovered for an
-instant over the porcupine, and disappeared into the darkness
-beyond. And the porcupine, still oblivious of danger and what the
-huge owl would have done to him had he been a snowshoe rabbit
-instead of a monster of quills, drank his fill leisurely and
-ambled back as he had come, chattering his little song of good-
-humour and satisfaction.
-
-One after another there came now the sounds that merged dying
-night into the birth of day, and for the hundredth time Philip
-listened to the wonders that never grew old for him. The laugh of
-the loon was no longer a raucous, mocking cry of exultation and
-triumph, but a timid, question note--half drowsy, half filled with
-fear; and from the treetops came the still lower notes of the
-owls, their night's hunt done, and seeking now the densest covers
-for the day. And then, from deep back in the forests, came a cry
-that was filled with both hunger and defiance--the wailing howl of
-a wolf. With these night sounds came the first cheep, cheep, cheep
-of the little brush sparrow, still drowsy and uncertain, but
-faintly heralding the day. Wings fluttered in the spruce and cedar
-thickets. From far overhead came the honking of Canada geese
-flying southward. And one by one the stars went out, and in the
-south-eastern skies a gray hand reached up slowly over the forests
-and wiped darkness from the earth. Not until then did Philip rise
-from his seat and turn his face toward camp.
-
-He tried to throw off the feeling of oppression that still clung
-to him. By the time he reached camp he had partly succeeded. The
-fire was burning brightly again, and Jean was busy preparing
-breakfast. To his surprise he saw Josephine standing outside of
-her tent. She had finished brushing her hair, and was plaiting it
-in a long braid. He had wondered how they would meet that morning.
-His face flushed warm as he approached her. The thrill of their
-kiss was still on his lips, and his heart sent the memory of it
-burning in his eyes as he came up, Josephine turned to greet him.
-She was pale and calm. There were dark lines under her eyes, and
-her voice was steady and without emotion as she said "Good
-morning." It was as if he had dreamed the thing that had passed
-the night before. There was neither glow of tenderness, of regret,
-nor of memory in her eyes. Her smile was wan and forced. He knew
-that she was calling upon his chivalry to forget that one moment
-before the door of her tent. He bowed, and said simply:
-
-"I'm afraid you didn't sleep well, Josephine. Did I disturb you
-when I stole out of camp?"
-
-"I heard nothing," she replied. "Nothing but the cries of that
-terrible bird out on the lake. I'm afraid I didn't sleep much."
-
-The atmosphere of the camp that morning weighted Philip's heart
-with a heaviness which he could not throw off. He performed his
-share of the work with Jean, and tried to talk to him, but
-Croisset would only reply to his most pointed remarks. He
-whistled. He shouted out a song back in the timber as he cut an
-armful of dry birch, and he returned to Jean and the girl
-laughing, the wood piled to his chin and the axe under his arm.
-Neither showed that they had heard him. The meal was eaten in a
-chilly silence that filled him with deepest foreboding. Josephine
-seemed at ease. She talked with him when he spoke to her, but
-there seemed now to be a mysterious restraint in every word that
-she uttered. She excused herself before Jean and he were through,
-and went to her tent. A moment later Philip rose and went down to
-his canoe.
-
-In the rubber sack was the last of his tobacco. He was fumbling
-for it when his heart gave a great jump. A voice had spoken softly
-behind him:
-
-"Philip."
-
-Slowly, unbelieving, he turned. It was Josephine. For the first
-time she had called him by his name. And yet the speaking of it
-seemed to put a distance between them, for her voice was calm and
-without emotion, as she might have spoken to Jean.
-
-"I lay awake nearly all of the night, thinking," she said. "It was
-a terrible thing that we did, and I am sorry--sorry--"
-
-In the quickening of her breath he saw how heroically she was
-fighting to speak steadily to him.
-
-"You can't understand," she resumed, facing him with the
-steadiness of despair. "You cannot understand--until you reach
-Adare House. And that is what I dread, the hour when you will know
-what I am, and how terrible it was for me to do what I did last
-night. If you were like most other men, I wouldn't care so much.
-But you have been different."
-
-He replied in words which he would not dare to have uttered a few
-hours before.
-
-"And yet, back there when you first asked me to go with you as
-your husband, you knew what I would find at Adare House?" he
-asked, his voice low and tense. "You knew?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"Then what has produced the change that makes you fear to have me
-go on? Is it because"--he leaned toward her, and his face was
-bloodless--"Is it because you care a little for me?"
-
-"Because I respect you, yes," she said in a voice that
-disappointed him. "I don't want to hurt you. I don't want you to
-go back into the world thinking of me as you will. You have been
-honest with me. I do not blame you for what happened last night.
-The fault was mine. And I have come to you now, so that you will
-understand that, no matter how I may appear and act, I have faith
-and trust in you. I would give anything that last night might be
-wiped out of our memories. That is impossible, but you must not
-think of it and you must not talk to me any more as you have,
-until we reach Adare House. And then--"
-
-Her white face was pathetic as she turned away from him.
-
-"You will not want to," she finished. "After that you will fight
-for me simply because you are a knight among men, and because you
-have promised. There will not even be the promise to bind you, for
-I release you from that."
-
-Philip stood silent as she left him. He knew that to follow her
-and to force further conversation upon her after what she had said
-would be little less than brutal. She had given him to understand
-that from now on he was to hold himself toward her with greater
-restraint, and the blood flushed hot and uncomfortable into his
-face as he realized for the first time how he had overstepped the
-bounds.
-
-All his life womanhood had been the most beautiful thing in the
-world to him. And now there was forced upon him the dread
-conviction that he had insulted it. He did not stop to argue that
-the overwhelming completeness of his love had excused him. What he
-thought of now was that he had found Josephine alone, had declared
-that love for her before he knew her name, and had followed it up
-by act and word which he now felt to be dishonourable. And yet,
-after all, would he have recalled what had happened if he could?
-He asked himself that question as he returned to help Jean. And he
-found no answer to it until they were in their canoes again and
-headed up the lake, Josephine sitting with her back to him, her
-thick silken braid falling in a sinuous and sunlit rope of red
-gold over her shoulders. Then he knew that he would not.
-
-Jean gave little rest that day, and by noon they had covered
-twenty miles of the lake-way. An hour for dinner, and they went
-on. At times Josephine used her paddle, and not once during the
-day did she sit with her face to Philip. Late in the afternoon
-they camped on a portage fifty miles from Adare House.
-
-There were no stars or moon in the sky this night. The wind had
-changed, and came from the north. In it was the biting chill of
-the Arctic, and overhead was a gray-dun mass of racing cloud. A
-dozen times Jean turned his face anxiously from the fire into the
-north, and held wet fingers high over his head to see if in the
-air was that peculiar sting by which the forest man forecasts the
-approach of snow.
-
-At last he said to Philip: "The wind will grow, M'sieur," and
-picked up his axe.
-
-Philip followed with his own, and they piled about Josephine's
-tent a thick protection of spruce and cedar boughs. Then together
-they brought three or four big logs to the fire. After that Philip
-went into their own tent, stripped off his outer garments, and
-buried himself in his sleeping bag. For a long time he lay awake
-and listened to the increasing wail of the wind in the tall spruce
-tops. It was not new to him. For months he had fallen asleep with
-the thunderous crash of ice and the screaming fury of storm in his
-ears. But to-night there was something in the sound which sunk him
-still deeper into the gloom which he had found it impossible to
-throw off. At last he fell asleep.
-
-When he awoke he struck a match and looked at his watch. It was
-four o'clock, and he dressed and went outside. The wind had died
-down. Jean was already busy over the cook-fire, and in Josephine's
-tent he saw the light of a candle. She appeared a little later,
-wrapped close in a thick red Hudson's Bay coat, and with a marten-
-skin cap on her head. Something in her first appearance, the
-picturesqueness of her dress, the jauntiness of the little cap,
-and the first flush of the fire in her face filled him with the
-hope that sleep had given her better spirit. A closer glance
-dashed this hope. Without questioning her he knew that she had
-spent another night of mental torture. And Jean's face looked
-thinner, and the hollows under his eyes were deeper.
-
-All that day the sky hung heavy and dark with cloud, and the water
-was rough. Early in the afternoon the wind rose again, and
-Croisset ran alongside them to suggest that they go ashore. He
-spoke to Philip, but Josephine interrupted quickly:
-
-"We must go on, Jean," she demanded. "If it is not impossible we
-must reach Adare House to-night."
-
-"It will be late--midnight," replied Jean. "And if it grows
-rougher--"
-
-A dash of spray swept over the bow into the girl's face.
-
-"I don't care for that," she cried. "Wet and cold won't hurt us."
-She turned to Philip, as if needing his argument against Jean's.
-"Is it not possible to get me home to-night?" she asked.
-
-"It is two o'clock," said Philip. "How far have we to go, Jean?"
-
-"It is not the distance, M'sieur--it is that," replied Jean, as a
-wave sent another dash of water over Josephine. "We are twenty
-miles from Adare House."
-
-Philip looked at Josephine.
-
-"It is best for you to go ashore and wait until to-morrow,
-Josephine. Look at that stretch of water ahead--a mass of
-whitecaps."
-
-"Please, please take me home," she pleaded, and now she spoke to
-Philip alone. "I'm not afraid. And I cannot live through another
-night like last night. Why, if anything should happen to us"--she
-flung back her head and smiled bravely at him through the mist of
-her wet hair and the drenching spray--"if anything should happen I
-know you'd meet it gloriously. So I'm not afraid. And I want to go
-home."
-
-Philip turned to the half-breed, who had drifted a canoe length
-away.
-
-"We'll go on, Jean," he called. "We can make it by keeping close
-inshore. Can you swim?"
-
-"Oui, M'sieur; but Josephine--"
-
-"I can swim with her," replied Philip, and Josephine saw the old
-life and strength in his face again as she turned to the white-
-capped seas ahead of them.
-
-Hour after hour they fought their way on after that, the wind
-rising stronger in their faces, the seas burying them deeper; and
-each time that Josephine looked back she marvelled at the man
-behind her, bare-headed, his hair drenched, his arms naked to the
-elbows, and his clear gray eyes always smiling confidence at her
-through the gloom of mist. Not until darkness was falling about
-them did Jean drop near enough to speak again. Then he shouted:
-
-"Another hour and we reach Snowbird River, M'sieur. That is four
-miles from Adare House. But ahead of us the wind rushes across a
-wide sweep of the lake. Shall we hazard it?"
-
-"Yes, yes," cried the girl, answering for Philip. "We must go on!"
-
-Without another word Croisset led the way. The wind grew stronger
-with each minute's progress. Shouting for Jean to hold his canoe
-for a space, Philip steadied his own canoe while he spoke to the
-girl.
-
-"Come back to me as quietly as you can, Josephine," he said. "Pass
-the dunnage ahead of you to take the place of your weight. If
-anything happens, I want you near me."
-
-Cautiously Josephine did as he bade her, and as she added slowly
-to the ballast in the bow she drew little by little nearer to
-Philip, Her hand touched an object in the bottom of the canoe as
-she came close to him. It was one of his moccasins. She saw now
-his naked throat and chest. He had stripped off his heavy woollen
-shirt as well as his footwear. He reached out, and his hand
-touched her lightly as she huddled down in front of him.
-
-"Splendid!" he laughed. "You're a little brick, Josephine, and the
-best comrade in a canoe that I ever saw. Now if we go over all
-I've got to do is to swim ashore with you. Is it good walking to
-Adare House?"
-
-He did not hear her reply; but a fresh burst of the wind sent a
-loose strand of her hair back into his face, and he was happy.
-Happy in spite of a peril which neither he nor Jean would have
-thought of facing alone. In the darkness he could no longer see
-Croisset or his canoe. But Jean's shout came back to him every
-minute on the wind, and over Josephine's head he answered. He was
-glad that it was so dark the girl could not see what was ahead of
-them now. Once or twice his own breath stopped short, when it
-seemed that the canoe had taken the fatal plunge which he was
-dreading. Every minute he figured the distance from the shore, and
-his chances of swimming it if they were overturned. And then,
-after a long time, there came a sudden lull in the wind, and the
-seas grew less rough. Jean's voice came from near them, filled
-with a thrill of relief.
-
-"We are behind the point," he shouted. "Another mile and we will
-enter the Snowbird, M'sieur!"
-
-Philip leaned forward in the gloom. Josephine's cap had fallen
-off, and for a moment his hand rested on her wet and wind-blown
-hair.
-
-"Did you hear that?" he cried. "We're almost home."
-
-"Yes," she shivered. "And I'm glad--glad--"
-
-Was it an illusion of his own, or did she seem to shiver and draw
-away from him AT THE TOUCH OF HIS HAND? Even in the blackness he
-could FEEL that she was huddled forward, her face in her hands.
-She did not speak to him again. When they entered the smooth water
-of the Snowbird, Jean's canoe drew close in beside them, but not a
-word fell from Croisset. Like shadows they moved up the stream
-between two black walls of forest. A steadily increasing
-excitement, a feeling that he was upon the eve of strange events,
-grew stronger in Philip. His arms and back ached, his legs were
-cramped, the last of his splendid strength had been called upon in
-the fight with wind and seas, but he forgot this exhaustion in
-anticipation of the hour that was drawing near. He knew that Adare
-House would reveal to him things which Josephine had not told him.
-She had said that it would, and that he would hate her then. That
-they were burying themselves deeper into the forest he guessed by
-the lessening of the wind.
-
-Half an hour passed, and in that time his companion did not move
-or speak. He heard faintly a distant wailing cry. He recognized
-the sound. It was not a wolf-cry, but the howl of a husky. He
-fancied then that the girl moved, that she was gripping the sides
-of the canoe with her hands. For fifteen minutes more there was
-not a sound but the dip of the paddles and the monotone of the
-wind sweeping through the forest tops. Then the dog howled again,
-much nearer; and this time he was joined by a second, a third, and
-a fourth, until the night was filled with a din that made Philip
-stare wonderingly off into the blackness. There were fifty dogs if
-there was one in that yelping, howling horde, he told himself, and
-they were coming with the swiftness of the wind in their
-direction.
-
-From his canoe Croisset broke the silence.
-
-"The wind has given the pack our scent, ma Josephine, and they are
-coming to meet you," he said.
-
-The girl made no reply, but Philip could see now that she was
-sitting tense and erect. As suddenly as it had begun the cry of
-the pack ceased. The dogs had reached the water, and were waiting.
-Not until Jean swung his canoe toward shore and the bow of it
-scraped on a gravelly bar did they give voice again, and then so
-close and fiercely that involuntarily Philip held his canoe back.
-In another moment Josephine had stepped lightly over the side in a
-foot of water. He could not see what happened then, except that
-the bar was filled with a shadowy horde of leaping, crowding,
-yelping beasts, and that Josephine was the centre of them. He
-heard her voice clear and commanding, crying out their names--
-Tyr, Captain, Bruno, Thor, Wamba--until their number seemed
-without end; he heard the metallic snap of fangs, quick, panting
-breaths, the shuffling of padded feet; and then the girl's voice
-grew more clear, and the sounds less, until he heard nothing but
-the bated breath of the pack and a low, smothered whine.
-
-In that moment the wind-blown clouds above them broke in a narrow
-rift across the skies, and for an instant the moon shone through.
-What he saw then drew Philip's breath from him in a wondering
-gasp.
-
-On the white bar stood Josephine. The wind on the lake had torn
-the strands of her long braid loose and her hair swept in a damp
-and clinging mass to her hips. She was looking toward him, as if
-about to speak. But it was the pack that made him stare. A sea of
-great shaggy heads and crouching bodies surrounded her, a fierce
-yellow and green-eyed horde flattened like a single beast upon
-their bellies their heads turned toward her, their throats
-swelling and their eyes gleaming in the joyous excitement of her
-return. An instant of that strange and thrilling picture, and the
-night was black again. The girl's voice spoke softly. Bodies
-shuffled out of her path. And then she said, quite near to him;
-
-"Are you coming, Philip?"
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER EIGHT
-
-
-Not without a slight twinge of trepidation did Philip step from
-his canoe to her. He had not heard Croisset go ashore, and for a
-moment he felt as if he were deliberately placing himself at the
-mercy of a wolf-pack. Josephine may have guessed the effect of the
-savage spectacle he had beheld from the canoe, for she was close
-to the water's edge to meet him. She spoke, and in the pitch
-darkness he reached out. Her hand was groping for him, and her
-fingers closed firmly about his own.
-
-"They are my bodyguard, and I have trained them all from puppies,"
-she explained. "They don't like strangers, but will fight for
-anything that I touch. So I will lead you." She turned with him
-toward the pack, and cried in her clear, commanding voice:
-"Marche, boys!--Tyr, Captain, Thor, Marche! Hoosh, hoosh, Marche!"
-
-It seemed as if a hundred eyes gleamed out of the blackness; then
-there was a movement, a whining, snarling, snapping movement, and
-as they walked up the bar and into a narrow trail Philip could
-hear the pack falling out to the side and behind them. Also he
-knew that Jean was ahead of them now. He did not speak, nor did
-Josephine offer to break the silence again. Still letting her hand
-rest in his she followed close behind the half-breed. Her hand was
-so cold that Philip involuntarily held it tighter in his own, as
-if to give it warmth. He could feel her shivering, and yet
-something told him that what he sensed in the darkness was not
-caused by chill alone. Several times her fingers closed
-shudderingly about his.
-
-They had not walked more than a couple of hundred yards when a
-turn brought them out of the forest trail, and the blackness ahead
-was broken by a solitary light, a dimly lighted window in a pit of
-gloom.
-
-"Marja is not expecting us to-night," apologized the girl
-nervously. "That is Adare House."
-
-The loneliness of the spot, its apparent emptiness of life, the
-silence save for the snuffling and whining of the unseen beasts
-about them, stirred Philip with a curious sensation of awe. He had
-at least expected light and life at Adare House. Here were only
-the mystery of darkness and a deathlike quiet. Even the one light
-seemed turned low. As they advanced toward it a great shadow grew
-out of the gloom; and then, all at once, it seemed as if a curtain
-of the forest had been drawn aside, and away beyond the looming
-shadow Philip saw the glow of a camp-fire. From that distant fire
-there came the challenging howl of a dog, and instantly it was
-taken up by a score of fierce tongues about them. As Josephine's
-voice rose to quell the disturbance the light in the window grew
-suddenly brighter, and then a door opened and in it stood the
-figures of a man and woman. The man was standing behind the woman,
-looking over her shoulder, and for one moment Philip caught the
-flash of the lamp-glow on the barrel of a rifle.
-
-Josephine paused.
-
-"You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and you
-follow with Jean?" she whispered. "I will try and see you again
-to-night, when I have dressed myself, and I am in better condition
-to show you hospitality."
-
-Jean was so close that he overheard her. "We will follow," he said
-softly. "Go ahead, ma cheri."
-
-His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity;
-and as Josephine drew her hand from Philip's and went on ahead of
-them he dropped back close to the other's side.
-
-"Something will happen soon which may turn your heart to stone and
-ice, M'sieur," he said, and his voice was scarce above a whisper.
-"I wanted her to tell you back there, two days ago, but she shrank
-from the ordeal then. It is coming to-night. And, however it may
-effect you, M'sieur, I ask you not to show the horror of it, but
-to have pity. You have perhaps known many women, but you have
-never known one like our Josephine. In her soul is the purity of
-the blue skies, the sweetness of the wild flowers, the goodness of
-our Blessed Lady, the Mother of Christ. You may disbelieve, and
-what is to come may eat at the core of your heart as it has
-devoured life and happiness from mine. But you will love L'Ange--
-our Josephine--just the same."
-
-Even as he felt himself trembling strangely at Jean Croisset's
-words, Philip replied:
-
-"Always, Jean, I swear that."
-
-In the open door Josephine had paused for a moment, and was
-looking back. Then she disappeared.
-
-"Come," said Jean. "And may God have pity on you if you fail to
-keep your word in all you have promised, M'sieur Philip Darcambal.
-For from this hour on you are Philip Darcambal, of Montreal, the
-husband of Josephine Adare, our beloved lady of the forests. Come,
-M'sieur!"
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER NINE
-
-
-Without another word Jean led the way to the door, which had
-partly closed after Josephine. For a moment he paused with his
-hand upon it, and then entered. Philip was close behind him. His
-first glance swept the room in search of the girl. She had
-disappeared with her two companions. For a moment he heard voices
-beyond a second door in front of him. Then there was silence.
-
-In wonder he stared about him, and Jean did not interrupt his
-gaze. He stood in a great room whose walls were of logs and axe-
-hewn timbers. It was a room forty feet long by twenty in width,
-massive in its build, with walls and ceiling stained a deep brown.
-In one end was a fireplace large enough to hold a pile of logs six
-feet in length, and in this a small fire was smouldering. In the
-centre of the room was a long, massive table, its timber carved by
-the axe, and on this a lamp was burning. The floor was strewn with
-fur rugs, and on the walls hung the mounted heads of beasts. These
-things impressed themselves upon Philip first. It was as if he had
-stepped suddenly out of the world in which he was living into the
-ancient hall of a wild and half-savage thane whose bones had
-turned to dust centuries ago.
-
-Not until Jean spoke to him, and led the way through the room, was
-this first impression swept back by his swift and closer
-observation of detail. About him extreme age was curiously blended
-with the modern. His breath stopped short when he saw in the
-shadow of the farther wall a piano, with a bronze lamp suspended
-from the ceiling above it. His eyes caught the shadowy outline of
-cases filled with books; he saw close to the fireplace wide, low-
-built divans covered with cushions; and over the door through
-which they passed hung a framed copy of da Vinci's masterpiece,
-"La Joconde," the Smiling Woman.
-
-Into a dimly lighted hall he followed Jean, who paused a moment
-later before another door, which he opened. Philip waited while he
-struck a match and lighted a lamp. He knew at a glance that this
-was to be his sleeping apartment, and as he took in its ample
-comfort, the broad low bed behind its old-fashioned curtains, the
-easy chairs, the small table covered with books and magazines, and
-the richly furred rugs on the floor, he experienced a new and
-strange feeling of restfulness and pleasure which for the moment
-overshadowed his more excited sensations. Jean was already on his
-knees before a fireplace touching a match to a pile of birch, and
-as the inflammable bark spurted into flame and the small logs
-began to crackle he rose to his feet and faced Philip. Both were
-soaked to the skin. Jean's hair hung lank and wet about his face,
-and his hollow cheeks were cadaverous. In spite of the hour and
-the place, Philip could not restrain a laugh.
-
-"I'm glad Josephine was thoughtful enough to come in ahead of us,
-Jean," he chuckled. "We look like a couple of drowned water-rats!"
-
-"I will bring up your sack, M'sieur," responded Jean. "If you
-haven't dry clothes of your own you will find garments behind the
-curtains. I think some of them will fit you. After we are warmed
-and dried we will have supper."
-
-A few moments after Jean left him an Indian woman brought him a
-pail of hot water. He was half stripped and enjoying a steaming
-sponge bath when Croisset returned with his dunnage sack. The
-Arctic had not left him much to choose from, but behind the
-curtains which Jean had pointed out to him he found a good-sized
-wardrobe. He glowed with warmth and comfort when he had finished
-dressing. The chill was gone from his blood. He no longer felt the
-ache in his arms and back. He lighted his pipe, and for a few
-moments stood with his back to the crackling fire, listening and
-waiting. Through the thick walls no sound came to him. Once he
-thought that he heard the closing of a distant door. Even the
-night was strangely silent, and he walked to the one large window
-in his room and stared out into the darkness. On this side the
-edge of the forest was not far away, for he could hear the
-soughing of the wind in the treetops.
-
-For an hour he waited with growing impatience for Jean's return or
-some word from Josephine. At last there came another knock at the
-door. He opened it eagerly. To his disappointment neither Jean nor
-the girl stood there, but the Indian woman who had brought him the
-hot water, carrying in her hands a metal server covered with
-steaming dishes. She moved silently past him, placed the server on
-the table, and was turning to go when he spoke to her.
-
-"Tan'se a itumuche hooyun?" he asked in Cree.
-
-She went out as if she had not heard him, and the door closed
-behind her. With growing perplexity, Philip directed his attention
-to the food. This manner of serving his supper partly convinced
-him that he would not see Josephine again that night. He was
-hungry, and began to do justice to the contents of the dishes. In
-one dish he found a piece of fruit cake and half a dozen pickles,
-and he knew that at least Josephine had helped to prepare his
-supper. Half an hour later the Indian woman returned as silently
-as before and carried away the dishes. He followed her to the door
-and stood for a few moments looking down the hall. He looked at
-his watch. It was after ten o'clock. Where was Jean? he wondered.
-Why had Josephine not sent some word to him--at least an
-explanation telling him why she could not see him as she had
-promised? Why had Croisset spoken in that strange way just before
-they entered the door of Adare House? Nothing had happened, and he
-was becoming more and more convinced that nothing would happen--
-that night.
-
-He turned suddenly from the door, facing the window in his room.
-The next instant he stood tense and staring. A face was glued
-against the pane: dark, sinister, with eyes that shone with the
-menacing glare of a beast. In a flash it was gone. But in that
-brief space Philip had seen enough to hold him like one turned to
-stone, still staring where the face had been, his heart beating
-like a hammer. As the face disappeared he had seen a hand pass
-swiftly through the light, and in the hand was a pistol. It was
-not this fact, nor the suddenness of the apparition, that drew the
-gasping breath from his lips. It was the face, filled with a
-hatred that was almost madness--the face of Jean Jacques Croisset!
-
-Scarcely was it gone when Philip sprang to the table, snatched up
-his automatic, and ran out into the hall. The end of the hall he
-believed opened outdoors, and he ran swiftly in that direction,
-his moccasined feet making no sound. He found a door locked with
-an iron bar. It took him but a moment to throw this up, open the
-door, and leap out into the night. The wind had died away, and it
-was snowing. In the silence he stood and listened, his eyes trying
-to find some moving shadow in the gloom. His fighting blood was
-up. His one impulse now was to come face to face with Jean
-Croisset and demand an explanation. He knew that if he had stood
-another moment with his back to the window Jean would have killed
-him. Murder was in the half-breed's eyes. His pistol was ready.
-Only Philip's quick turning from the door had saved him. It was
-evident that Jean had fled from the window as quickly as Philip
-had run out into the hall. Or, if he had not fled, he was hiding
-in the gloom of the building. At the thought that Jean might be
-crouching in the shadows Philip turned suddenly and moved swiftly
-and silently along the log wall of Adare House. He half expected a
-shot out of the darkness, and with his thumb he pressed down the
-safety lever of his automatic. He had almost reached his own
-window when a sound just beyond the pale filter of light that came
-out of it drew him more cautiously into the pitch darkness of the
-deep shadow next the wall. In another moment he was sure. Some
-other person was moving through the gloom beyond the streak of
-light.
-
-With his pistol in readiness, Philip darted through the
-illuminated path. A startled cry broke out of the night, and with
-that cry his hand gripped fiercely in the deep fur of a coat. In
-the same breath an exclamation of astonishment came from his own
-lips as he looked into the white, staring face of Josephine. His
-pistol arm had dropped to his side. He believed that she had not
-seen the weapon, and he thrust it in his trousers pocket.
-
-"You, Josephine!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"
-
-"And you?" she counter demanded. "You have no coat, no hat ..."
-Her hands gripped his arm. "I saw you run through the light. You
-had a pistol."
-
-An impulse which he could not explain prompted him to tell her a
-falsehood.
-
-"I came out--to see what the night looked like," he said. "When I
-heard you in the darkness it startled me for a moment, and I drew
-my pistol."
-
-It seemed to him that her fingers clutched deeper and more
-convulsively into his arm.
-
-"You have seen no one else?" she asked.
-
-Again he was prompted to keep his secret.
-
-"Is it possible that any one else is awake and roaming about at
-this hour?" he laughed. "I was just returning to my room to go to
-bed, Josephine. I thought that you had forgotten me. And Jean--
-where is he?"
-
-"We hadn't forgotten you," shivered Josephine. "But unexpected
-things have happened since we came to Adare House to-night. I was
-on my way to you. And Jean is back in the forest. Listen!"
-
-From perhaps half a mile away there came the howl of a dog, and
-scarcely had that sound died away when there followed it the full-
-throated voice of the pack whose silence Philip had wondered at. A
-strange cry broke from Josephine.
-
-"They are coming!" she almost sobbed. "Quick, Philip! My last hope
-of saving you is gone, and now you must be good to me--if you care
-at all!" She seized him by the hand and half ran with him to the
-door through which they had entered a short time before. In the
-great room she threw off her hood and the long fur cape that
-covered her, and then Philip saw that she had not dressed for the
-night and the storm. She had on a thin, shimmering dress of white,
-and her hair was coiled in loose golden masses about her head. On
-her breast, just below her white, bare throat, she wore a single
-red rose. It did not seem remarkable that she should be wearing a
-rose. To him the wonderful thing was that the rose, the clinging
-beauty of her dress, the glowing softness of her hair had been for
-him, and that something unexpected had taken her out into the
-night. Before he could speak she led him swiftly through the hall
-beyond, and did not pause until they had entered through another
-door and stood in the room which he knew was her room. In a glance
-he took in its exquisite femininity. Here, too, the bed was set
-behind curtains, and the curtains were closely drawn.
-
-She had faced him now, standing a few steps away. She was deathly
-white, but her eyes had never met his more unflinchingly or more
-beautiful. Something in her attitude restrained him from
-approaching nearer. He looked at her, and waited. When she spoke
-her voice was low and calm. He knew that at last she had come to
-the hour of her greatest fight, and in that moment he was more
-unnerved than she.
-
-"In a few minutes my mother and father will be here, Philip," she
-said. "The letter Jean brought me back there, where we first saw
-each other, came up by way of Wollaston House, and told me I need
-not expect them for a number of weeks. That was what made me happy
-for a little while. They were in Montreal, and I didn't want them
-to return. You will understand why--very soon. But my father
-changed his mind, and almost with the mailing of the letter he and
-my mother started home by way of Fond du Lac. Only an hour ago an
-Indian ran to us with the news that they were coming down the
-river. They are out there now--less than half a mile away--with
-Jean and the dogs!"
-
-She turned a little from him, facing the bed.
-
-"You remember--I told you that I had spent a year in Montreal,"
-she went on. "I was there--alone--when it happened. See--"
-
-She moved to the bed and gently drew the curtains aside. Scarcely
-breathing, Philip followed her.
-
-"It's my baby," she whispered, "My little boy."
-
-He could not see her face. She bowed her head and continued
-softly, as if fearing to awaken the baby asleep on the bed:
-
-"No one knows--but Jean. My mother came first, and then my father.
-I lied to them. I told them that I was married, and that my
-husband had gone into the North. I came home with the baby--to
-meet this man I called Paul Darcambal, and whom they thought was
-my husband. I didn't want it to happen down there, but I planned
-on telling them the truth when we all got back in our forests. But
-after I returned I found that--I couldn't. Perhaps you may
-understand. Up here--among the forest people--the mother of a
-baby--like that--is looked upon as the most terrible thing in the
-world. She is called La bete noir--the black beast. Day by day I
-came to realize that I couldn't tell the truth, that I must live a
-great lie to save other hearts from being crushed as life has been
-crushed out of mine. I thought of telling them that my husband had
-died up here--in the North. And I was fearing suspicion ... the
-chance that my father might learn the untruth of it, when you
-came. That is all, Philip. You understand now. You know why--some
-day--you must go away and never come back. It is to save the boy,
-my father, my mother, and me!"
-
-Not once in her terrible recital had the girl's voice broke. And
-now, as if bowing herself in silent prayer, she kneeled beside the
-bed and laid her head close to the baby's. Philip stood
-motionless, his unseeing eyes staring straight through the log
-walls and the black night to a city a thousand miles away. He
-understood now. Josephine's story was not the strangest thing in
-the world after all. It was perhaps the oldest of all stories. He
-had heard it a hundred times before, but never had it left him
-quite so cold and pulseless as he was now. And yet, even as the
-palace of the wonderful ideal he had builded crumbled about him in
-ruin, there rose up out of the dust of it a thing new-born and
-tangible for him. Slowly his eyes turned to the beautiful head
-bowed in its attitude of prayer. The blood began to surge back
-into his heart. His hands unclenched. She had told him that he
-would hate her, that he would want to leave her when he heard the
-story of her despair. And instead of that he wanted to kneel
-beside her now and take her close in his arms, and whisper to her
-that the sun had not set for them, but that it had only begun to
-rise.
-
-And then, as he took a step toward her, there flashed through his
-brain like a disturbing warning the words with which she had told
-him that he would never know the real cause of her grief. "YOU MAY
-GUESS, BUT YOU WOULD NOT GUESS THE TRUTH IF YOU LIVED A THOUSAND
-YEARS." And could this that he had heard, and this that he looked
-upon be anything but the truth? Another step and he was at her
-side. For a moment all barriers were swept from between them. She
-did not resist him as he clasped her close to his breast. He
-kissed her upturned face again and again, and his voice kept
-whispering: "I love you, my Josephine--I love you--I love you--"
-
-Suddenly there came to them sounds from out of the night. A door
-opened, and through the hall there came the great, rumbling voice
-of a man, half laughter, half shout; and then there were other
-voices, the slamming of the door, and THE voice again, this time
-in a roar that reached to the farthest walls of Adare House.
-
-"Ho, Mignonne--Ma Josephine!"
-
-And Philip held Josephine still closer and whispered:
-
-"I love you!"
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TEN
-
-
-Not until the sound of approaching steps grew near did Josephine
-make an effort to free herself from Philip's arms. Unresisting she
-had given him her lips to kiss; for one rapturous moment he had
-felt the pressure of her arms about his shoulders; in the blue
-depths of her eyes he had caught the flash of wonderment and
-disbelief, and then the deeper, tenderer glow of her surrender to
-him. In this moment he forgot everything except that she had bared
-her secret to him, and in baring it had given herself to him. Even
-as her hands pressed now against his breast he kissed her lips
-again, and his arms tightened about her.
-
-"They are coming to the door, Philip," she panted, straining
-against him. "We must not be found like this!"
-
-The voice was booming in the hall again, calling her name, and in
-a moment Philip was on his feet raising Josephine to him. Her face
-still was white. Her eyes were still on the verge of fear, and as
-the steps came nearer he brushed back the warm masses of her hair
-and whispered for the twentieth time, as if the words must
-convince her: "I love you!" He slipped an arm about her waist, and
-Josephine's fingers nervously caught his hand.
-
-Then the door was flung open. Philip knew that it was the master
-of Adare House who stood on the threshold--a great, fur-capped
-giant of a man who seemed to stoop to enter, and in whose eyes as
-they met Philip's there was a wild and half-savage inquiry. Such a
-man Philip had not expected to see; awesome in his bulk, a
-Thorlike god of the forests, gray-bearded, deep-chested, with
-shaggy hair falling out from under his cap, and in whose eyes
-there was the glare which Philip understood and which he met
-unflinchingly.
-
-For a moment he felt Josephine's fingers grip tighter about his
-own; then with a low cry she broke from him, and John Adare opened
-his arms to her and crushed his bearded face down to hers as her
-arms encircled his neck. In the gloom of the hall beyond them
-there appeared for an instant the thin, dark face of Jean Jacques
-Croisset. In a flash it had come and gone. In that flash the half-
-breed's eyes had met Philip's, and in them was a look that made
-the latter take a quick step forward. His impulse was to pass John
-Adare and confront Jean in the hall. He held himself back, and
-looked at Josephine and her father. She had pushed the cap from
-the giant's head and had taken his bearded face between her two
-hands, and John Adare was smiling down into her white, pleading
-face with the gentleness and worship of a woman. In a moment he
-broke forth into a great rumbling laugh, and looked over her head
-at Philip.
-
-"God bless my soul, if I don't almost believe my little girl
-thought I was coming home to murder her!" he cried. "I guess she
-thought I'd hate you for stealing her away from me the way you
-did. I have contemplated disliking you, quite seriously, too. But
-you're not the sort of looking chap I thought you'd be with that
-oily French name. You've shown good judgment. There isn't a man in
-the world good enough for my Jo. And if you'll excuse my
-frankness, I like your looks!"
-
-As he spoke he held out a hand, and Josephine eagerly faced
-Philip. A flush grew in her cheeks as the two men shook hands. Her
-eyes were on Philip, and her heart beat a little quicker. She had
-not hoped that he would rise to the situation so completely. She
-had feared that there would be some betrayal in voice or action.
-But he was completely master of himself, and the colour in her
-face deepened beautifully. Before this moment she had not wholly
-perceived how splendidly clear and fearless were his eyes. His
-long blond hair, touched with its premature gray, was still
-windblown from his rush out into the night, giving to his head a
-touch of leonine strength as he faced her father.
-
-Quietly she slipped aside and looked at them, and neither saw the
-strange, proud glow that came like a flash of fire into her eyes.
-They were wonderful, these two strong men who were hers. And in
-this moment they WERE her own. Neither spoke for a space, as they
-stood, hand clasping hand, and in that space, brief as it was, she
-saw that they measured each other as completely as man ever
-measured man; and that it was not satisfaction alone, but
-something deeper and more wonderful to her, that began to show in
-their faces. It was as if they had forgotten her presence in this
-meeting, and for a moment she, too, forgot that everything was not
-real. Moved by an impulse that made her breath quicken, she darted
-to them and caught their two clasped hands in both her own. Her
-face was glorious as she looked up at them,
-
-"I'm glad, glad that you like each other," she cried softly. "I
-knew that it would be so, because--"
-
-The master of Adare House had drawn her to him again. She put out
-a hand, and it rested on Philip's shoulder. Her eyes turned
-directly to him, and he alone saw the swift ebbing of the joyous
-light from them. John Adare's voice rumbled happily, and with his
-grizzled face bowed in Josephine's hair he said:
-
-"I guess I'm not sorry--but glad, Mignonne." He looked at Philip
-again. "Paul, my son, you are welcome to Adare House!"
-
-"Philip, Mon Pere," corrected Josephine. "I like that better than
-Paul."
-
-"And you?" said Philip, smiling straight into Adare's eyes. "I am
-almost afraid to keep my promise to Josephine. It was that I
-should call you mon pere, too."
-
-"There was one other promise, Philip," replied Adare quickly.
-"There must have been one other promise, that you would never take
-my girl away from me. If you did not swear to that, I am your
-enemy!"
-
-"That promise was unnecessary," said Philip. "Outside of my
-Josephine's world there is nothing for me. If there is room for me
-in Adare House--"
-
-"Room!" interrupted Adare, beginning to throw off his great fur
-coat. "Why, I've dreamed of the day when there'd be half a dozen
-babies under my feet. I--" His huge frame suddenly stiffened. He
-looked at Josephine, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper:
-"Where's the kid?" he asked.
-
-Philip saw Josephine turn at the question. Silently she pointed to
-the curtained bed. As her father moved toward it she went to the
-door, but not before Philip had taken a step to intercept her. He
-felt her shuddering.
-
-"I must go to my mother," she whispered for him alone. "I will
-return soon. If he asks--tell him that we named the baby after
-him." With a swift glance in her father's direction she whispered
-still lower: "He knows nothing about you, so you may tell him the
-truth about yourself--except that you met me in Montreal eighteen
-months ago, and married me there."
-
-With this warning she was gone. From the curtains Philip heard a
-deep breath. When he came to the other's side John Adare stood
-staring down upon the sleeping baby.
-
-"I came in like a monster and didn't wake 'im," he was whispering
-to himself. "The little beggar!"
-
-He reached out a great hand behind him, gropingly, and it touched
-a chair. He drew it to him, still keeping his eyes on the baby,
-and sat down, his huge, bent shoulders doubled over the edge of
-the bed, his hands hovering hesitatingly over the counterpane. In
-wonderment Philip watched him, and he heard him whisper again:
-
-"You blessed little beggar!"
-
-Then he looked up suddenly. In his face was the transformation
-that might have come into a woman's. There was something awesome
-in its animal strength and its tenderness. He seized one of
-Philip's hands and held it for a moment in a grip that made the
-other's fingers ache.
-
-"You're sure it's a boy?" he asked anxiously.
-
-"Quite sure," replied Philip. "We've named him John."
-
-The master of the Adare House leaned over the bed again. Philip
-heard him mumbling softly in his thick beard, and very cautiously
-he touched the end of a big forefinger to one of the baby's tiny
-fists. The little fingers opened, and then they closed tightly
-about John Adare's thumb. The older man looked again at Philip,
-and from him his eyes sought Josephine. His voice trembled with
-ecstasy.
-
-"Where is Josephine?"
-
-"Gone to her mother," replied Philip.
-
-"Bring her--quick!" commanded Adare. "Tell her to bring her mother
-and wake the kid or I'll yell. I've got to hear the little beggar
-talk." As Philip turned toward the door he flung after him in a
-sibilant whisper: "Wait! Maybe you know how to do it--"
-
-"We'd better have Josephine," advised Philip quickly, and before
-Adare could argue his suggestion he hurried into the hall.
-
-Where he would find her he had no idea, and as he went down the
-hall he listened at each of the several doors he passed. The door
-into the big living-room was partly ajar, and he looked in. The
-room was empty. For a few moments he stood silent. From the size
-and shape of the building whose outside walls he had followed in
-his hunt for Jean he knew there must be many other rooms, and
-probably other shorter corridors leading to some of them.
-
-Just now his greatest desire was to come face to face with
-Croisset--and alone. He had already determined upon a course of
-action if such a meeting occurred. Next to that he wanted to see
-Josephine's mother. It had struck him as singular that she had not
-accompanied her husband to Josephine's room, and his curiosity was
-still further aroused by the girl's apparent indifference to this
-fact. Jean Croisset and the mistress of Adare House had hung
-behind when the older man came into the room where they were
-standing. For an instant Jean had revealed himself, and he was
-sure that Adare's wife was not far behind him, concealed in the
-deeper gloom.
-
-Suddenly the sound of a falling object came to his ears, as if a
-book had dropped from a table, or a chair had overturned. It was
-from the end of the hall--almost opposite his room. At his own
-door he stopped again and listened. This time he could hear
-voices, a low and unintelligible murmur. It was quite easy for him
-to locate the sound. He moved across to the other door, and
-hesitated. He had already disobeyed Josephine's injunction to
-remain with her father. Should he take a further advantage by
-obeying John Adare's command to bring his wife and daughter? A
-strange and subdued excitement was stirring him. Since the
-appearance of the threatening face at his window--the knowledge
-that in another moment he would have invited death from out of the
-night--he felt that he was no longer utterly in the hands of the
-woman he loved. And something stronger than he could resist
-impelled him to announce his presence at the door.
-
-At his knock there fell a sudden silence beyond the thick panels.
-For several moments he waited, holding his breath. Then he heard
-quick steps, the door swung slowly open, and he faced Josephine.
-
-"Pardon me for interrupting you," he apologized in a low voice.
-"Your father sent me for you and your mother. He says that you
-must come and wake the baby."
-
-Slowly Josephine held out a hand to him. He was startled by its
-coldness.
-
-"Come in, Philip," she said. "I want you to meet my mother."
-
-He entered into the warm glow of the room. Slightly bending over a
-table stood the slender form of a woman, her back toward him.
-Without seeing her face he was astonished at her striking
-resemblance to Josephine--the same slim, beautiful figure, the
-same thick, glowing coils of hair crowning her head--but darker.
-She turned toward him, and he was still more amazed by this
-resemblance. And yet it was a resemblance which he could not at
-first define. Her eyes were very dark instead of blue. Her heavy
-hair, drawn smoothly back from her forehead, was of the deep brown
-that is almost black in the shadow. Slimness had given her the
-appearance of Josephine's height. She was still beautiful. Hair,
-eyes, and figure gave her at first glance an appearance of almost
-girlish loveliness.
-
-And then, all at once, the difference swept upon him. She was like
-Josephine as he had seen her in that hour of calm despair when she
-had come to him at the canoe. Home-coming had not brought her
-happiness. Her face was colourless, her cheeks slightly hollowed,
-in her eyes he saw now the lustreless glow which frequently comes
-with a fatal sickness. He was smiling and holding out his hand to
-her even as he saw these things, and at his side he heard
-Josephine say:
-
-"Mother, this is Philip."
-
-The hand she gave him was small and cold. Her voice, too, was
-wonderfully like Josephine's.
-
-"I was not expecting to see you to-night, Philip," she said. "I am
-almost ill. But I am glad now that you joined us. Did I hear you
-say that my husband sent you?"
-
-"The baby is holding his thumb," laughed Philip. "He says that you
-must come and wake him. I doubt if you can get him out of the
-baby's room to-night."
-
-The voice of Adare himself answered from the door: "Was holding
-it," he corrected. "He's squirming like an eel now and making
-grimaces that frightened me. Better hurry to him, Josephine!" He
-went directly to his wife, and his voice was filled with an
-infinite tenderness as he slipped an arm about her and caressed
-her smooth hair with one of his big hands. "You're tired, aren't
-you?" he asked gently. "The jaunt was almost too much for my
-little girl, wasn't it? It will do you good to see the baby before
-you go to bed. Won't you come, Miriam?"
-
-Josephine alone saw the look in Philip's face. And for one moment
-Philip forgot himself as he stared at John Adare and his wife.
-Beside this flowerlike slip of a woman Adare was more than ever a
-giant, and his eyes glowed with the tenderness that was in his
-voice. Miriam's lips trembled in a smile as she gazed up at her
-husband. In her eyes shone a responsive gentleness; and then
-Philip turned to find Josephine looking at him from the door, her
-lips drawn in a straight, tense line, her face as white as the bit
-of lace at her throat. He hurried to her. Behind him rumbled the
-deep, joyous voice of the master of Adare House, and passing
-through the door he glanced behind and saw them following, Adare's
-arm about his wife's waist. Josephine caught Philip's arm, and
-whispered in a low voice:
-
-"They are always like that, always lovers. They are like two
-wonderful children, and sometimes I think it is too beautiful to
-be true. And now that you have met them I am going to ask you to
-go to your room. You have been my true knight--more than I dared
-to hope, and to-morrow--"
-
-She interrupted herself as Adare and his wife appeared at the
-door.
-
-"To-morrow?" he persisted.
-
-"I will try and thank you," she replied. Then she said, and Philip
-saw she spoke directly to her father: "You will excuse Philip,
-won't you, Mon Pere? I will go with you, for I have taken the care
-of baby from Moanne to-night. Her husband is sick."
-
-Adare shook hands with Philip.
-
-"I'm up mornings before the owls have gone to sleep," he said.
-"Will you breakfast with me? I'm afraid that if you wait for
-Miriam and Mignonne you will go hungry. They will sleep until noon
-to make up for to-night."
-
-"Nothing would suit me better," declared Philip. "Will you knock
-at my door if I fail to show up?"
-
-Adare was about to answer, but caught himself suddenly as he
-looked from Philip to Josephine.
-
-"What! this soon, Mignonne?" he demanded, chuckling in his beard.
-"Your rooms at the two ends of the house already! That was never
-the way with Miriam and me. Can you remember such a thing, Ma
-Cheri?"
-
-"It--it is the baby," gasped Josephine, backing from the light to
-hide the wild rush of blood to her face. "Philip cannot sleep,"
-she finished desperately.
-
-"Then I disapprove of his nerves," rejoined her father. "Good-
-night, Philip, my boy!"
-
-"Good-night!" said Philip.
-
-He was looking at Adare's wife as they moved away. In the dim
-light of the hall a strange look had come into her face at her
-husband's jesting words. Was it the effect of the shadows, or had
-he seen her start--almost as if for an instant she had been
-threatened by a blow? Was it imagination, or had he in that same
-instant caught a sudden look of alarm, of terror, in her eyes?
-Josephine had told him that her mother knew nothing of the tragedy
-of the child's birth. If this were so, why had she betrayed the
-emotions which Philip was sure he had seen?
-
-A chaotic tangle of questions and of doubts rushed through his
-mind. John Adare alone had acted a natural and unrestrained part
-in the brief space that had intervened since his home-coming.
-Philip had looked upon the big man's love and happiness, his
-worship of the woman who was his wife, his ecstasy over the baby,
-his affection for Josephine, and it seemed to him that he KNEW
-this man now. The few moments he had stood in the room with mother
-and daughter had puzzled him most. In their faces he had seen no
-sign of gladness at their reunion, and he asked himself if
-Josephine had told him all the truth--if her mother were not,
-after all, a partner to her secret.
-
-And then there swept upon him in all its overwhelming cloud of
-mystery that other question which until now he had not dared to
-ask himself: HAD JOSEPHINE HERSELF TOLD HIM ALL THE TRUTH? He did
-not dare to tell himself that it was possible that she was NOT the
-mother of the child which she had told him was her own. And yet he
-could not kill the whispering doubt deep back in his brain. It had
-come to him in the room, quick as a flashlight, when she had made
-her confession; it was insistent now as he stood looking at the
-closed door through which they had disappeared.
-
-For him to believe wholly and unquestioned Josephine's confession
-was like asking him to believe that da Vinci's masterpiece hanging
-in the big room had been painted by a blind man. In her he had
-embodied all that he had ever dreamed of as pure and beautiful in
-a woman, and the thought came now. Had Josephine, for some
-tremendous reason known only to herself and Jean, tried to destroy
-his great love for her by revealing herself in a light that was
-untrue?
-
-Instantly he told himself that this could not be so. If he
-believed in Josephine at all, he must believe that she had told
-him the truth. And he did believe, in spite of the whispering
-doubt. He felt that he could not sleep until he had seen Josephine
-alone. In her room John Adare had interrupted them a minute too
-soon. In spite of the mysterious and unsettling events of the
-night his heart still beat with the wild and joyous hope that had
-come with Josephine's surrender to his arms and lips.
-
-Instead of accepting the confession of her misfortune as the final
-barrier between them, he had taken it as the key that had unlocked
-the chains of her bondage. If she had told him the truth--if this
-were what separated them--she belonged to him; and he wanted to
-tell her this again before he slept, and hear from her lips the
-words that would give her to him forever.
-
-Despairing of this, he opened the door to his room.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER ELEVEN
-
-
-Scarcely had he crossed the threshold when an exclamation of
-surprise rose to Philip's lips. A few minutes before he had left
-his room even uncomfortably warm. A cold draught of air struck his
-face now, and the light was out. He remembered that he had left
-the lamp burning. He groped his way through the darkness to the
-table before he lighted a match.
-
-As he touched the flame to the wick he glanced toward the window.
-It was open. A film of snow had driven through and settled upon
-the rug under it. Replacing the chimney, he took a step or two
-toward the window. Then he stopped, and stared at the floor. Some
-one had entered his room through the open window and had gone to
-the door opening into the hall. At each step had fallen a bit of
-snow, and close to the door was a space of the bare floor soppy
-and stained. At that point the intruder had stood for some moments
-without moving.
-
-For several seconds Philip stared at the evidences of a prowling
-visitor without making a move himself. It was not without a
-certain thrill of uneasiness that he went to the window and closed
-it. It did not take him long to assure himself that nothing in the
-room had been touched. He could find no other marks of feet except
-those which led directly from the window to the door, and this
-fact was sufficient proof that whoever had visited his room had
-come as a listener and a spy and not as a thief.
-
-It occurred to Philip now that he had found his door unlatched and
-slightly ajar when he entered. That the eavesdropper had seen them
-in the hall and had possibly overheard a part of their
-conversation he was quite certain from the fact that the window
-had been left open in a hurried flight.
-
-For some time the impulse was strong in him to acquaint both
-Josephine and her father with what had happened, and with Jean
-Croisset's apparent treachery. He did not need to ask himself if
-it was the half-breed who had stolen into his room. He was as
-certain of that as he was of the identity of the face he had seen
-at the window some time before. And yet something held him from
-communicating these events of the night to the master of Adare
-House and the girl. He was becoming more and more convinced that
-there existed an unaccountable and mysterious undercurrent of
-tragic possibilities at Adare House of which Josephine was almost
-ignorant, and her father entirely so. Josephine's motherhood and
-the secret she was guarding were not the only things that were
-clouding his mental horizon now. There was something else. And he
-believed that Jean was the key to the situation.
-
-He felt a clammy chill creep over him as he asked himself how
-closely Jean Jacques Croisset himself was associated with the girl
-he loved. It was a thought that almost made him curse himself for
-giving it birth. And yet it clung to him like a grim and haunting
-spectre that he would have crushed if he could. Josephine's
-confession of motherhood had not made him love her less. In those
-terrible moments when she had bared her soul to him, his own soul
-had suffered none of the revulsion with which he might have
-sympathized in others. It was as if she had fallen at his feet,
-fluttering in the agony of a terrible wound, a thing as pure as
-the heavens, hurt for him to cherish in his greater strength--such
-was his love. And the thought that Jean loved her, and that a
-jealousy darker than night was burning all that was human out of
-his breast, was a possibility which he found unpleasant to admit
-to himself.
-
-So deeply was he absorbed in these thoughts that he forgot any
-immediate danger that might be threatening himself. He passed and
-repassed the window, smoking his pipe, and fighting with himself
-to hit upon some other tangible reason for Jean's unexpected
-change of heart. He could not forget his first impression of the
-dark-faced half-breed, nor the grip in which they had pledged
-their fealty. He had accepted Jean as one of ten thousand--a man
-he would have trusted to the ends of the earth, and yet he
-recalled moments now when he had seen strange fires smouldering
-far back in the forest man's eyes. The change in Jean alone he
-felt that he might have diagnosed, but almost simultaneously with
-his discovery of this change he had met Adare's wife--and she had
-puzzled him even more than the half-breed.
-
-Restlessly he moved to his door again, opened it, and looked down
-the hall. The door of Josephine's room was closed, and he
-reentered his room. For a moment he stood facing the window. In
-the same instant there came the report of a rifle and the crashing
-of glass. A shower of shot-like particles struck his face. He
-heard a dull smash behind him, and then a stinging, red-hot pain
-shot across his arm, as if a whiplash had seared his naked flesh.
-He heard the shot, the crashing glass, the strike of the bullet
-behind him before he felt the pain--before he reeled back toward
-the wall. His heel caught in a rug and he fell. He knew that he
-was not badly hurt, but he crouched low, and with his right hand
-drew his automatic and levelled it at the window.
-
-Never in his life had his blood leaped more quickly through his
-body than it did now. It was not merely excitement--the knowledge
-that he had been close to death, and had escaped. From out of the
-darkness Jean Croisset had shot at him like a coward. He did not
-feel the burn of the scratch on his arm as he jumped to his feet.
-Once more he ran swiftly through the hall. At the end door he
-looked back. Apparently the shot had not alarmed the occupants of
-Josephine's room, to whom the report of a rifle--even at night--
-held no special significance.
-
-Another moment and Philip was outside. It had stopped snowing, and
-the clouds were drifting away from under the moon. Crouched low,
-his pistol level at his side, he ran swiftly in the direction from
-which the shot must have come. The moon revealed the dark edge of
-the forest a hundred yards away, and he was sure that his
-attempted murderer had stood somewhere between Adare House and the
-timber when he fired. He was not afraid of a second shot. Even
-caution was lost in his mad desire to catch Jean red-handed and
-choke a confession of several things from his lips. If Jean had
-suddenly risen out of the snow he would not have used his pistol
-unless forced to do so. He wanted to be hand to hand with the
-treacherous half-breed, and his breath came in panting eagerness
-as he ran.
-
-Suddenly he stopped short. He had struck the trail. Here Croisset
-had stood, fifty yards from his window, when he fired. The snow
-was beaten down, and from the spot his retreating footsteps led
-toward the forest. Like a dog Philip followed the trail. The first
-timber was thinned by the axe, and the moon lighted up the white
-spaces ahead of him. He was half across the darker wall of the
-spruce when his heart gave a sudden jump. He had heard the snarl
-of a dog, the lash of a whip, a man's low voice cursing the beast
-he was striking. The sounds came from the dense cover of the
-spruce, and told him that Jean was not looking for immediate
-pursuit. He slipped in among the shadows quietly, and a few steps
-brought him to a smaller open space where a few trees had been
-cut. In this little clearing a slim dark figure of a man was
-straightening out the tangled traces of a sledge-team.
-
-Philip could not see his face, but he knew that it was Jean. It
-was Jean's figure, Jean's movement, his low, sharp voice as he
-spoke to the dogs. Man and huskies were not twenty steps from him.
-With a tense breath Philip replaced his pistol in its holster. He
-did not want to kill, and he possessed a proper respect for the
-hair-trigger mechanism of his automatic. In the fight he
-anticipated with Jean the weapon would be safer in its holster
-than in his hand. Jean was at present unarmed, except for his
-hunting-knife. His rifle leaned against a tree, and in another
-moment Philip was between the gun and the half-breed.
-
-One of the sledge dogs betrayed him. At its low and snarling
-warning the half-breed whirled about with the alertness of a lynx,
-and he was half ready when Philip launched himself at his throat.
-They went down free of the dogs, the forest man under. One of
-Philip's hands had reached his enemy's throat, but with a swift
-movement of his arm the half-breed wrenched it off and slipped out
-from under his assailant with the agility of an eel. Both were on
-their feet in an instant, facing each other in the tiny moonlit
-arena a dozen feet from the silent and watchful dogs.
-
-Even now Philip could not see the half-breed's features because of
-a hood drawn closely about his face. The "breed" had made no
-effort to draw a weapon, and Philip flung himself upon him again.
-Thus in open battle his greater physical strength and advantage of
-fifty pounds in weight would have won for Philip. But the forest
-man's fighting is filled with the elusive ermine's trickery and
-the lithe quickness of the big, fur-padded cat of the trap-lines.
-
-The half-breed made no effort to evade Philip's assault. He met
-the shock of attack fairly, and went down with him. But this time
-his back was to the watchful semicircle of dogs, and with a sharp,
-piercing command he pitched back among them, dragging Philip with
-him. Too late Philip realized what the cry meant. He tried to
-fling himself out of reach of the threatening fangs, and freed one
-hand to reach for his pistol. This saved him from the dogs, but
-gave the half-breed his opportunity. Again he was on his feet, the
-butt of his dog whip in his hand. As the moonlight glinted on the
-barrel of the automatic, he brought the whip down with a crash on
-Philip's head--and then again and again, and Philip pitched
-backward into the snow.
-
-He was not wholly unconscious. He knew that as soon as he had
-fallen the half-breed had turned again to the dogs. He could hear
-him as he straightened out the traces. In a subconscious sort of
-way, Philip wondered why he did not take advantage of his
-opportunity and finish what he had failed to do with the bullet
-through the window. Philip heard him run back for his gun, and
-tried to struggle to his knees. Instead of the shot he half
-expected there came the low "Hoosh--hoosh--marche!" of the forest
-man's voice. Dogs and sledge moved. He fought himself up and
-swayed on his knees, staring after the retreating shadows. He saw
-his automatic in the snow and crawled to it. It was another minute
-before he could stand on his feet, and then he was dizzy. He
-staggered to a tree and for a space leaned against it.
-
-It was some minutes before he was steady enough to walk, and by
-that time he knew that it would be futile to pursue the half-breed
-and his swift-footed dogs, weakened and half dressed as he was.
-Slowly he returned to Adare House, cursing himself for not having
-used his pistol to compel Jean's surrender. He acknowledged that
-he had been a fool, and that he had deserved what he got. The hall
-was still empty when he reentered it. His adventure had roused no
-one, and with a feeling of relief he went to his room.
-
-If the walls had fallen about his ears he could not have received
-a greater shock than when he entered through the door.
-
-Seated in a chair close to the table, looking at him calmly as he
-entered, was Jean Jacques Croisset!
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWELVE
-
-
-Unable to believe that what he saw was not an illusion, Philip
-stood and stared at the half-breed. No word fell from his lips. He
-did not move. And Jean met his eyes calmly, without betraying a
-tremor of excitement or of fear. In another moment Philip's hand
-went to his pistol. As he half drew it his confused brain saw
-other things which made him gasp with new wonder.
-
-Croisset showed no signs of the fight in the forest which had
-occurred not more than ten minutes before. He was wearing a pair
-of laced Hudson's Bay boots. In the struggle in the snow Philip's
-hand had once gripped his enemy's foot, and he knew that he had
-worn moccasins. And Jean was not winded. He was breathing easily.
-And now Philip saw that behind the calmness in his eyes there was
-a tense and anxious inquiry. Slowly the truth broke upon him. It
-could not have been Jean with whom he had fought in the edge of
-the forest! He advanced a step or two toward the half-breed, his
-hand still resting uncertainly on his pistol. Not until then did
-Jean speak, and there was no pretence in his voice:
-
-"The Virgin be praised, you are not badly hurt, M'sieur?" he
-exclaimed, rising. "There is a little blood on your face. Did the
-glass cut you?"
-
-"No," said Philip. "I overtook him in the edge of the forest."
-
-Not for an instant had his eyes left Croisset. Now he saw him
-start. His dark face took on a strange pallor. He leaned forward,
-and his breath came in a quick gasp.
-
-"The result?" he demanded. "Did you kill him?"
-
-"He escaped."
-
-The tense lines on Croisset's face relaxed. Philip turned and
-bolted the door.
-
-"Sit down, Croisset," he commanded. "You and I are going to square
-things up in this room to-night. It is quite natural that you
-should be glad he escaped. Perhaps if you had fired the shot in
-place of putting the affair into the hands of a hired murderer the
-work would have been better done. Sit down!"
-
-Something like a smile flickered across Jean's face as he reseated
-himself. There was in it no suggestion of bravado or of defiance.
-It was rather the facial expression of one who was looking beyond
-Philip's set jaws, and seeing other things--the betrayal which
-comes at times when one has suffered quietly for another. It was a
-look which made Philip uneasy as he seated himself opposite the
-half-breed, and made him ashamed of the fact that he had exposed
-his right hand on the table, with the muzzle of his automatic
-turned toward Jean's breast. Yet he was determined to have it out
-with Jean now.
-
-"You are glad that the man who tried to kill me escaped?" he
-repeated.
-
-The promptness and quiet decisiveness of Jean's answer amazed him.
-
-"Yes, M'sieur, I am. But the shot was not for you. It was intended
-for the master of Adare House. When I heard the shot to-night I
-did not know what it meant. A little later I came to your room and
-found the broken window and the bullet mark in the wall. This is
-M'sieur Adare's old room, and the bullet was intended for him. And
-now, M'sieur Philip, why do you say that I am responsible for the
-attempt to kill you, or the master?"
-
-"You have convicted yourself," declared Philip, his eyes ablaze.
-"A moment ago you said you were glad the assassin escaped!"
-
-"I am, M'sieur," replied Jean in the same quiet voice. "Why I am
-glad I will leave to your imagination. Unless I still had faith in
-you and was sure of your great love for our Josephine, I would
-have lied to you. You were told that you would meet with strange
-things at Adare House. You gave your oath that you would make no
-effort to discover the secret which is guarded here. And this
-early, the first night, you threaten me at the end of a pistol!"
-
-Like fire Jean's eyes were burning now. He gripped the edges of
-the table with his thin fingers, and his voice came with a sudden
-hissing fury.
-
-"By the great God in Heaven, M'sieur, are you accusing me of
-turning traitor to the Master and to her, to our Josephine, whom I
-have watched and guarded and prayed for since the day she first
-opened her eyes to the world? Do you accuse me of that--I, Jean
-Jacques Croisset, who would die a thousand deaths by torture that
-she might be freed from her own suffering?"
-
-He leaned over the table as if about to spring. And then, slowly,
-his fingers relaxed, the fire died out of his eyes, and he sank
-back in his chair. In the face of the half-breed's outburst Philip
-had remained speechless. Now he spoke:
-
-"Call it threatening, if you like. I do not intend to break my
-word to Josephine. I demand no answer to questions which may
-concern her, for that is my promise. But between you and me there
-are certain things which must be explained. I concede that I was
-mistaken in believing that it was you with whom I fought in the
-forest. But it was you who looked through my window earlier in the
-night, with a pistol in your hand. You would have killed me if I
-had not turned."
-
-Genuine surprise shot into Jean's face.
-
-"I have not been near your window, M'sieur. Until I returned with
-M'sieur Adare I was waiting up the river, several miles from here.
-Since then I have not left the house. Josephine and her father can
-tell you this, if you need proof."
-
-"Your words are impossible!" exclaimed Philip. "I could not have
-been mistaken. It was you."
-
-"Will you believe Josephine, M'sieur? She will tell you that I
-could not have been at the window."
-
-"If it was not you--who was it?"
-
-"It must have been the man who shot at you," replied Jean.
-
-"And you know who that man is, and yet refuse to tell me in order
-that he may have another opportunity of finishing what he failed
-to do to-night. The most I can do is to inform John Adare."
-
-"You will not do that," said Jean confidently. Again he showed
-excitement. "Do you know what it would mean?" he demanded.
-
-"Trouble for you," volunteered Philip,
-
-"And ruin for Josephine and every soul in the House of Adare!"
-added Croisset swiftly. "As soon as Adare could lace his moccasins
-he would take up that trail out there. He would come to the end of
-it, and then--mon Dieu!--in that hour the world would smash about
-his ears!"
-
-"Either you are mad or I am," gasped Philip, staring into the
-half-breed's tense face. "I don't think you are lying, Jean. But
-you must be mad. And I am mad for listening to you. You insist on
-giving this murderer another chance. You as much as say that by
-giving him a second opportunity to kill John Adare you are proving
-your loyalty to Josephine and her father. Can that be anything but
-madness?"
-
-An almost gentle smile nickered over Jean's lips. He looked at
-Philip as if marvelling that the other could not understand.
-
-"Within an hour it will be Jean Jacques Croisset who will take up
-the trail," he replied softly, and without boastfulness. "It is I,
-and not the master of Adare House, who will come to the end of
-that trail. And there will be no other shot after that, and no one
-will ever know--but you and me."
-
-"You mean that you will follow and kill him--and that John Adare
-must never know that an attempt has been made on his life?"
-
-"He must never know, M'sieur. And what happens in the forest at
-the end of the trail the trees will never tell."
-
-"And the reason for this secrecy you will not confide in me?"
-
-"I dare not, M'sieur."
-
-Philip leaned across the table.
-
-"Perhaps you will, Jean, when you know there is no longer anything
-between Josephine and me," he said. "To-night she told me
-everything. I have seen the baby. Her secret she has given to me
-freely--and it has made no difference. I love her. Tomorrow I
-shall ask her to end all this make-believe, and my heart tells me
-that she will. We can be married secretly. No one will ever know."
-
-His face was filled with the flush of hope. One of his hands
-caught Jean's in the old grip of friendship--of confidence. Jean
-did not reply. But his face betrayed what he did not speak. Once
-or twice before Philip had seen the same look of anguish in his
-eyes, the tightening of the lines about the corners of his mouth.
-Slowly the half-breed rose from the table and turned a little from
-Philip. In a moment Philip was at his side.
-
-"Jean!" he cried softly, "you love Josephine!"
-
-No sign of passion was in Jean's face as he met the other's eyes.
-
-"How do you mean, M'sieur?" he asked quietly. "As a father and a
-brother, or as a man?"
-
-"A man," said Philip.
-
-Jean smiled. It was a smile of deep understanding, as if suddenly
-there had burst upon him a light which he had not seen before.
-
-"I love her as the flowers love the sunshine, as the wood violets
-love the rains," he said, touching Philip's arm. "And that,
-M'sieur, is not what you understand as the love of a man. There is
-one other whom I love in another way, whose voice is the sweetest
-music in the world, whose heart beats with mine, whose soul leads
-me day and night through the forests, and who whispers to me of
-our sweet love in my dreams--Iowaka, my wife! Come, M'sieur; I
-will take you to her."
-
-"It is late--too late," voiced Philip wonderingly.
-
-But as he spoke he followed Jean. The half-breed seemed to have
-risen out of his world now. There was a wonderful light in his
-face, a something that seemed to reach back through centuries that
-were gone--and in this moment Philip thought of Marechal, of
-Prince Rupert, of le Chevalier Grosselier--of the adventurous and
-royal blood that had first come over to the New World to form the
-Great Company, and he knew that of such men as these was Jean
-Jacques Croisset, the forest man. He understood now the meaning of
-the soft and faultless speech of this man who had lived always
-under the stars and the open skies. He was not of to-day, but a
-harkening back to that long-forgotten yesterday; in his veins ran
-the blood red and strong of the First Men of the North. Out into
-the night Philip followed him, bare-headed, with the moonlight
-streaming down from above; and he stopped only when Jean stopped,
-close to a little plot where a dozen wooden crosses rose above a
-dozen snow-covered mounds.
-
-Jean stopped, and his hand fell on Philip's arm.
-
-"These are Josephine's," he said softly, with a sweep of his other
-hand. "She calls it her Garden of Little Flowers. They are
-children, M'sieur. Some are babies. When a little one dies--if it
-is not too far away--she brings it to Le Jardin--her garden, so
-that it may not sleep alone under the lonely spruce, with the
-wolves howling over it on winter nights. They must be lonely in
-the woodsy graves, she says. I have known her to bring an Indian
-baby a hundred miles, and some of these I have seen die in her
-arms, while she crooned to them a song of Heaven. And five times
-as many little ones she has saved, M'sieur. That is why even the
-winds in the treetops whisper her name, L'Ange! Does it not seem
-to you that even the moon shines brighter here upon these little
-mounds and the crosses?"
-
-"Yes," breathed Philip reverently.
-
-Jean pointed to a larger mound, the one guardian mound of them
-all, rising a little above the others, its cross lifted watchfully
-above the other crosses; and he said, as if the spirits themselves
-were listening to him:
-
-"M'sieur, there is my wife, my Iowaka. She died three years ago,
-but she is with me always, and even now her beloved voice is
-singing in my heart, telling me that it is not black and cold
-where she and the little ones are waiting, but that all is light
-and beautiful. M'sieur"--his voice dropped to a whisper--"Could I
-sell my hereafter with her for the price of another woman's love
-on earth?"
-
-Philip tried to speak; and strange after a moment he succeeded in
-saying:
-
-"Jean, an hour ago, I thought I was a man. I see how far short of
-that I have fallen. Forgive me, and let me be your brother. Such a
-love as yours is my love for Josephine. And to-morrow--"
-
-"Despair will open up and swallow you to the depths of your soul,"
-interrupted Jean gently. "Return to your room, M'sieur. Sleep.
-Fight for the love that will be yours in Heaven, as I live for my
-Iowaka's. For that love will be yours, up there. Josephine has
-loved but one man, and that is you. I have watched and I have
-seen. But in this world she can never be more to you than she is
-now, for what she told you to-night is the least of the terrible
-thing that is eating away her soul on earth. Good-night, M'sieur!"
-
-Straight out into the moonlight Jean walked, head erect, in the
-face of the forest. And Philip stood looking after him over the
-little garden of crosses until he had disappeared.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER THIRTEEN
-
-
-Alone and with the deadening depression that had come with Jean's
-last words, Philip returned to his room. He had made no effort to
-follow the half-breed who had shamed him to the quick beside the
-grave of his wife. He felt no pleasure, no sense of exultation,
-that his suspicions of Croisset's feelings toward Josephine had
-been dispelled. Since the hour MacTavish had died up in the
-madness of Arctic night, deep and hopeless gloom had not laid its
-hand more heavily upon him,
-
-He bolted his door, drew the curtain to the window, and added a
-bit of wood to the few embers that still remained alive in the
-grate. Then he sat down, with his face to the fire. The dry birch
-burst into flame, and for half an hour he sat staring into it with
-almost unseeing eyes. He knew that Jean would keep his word--that
-even now he was possibly on the fresh trail that led through the
-forest. For him there was something about the half-breed now that
-was almost omniscient. In him Philip had seen incarnated the
-things which made him feel like a dwarf in manhood. In those few
-moments close to the graves, Jean had risen above the world. And
-Philip believed in him. Yet with his belief, his optimism did not
-quite die.
-
-In the same breath Jean had told him that he could never possess
-Josephine, and that Josephine loved him. This in itself, Jean's
-assurance of her love, was sufficient to arouse a spirit like his
-with new hope. At last he went to bed, and in spite of his mental
-and physical excitement of the night, he fell asleep.
-
-John Adare did not fail in his promise to rouse Philip early in
-the day. When Philip jumped out of bed in response to Adare's
-heavy knock at the door, he judged that it was not later than
-seven o'clock, and the room was still dark. Adare's voice came
-booming through the thick panels in reply to Philip's assurance
-that he was getting up.
-
-"This is the third time," he cried. "I've cracked the door trying
-to rouse you. And we've got a caribou porterhouse two inches thick
-waiting for us."
-
-The giant was walking back and forth in the big living-room when
-Philip joined him a few minutes later. He wore an Indian-made
-jacket and was smoking a big pipe. That he had been up for some
-time was evident from the logs fully ablaze in the fireplace. He
-rubbed his hands briskly as Philip entered. Every atom of him
-disseminated good cheer.
-
-"You don't know how good it seems to get back home," he exclaimed,
-as they shook hands. "I feel like a boy--actually like a boy,
-Philip! Didn't sleep two winks after I went to bed, and Miriam
-scolded me for keeping her awake. Bless my soul, I wouldn't live
-in Montreal if they'd make me a present of the whole Hudson's Bay
-Company."
-
-"Nor I," said Philip. "I love the North."
-
-"How long?"
-
-"Four years--without a break."
-
-"One can live a long time in the North in four years," mused the
-master of Adare. "But Josephine said she met you in Montreal?"
-
-"True," laughed Philip, catching himself. "That was a break--and I
-thank God for it. Outside of that I spent all of the four years
-north of the Hight of Land. For eighteen months I lived along the
-edges of the Arctic trying to take an impossible census of the
-Eskimo for the government."
-
-"I knew something of the sort when I first looked at you," said
-Adare. "I can tell an Arctic man, just as I can pick a Herschel
-dog or an Athabasca country malemute from a pack of fifty. We have
-much to talk about, my boy. We will be great friends. Just now we
-are going to that caribou steak."
-
-Out into the hall, through another door, and down a short
-corridor, he led Philip. Here a third door was open, and Adare
-stood aside while Philip entered.
-
-"This is my private sanctuary," he said proudly. "What do you
-think of it?"
-
-Philip looked about him. He was in a room almost as large as the
-one from which they had come. In a huge fireplace a pile of logs
-were blazing. One end of the room was given up almost entirely to
-shelves and weighted down with books. Philip was amazed at their
-number. The other end was still partially hidden in glooms but he
-could make out that it was fitted up as a laboratory, and on
-shelves he caught the white gleam of scores of wild beast skulls.
-Comfortably near to the fire was a large table scattered with
-books, papers, and piles of manuscript, and behind this was a
-small iron safe. Here, Philip thought, was the adytum of no
-ordinary man; it was the study of a scholar and a scientist. He
-marked the absence of mounted heads from the walls, but in spite
-of that the very atmosphere of the room breathed of the forests
-and the beast. Here and there he saw the articulated skeletons of
-wild animals. From among the books themselves the jaws and ivory
-fangs of skulls gleamed out at him. Before he had finished his
-wondering survey of the strange room, John Adare stepped to the
-table and picked up a skull.
-
-"This is my latest specimen," he said, his voice eager with
-enthusiasim. "It is perfect. Jean secured it for me while I was
-away. It is the skull of a beaver, and shows in three distinct and
-remarkable gradations how nature replaces the soft enamel as it is
-worn from the beaver's teeth. You see, I am a hobbyist. For twenty
-years I have been studying wild animals. And there--"
-
-He replaced the skull on the table to point to an isolated shelf
-filled with books and magazines.
-
-"--there is my most remarkable collection," he added, a gleam of
-humour in his eyes. "They are the books and magazine stories of
-nature fakirs, the 'works' of naturalists who have never heard the
-howl of a wolf or the cry of a loon; the wild dreams of
-fictionists, the rot of writers who spend two weeks or a month
-each year on some blazed trail and return to the cities to call
-themselves students of nature. When I feel in bad humour I read
-some of that stuff and laugh."
-
-He leaned over to press a button under the table,
-
-"One of my little electrical arrangements," he explained. "That
-will bring our breakfast. To use a popular expression of the
-uninformed, I'm as hungry as a bear. As a matter of fact, you
-know, a bear is the lightest eater of all brute creation for his
-size, strength, and fat supply. That row of naturalists over there
-have made him out a pig. The beast's a genius, for it takes a
-genius to grow fat on poplar buds!"
-
-Then he laughed good humouredly.
-
-"I suppose you are tired of this already. Josephine has probably
-been filling you with a lot of my foolishness. She says I must be
-silly or I would have my stuff published in books. But I am
-waiting, waiting until I have come down to the last facts. I am
-experimenting now with the black and the silver fox. And there are
-many other experiments to come, many of them. But you are tired of
-this."
-
-"Tired!"
-
-Philip had listened to him without speaking. In this room John
-Adare had changed. In him he saw now the living, breathing soul of
-the wild. His own face was flushed with a new enthusiasm as he
-replied:
-
-"Such things could never tire me. I only ask that I may be your
-companion in your researches, and learn something of the wonders
-which you must already have discovered. You have studied wild
-animals--for twenty years?"
-
-"Twenty and four, day and night; it has been my hobby."
-
-"And you have written about them?"
-
-"A score of volumes, if they were in print."
-
-Philip drew a deep breath.
-
-"The world would give a great deal for what you know," he said.
-"It would give a great deal for those books, more than I dare to
-estimate, undoubtedly it would be a vast sum in dollars."
-
-Adare laughed softly in his beard.
-
-"And what would I do with dollars?" he asked. "I have sufficient
-with which to live this life here. What more could money bring me?
-I am the happiest man in the world!"
-
-For a moment a cloud overshadowed his face.
-
-"And yet of late I have had a worry," he added thoughtfully. "It
-is because of Miriam, my wife. She is not well. I had hoped that
-the doctors in Montreal would help her. But they have failed. They
-say she possesses no malady, no sickness that they can discover.
-And yet she is not the old Miriam. God knows I hope the tonic of
-the snows will bring her back to health this winter!"
-
-"It will," declared Philip. "The signs point to a glorious winter,
-crisp and dry--the sledge and dog kind, when you can hear the
-crack of a whiplash half a mile away."
-
-"You will hear that frequently enough if you follow Josephine,"
-chuckled Adare. "Not a trail in these forests for a hundred miles
-she does not know. She trains all of the dogs, and they are
-wonderful."
-
-It was on the point of Philip's tongue to ask a reason for the
-silence of the fierce pack he had seen the night before, when he
-caught himself. At the same moment the Indian woman appeared
-through the door with a laden tray. Adare helped her arrange their
-breakfast on a small table near the fire.
-
-"I thought we would be more congenial here than alone in the
-dining-room, Philip," he explained. "Unless I am mistaken the
-ladies won't be up until dinner time. Did you ever see a steak
-done to a finer turn than this? Marie, you are a treasure." He
-motioned Philip to a seat, and began serving. "Nothing in the
-world is better than a caribou porterhouse cut well back," he went
-on. "Don't fry or roast it, but broil it. An inch and a half is
-the proper thickness, just enough to hold the heart of it ripe
-with juice. See it ooze from that cut! Can you beat it?"
-
-"Not with anything I have had along the Arctic," confessed Philip.
-"A steak from the cheek of a cow walrus is about the best thing
-you find up in the 'Big Icebox'--that is, at first. Later, when
-the aurora borealis has got into your marrow, you gorge on seal
-blubber and narwhal fat and call it good. As for me, I'd prefer
-pickles to anything else in the world, so with your permission
-I'll help myself. Just now I'd eat pickles with ice cream."
-
-It was a pleasant meal. Philip could not remember when he had
-known a more agreeable host. Not until they had finished, and
-Adare had produced cigars of a curious length and slimness, did
-the older man ask the question for which Philip had been carefully
-preparing himself.
-
-"Now I want to hear about you," he said. "Josephine told me very
-little--said that she wanted me to get my impressions first hand.
-We'll smoke and talk. These cigars are clear Havanas. I have the
-tobacco imported by the bale and we make the cigars ourselves.
-Reduces the cost to a minimum, and we always have a supply. Go on,
-Philip, I'm listening."
-
-Philip remembered Josephine's words telling him to narrate the
-events of his own life to her father--except that he was to leave
-open, as it were, the interval in which he was supposed to have
-known her in Montreal. It was not difficult for him to slip over
-this. He described his first coming into the North, and Adare's
-eyes glowed sympathetically when Philip quoted Hill's words down
-at Prince Albert and Jasper's up at Fond du Lac. He listened with
-tense interest to his experiences along the Arctic, his
-descriptions of the death of MacTavish and the passing of Pierre
-Radisson. But what struck deepest with him was Philip's physical
-and mental fight for new life, and the splendid way in which the
-wilderness had responded.
-
-"And you couldn't go back now," he said, a tone of triumph in his
-voice. "When the forests once claim you--they hold."
-
-"Not alone the forests, Mon Pere."
-
-"Ah, Mignonne. No, there is neither man nor beast in the world
-that would leave her. Even the dogs are chained out in the deep
-spruce that they may not tear down her doors in the night to come
-near her. The whole world loves my Josephine. The Indians make the
-Big Medicine for her in a hundred tepees when they learn she is
-ill. They have trimmed five hundred lob-stick trees in her memory.
-Mon Dieu, in the Company's books there are written down more than
-thirty babes and children grown who bear her name of Josephine!
-She is different than her mother. Miriam has been always like a
-flower--a timid wood violet, loving this big world, yet playing no
-part in it away from my side. Sometimes Josephine frightens me.
-She will travel a hundred miles by sledge to nurse a sick child,
-and only last winter she buried herself in a shack filled with
-smallpox and brought six souls out of it alive! For two weeks she
-was buried in that hell. That is Mignonne, whom Indian, breed, and
-white man call L'Ange. Miriam they call La Fleurette. We are two
-fortunate men, my son!"
-
-A dozen questions burned on Philip's lips, but he held them back,
-fearing that some accidental slip of the tongue might betray him.
-He was convinced that Josephine's father knew absolutely nothing
-of the trouble that was wrecking the happiness of Adare House, and
-he was equally positive that all, even Miriam herself, were
-fighting to keep the secret from him.
-
-That Josephine's motherhood was not the sole cause of the
-mysterious and tragic undercurrent that he had been made to feel
-he was more than suspicious. A few hours would tell him if he was
-right, for he would ask Josephine to become his wife. And he
-already knew what John Adare did not know.
-
-Miriam was not sick with a physical illness. The doctors whom
-Adare had not believed were right. And he wondered, as he sat
-facing her husband, if it was fear for his life that was breaking
-her down. Were they shielding him from some great and ever-
-menacing peril--a danger with which, for some inconceivable
-reason, they dared not acquaint him?
-
-In the short time he had known him, a strange feeling for John
-Adare had found a place in Philip's heart. It was more than
-friendship, more than the feeling which his supposed relationship
-might have roused. This big-hearted, tender, rumbling voiced giant
-of a man he had grown to love. And he found himself struggling
-blindly now to keep from him what the others were trying to
-conceal, for he knew that John Adare's heart would crumble down
-like a pile of dust if he knew the truth. He was thinking of the
-baby, and it seemed as if his thoughts flashed like fire to the
-other.
-
-Adare was laughing softly in his beard.
-
-"You should have seen the kid last night, Philip. When they woke
-'im he stared at me for a time as though I was an ogre, then he
-grinned, kicked me, and grabbed my whiskers, I've just one fault
-to find. I wish he was a dozen instead of me. The little rascal! I
-wonder if he is awake?"
-
-He half rose, as if about to investigate, then reseated himself.
-
-"Guess I'd better not take a chance of waking him," he reflected.
-"If Jean should catch me rousing Josephine or the baby he'd
-throttle me."
-
-"Jean is--a sort of guardian," ventured Philip.
-
-"More than that. Sometimes I think he is a spirit," said Adare
-impressively. "I have known him for twenty years. Since the day
-Josephine was born he has been her watch-dog. He came in the heart
-of a great storm, years and years ago, nearly dead from cold and
-hunger. He never went away, and he has talked but little about
-himself. See--"
-
-Adare went to a shelf and returned with a bundle of manuscript.
-
-"Jean gave me the idea for this," he went on.
-
-There are two hundred and eighty pages here. I call it 'The
-Aristocracy of the North.' It is true--and it is wonderful!
-
-"You have seen a spring or New Year's gathering of the forest
-people at a Company's post--the crowd of Indians, half-breeds, and
-whites who follow the trap-lines? And would you guess that in that
-average foregathering of the wilderness people there is better
-blood than you could find in a crowded ballroom of New York's
-millionaires? It is true. I have given fish to hungry half-breeds
-in whose veins flows the blood of royalty. I have eaten with
-Indian women whose lineage reaches back to names that were mighty
-before the first Astors and the first Vanderbilts were born. The
-descendant of a king has hunted me caribou meat at two cents a
-pound. In a smoke-blackened tepee, over beyond the Gray Loon
-waterway, there lives a girl with hair and eyes as black as a
-raven's wing who could go to Paris to-morrow and say: 'I am the
-descendant of a queen,' and prove it. And so it is all over the
-Northland.
-
-"I have hunted down many curious facts, and I have them here in my
-manuscript. The world cannot sneer at me, for records have been
-kept almost since the day away back in the seventeenth century
-when Prince Rupert landed with his first shipload of gentlemen
-adventurers. They intermarried with our splendid Crees--those
-first wanderers from the best families of Europe. They formed the
-English-Cree half-breed. Prince Rupert himself had five children
-that can be traced to him. Le Chevalier Grosselier had nine. And
-so it went on for a hundred years, the best blood in England
-giving birth to a new race among the Crees, and the best of France
-sowing new generations among the Chippewyans on their way up from
-Quebec.
-
-"And for another hundred years and more the English-Cree half-
-breed and the French-Chippewyan half-breed have been meeting and
-intermarrying, forming the 'blood,' until in all this Northland
-scarce a man or a woman cannot call back to names that have long
-become dust in history.
-
-"From the blood of some mighty king of France--of some splendid
-queen--has come Jean Croisset. I have always felt that, and yet I
-can trace him no farther than a hundred years back, to the
-quarter-strain wife of the white factor at Monsoon. Jean has lost
-interest in himself now--since his wife died three years ago. Has
-Josephine told you of her?"
-
-"Very little," said Philip.
-
-The flush of enthusiasm faded from Adare's eyes. It was replaced
-by a look that was grief deep and sincere.
-
-"Iowaka's death was the first great blow that came to Adare
-House," he said gently. "For nine years they were man and wife
-lovers. God's pity they had no children. She was French--with a
-velvety touch of the Cree, lovable as the wild flowers from which
-she took her name. Since she went Jean has lived in a dream. He
-says that she is constantly with him, and that often he hears her
-voice. I am glad of that. It is wonderful to possess that kind of
-a love, Philip!--the love that lives like a fresh flower after
-death and darkness. And we have it--you and I."
-
-Philip murmured softly that it was so. He felt that it was
-dangerous to tread upon the ground which Adare was following. In
-these moments, when this great bent-shouldered giant's heart lay
-like an open book before him, he was not sure of himself. The
-other's unbounded faith, his happiness, the idyllic fulness of his
-world as he found it, were things which added to the heaviness and
-fear at Philip's heart instead of filling him with similar
-emotions. Of these things he was not a part. A voice kept
-whispering to him with maddening insistence that he was a fraud.
-One by one John Adare was unlocking for him hallowed pictures in
-which Jean had told him he could never share possession. His
-desire to see Josephine again was almost feverish, and filled him
-with a restlessness which he knew he must hide from Adare. So when
-Adare's eyes rested upon him in a moment's silence, he said:
-
-"Last night Jean and I were standing beside her grave. It seemed
-then as though he would have been happier if he had lain near her
---under the cross."
-
-"You are wrong," said Adare quickly. "Death is beautiful when
-there is a perfect love. If my Miriam should die it would mean
-that she had simply gone from my SIGHT. In return for that loss
-her hand would reach down to me from Heaven, as Iowaka reaches
-down to Jean. I love life. My heart would break if she should go.
-But it would be replaced by something almost like another soul.
-For it must be wonderful to be over-watched by an angel."
-
-He rose and went to the window, and with a queer thickening in his
-throat Philip stared at his broad back. He thought he saw a
-moment's quiver of his shoulders. Then Adare's voice changed.
-
-"Winter brings close to our doors the one unpleasant feature of
-this country," he said, turning to light a second cigar. "Thirty-
-five miles to the north and west of us there is what the Indians
-call 'Muchemunito Nek'--the Devil's Nest. It's a Free Trader's
-house. A man down in Montreal by the name of Lang owns a string of
-them, and his agent over at the Devil's Nest is a scoundrel of the
-first water. His name is Thoreau. There are a score of half-breeds
-and whites in his crowd, and not a one of them with an honest hair
-in his head. It's the one criminal rendezvous I know of in all
-this North country. Bad Indians who have lost credit at the
-Hudson's Bay Company's posts go to Thoreau's. Whites and half-
-breeds who have broken the laws are harboured there. A dozen
-trappers are murdered each winter for their furs, and the
-assassins are among Thoreau's men. One of these days there is
-going to be a big clean-up. Meanwhile, they are unpleasant
-company. There is a deep swamp between our house and Thoreau's, so
-that during the open water seasons it means we are a hundred miles
-away from them by canoe. When winter comes we are only thirty-five
-miles, as the sledge-dogs run. I don't like it. You can snow-shoe
-the distance in a few hours."
-
-"I know of such a place far to the west," replied Philip. "Both
-the Hudson's Bay Company and Reveillon Freres have threatened to
-put it out of business, but it still remains. Perhaps that is
-owned by Lang, too."
-
-He had joined Adare at the window. The next moment both men were
-staring at the same object in a mutual surprise. Into the white
-snow space between the house and the forest there had walked
-swiftly the slim, red-clad figure of Josephine, her face turned to
-the forest, her hair falling in a long braid down her back.
-
-The master of Adare chuckled exultantly.
-
-"There goes our little Red Riding Hood!" he rumbled. "She beat us
-after all, Philip. She is going after the dogs!"
-
-Philip's heart was beating wildly. A better opportunity for seeing
-Josephine alone could not have come to him. He feared that his
-voice might betray him as he laid a hand on Adare's arm.
-
-"If you will excuse me I will join her," he said. "I know it
-doesn't seem just right to tear off in this way, but--you see--"
-
-Adare interrupted him with one of his booming laughs.
-
-"Go, my lad. I understand. If it was Miriam instead of Mignonne
-running away like that, John Adare wouldn't be waiting this long."
-
-Philip turned and left the room, every pulse in his body throbbing
-with an excitement roused by the knowledge that the hour had come
-when Josephine would give herself to him forever, or doom him to
-that hopelessness for which Jean Croisset had told him to prepare
-himself.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER FOURTEEN
-
-
-In his eagerness to join Josephine Philip had reached the outer
-door before it occurred to him that he was without hat or coat and
-had on only a pair of indoor moccasin slippers. He would still
-have gone on, regardless of this utter incongruity of dress, had
-he not known that John Adare would see him through the window. He
-partly opened the hall door and looked out. Josephine was halfway
-to the forest. He turned swiftly back to his room, threw on a
-coat, put his moccasins on over the soft caribou skin slippers,
-caught up his cap, and hurried back to the door. Josephine had
-disappeared into the edge of the forest. He held himself to a walk
-until he reached the cover of the spruce, but no sooner was he
-beyond Adare's vision than he began to run. Three or four hundred
-yards in the forest he overtook Josephine.
-
-He had come up silently in the soft snow, and she turned, a little
-startled, when be called her name.
-
-"You, Philip!" she exclaimed, the colour deepening quickly in her
-cheeks. "I thought you were with father in the big room."
-
-She had never looked lovelier to him. From the top of her hooded
-head to the hem of her short skirt she was dressed in a soft and
-richly glowing red. Her eyes shone gloriously this morning, and
-about her mouth there was a tenderness and a sweetness which had
-not been there the night before. The lines that told of her strain
-and grief were gone. She seemed like a different Josephine now,
-confessing in this first thrilling moment of their meeting that
-she, too, had been living in the memory of what had passed between
-them a few hours before. And yet in the gentle welcome of her
-smile there was a mingling of sadness and of pathos that tempered
-Philip's joy as he came to her and took her hands.
-
-"My Josephine," he cried softly.
-
-She did not move as he bent down. Again he felt the warm, sweet
-thrill of her lips. He would have kissed her again, have clasped
-her close in his arms, but she drew away from him gently.
-
-"I am glad you saw me--and followed, Philip," she said, her clear,
-beautiful eyes meeting his. "It is a wonderful thing that has
-happened to us. And we must talk about it. We must understand. I
-was on my way to the pack. Will you come?"
-
-She offered him her hand, so childishly confident, so free of her
-old restraint now, that he took it without a word and fell in at
-her side. He had rushed to her tumultuously. On his lips had been
-a hundred things that he had wanted to say. He had meant to claim
-her in the full ardour of his love--and now, quietly, without
-effort, she had worked a wonderful change in him. It was as if
-their experience had not happened yesterday, but yesteryear; and
-the calm, sweet yielding of her lips to him again, the warm
-pressure of her hand, the illimitable faith in him that shone in
-her eyes, filled him with emotions which for a space made him
-speechless. It was as if some wonderful spirit had come to them
-while they slept, so that now there was no necessity for
-explanation or speech. In all the fulness of her splendid
-womanhood Josephine had accepted his love, and had given him her
-own in return. Every fibre in his being told him that this was so.
-And yet she had uttered no word of love, and he had spoken none of
-the things that had been burning in his soul.
-
-They had gone but a few steps when Josephine paused close to the
-fallen trunk of a huge cedar. With her mittened hands she brushed
-off the snow, seated herself, and motioned Philip to sit beside
-her.
-
-"Let us talk here," she said. And then she asked, a little
-anxiously, "You left my father believing in you--in us?"
-
-"Fully," replied Philip. He took her face between his two hands
-and turned it up to him. Her fingers clasped his arms. But they
-made no effort to pull down the hands that held her eyes looking
-straight into his own.
-
-"He believes in us," he repeated. "And you, Josephine, you love
-me?"
-
-He saw the tremulous forming of a word on her lips, but she did
-not speak. A deeper glow came into her eyes. Gently her fingers
-crept to his wrists, and she took down his hands from her face,
-and drew him to the seat at her side.
-
-"Yes, Philip," she said then, in a voice so low and calm that it
-roused a new sense of fear in him. "There can be no sin in telling
-you that--after last night. For we understand each other now. It
-has filled me with a strange happiness. Do you remember what you
-said to me in the canoe? It was this: 'In spite of all that may
-happen, I will receive more than all else in the world could give
-me. For I will have known you, and you will be my salvation.'
-Those words have been ringing in my heart night and day. They are
-there now. And I understand them; I understand you. Hasn't some
-one said that it is better to have loved and lost than never to
-have loved at all? Yes, it is a thousand times better. The love
-that is lost is often the love that is sweetest and purest, and
-leads you nearest Heaven. Such is Jean's love for his lost wife.
-Such must be your love for me. And when you are gone my life will
-still be filled with the happiness which no grief can destroy. I
-did not know these things--until last night. I did not know what
-it meant to love as Jean must love. I do now. And it will be my
-salvation up in these big forests, just as you have said that it
-will be yours down in that other world to which you will go."
-
-He had listened to her like one stricken by a sudden grief. He
-understood her, even before she had finished, and his voice came
-in a sudden broken cry of protest and of pain.
-
-"Then you mean--that after this--you will still send me away?
-After last night? It is impossible! You have told me, and it makes
-no difference, except to make me love you more. Become my wife. We
-can be married secretly, and no one will ever know. My God, you
-cannot drive me away now, Josephine! It is not justice. If you
-love me--it is a crime!"
-
-In the fierceness of his appeal he did not notice how his words
-were driving the colour from her face. Still she answered him
-calmly, in her voice a strange tenderness. Strong in her faith in
-him, she put her hands to his shoulders, and looked into his eyes.
-
-"Have you forgotten?" she asked gently. "Have you forgotten all
-that you promised, and all that I told you? There has been no
-change since then--no change that frees me. There can be no
-change. I love you, Philip. Is that not more than you expected? If
-one can give one's soul away, I give mine to you. It is yours for
-all eternity. Is it not enough? Will you throw that away--because
---my body--is not free?"
-
-Her voice broke in a dry sob; but she still looked into his eyes,
-waiting for him to answer--for the soul of him to ring true. And
-he knew what must be. His hands lay clenched between them. Jean
-seemed to rise up before him again at the grave-sides, and from
-his lips he forced the words:
-
-"Then there is something more--than the baby?"
-
-"Yes," she replied, and dropped her hands from his shoulders.
-"There is that of which I warned you--something which you could
-not know if you lived a thousand years."
-
-He caught her to him now, so close that his breath swept her face.
-
-"Josephine, if it was the baby alone, you would give yourself to
-me? You would be my wife?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-Strength leaped back into him, the strength that made her love
-him. He freed her and stood back from the log, his face ablaze
-with the old fighting spirit. He laughed, and held out his arms
-without taking her.
-
-"Then you have not killed my hope!" he cried.
-
-His enthusiasm, the strength and sureness of him as he stood
-before her, sent the flush back into her own face. She rose, and
-reached to one of his outstretched hands with her own.
-
-"You must hope for nothing more than I have given you," she said.
-"A month from to-day you will leave Adare House, and will never
-return."
-
-"A month!" He breathed the words as if in a dream.
-
-"Yes, a month from to-day. You will go off on a snowshoe journey.
-You will never return, and they will think that you have died in
-the deep snows. You have promised me this. And you will not fail
-me?"
-
-"What I have promised I will do," he replied, and his voice was
-now as calm as her own. "And for this one month--you are mine!"
-
-"To love as I have given you love, yes."
-
-For a moment he folded her in his arms; and then he drew back her
-hood so that he might lay a hand on her shining hair, and his eyes
-were filled with a wonderful illumination as he looked into her
-upturned face.
-
-"A month is a long time, my Josephine," he whispered. "And after
-that month there are other months--years and years of them, and
-through years, if it must be, my hope will live. You cannot
-destroy it, and some day, somewhere, you will send word to me.
-Will you promise to do that?"
-
-"If such a thing becomes possible, yes."
-
-"Then I am satisfied," he said. "I am going to fight for you,
-Josephine. No man ever fought for a woman as I am going to fight
-for you. I don't know what this strange thing is that separates
-us. But I can think of nothing terrible enough to frighten me. I
-am going to fight, mentally and physically, day and night--until
-you are my own. I cannot lose you now. That will be what God never
-meant to be. I shall keep all my promises to you. You have given
-me a month, and much can happen in that time. If at the end of the
-month I have failed--I will go. But you will not send me away. For
-I shall win!"
-
-So sure was he, so filled with the conviction of his final
-triumph, so like a god to her in this moment of his greatest
-strength, that Josephine drew slowly away from him, her breath
-coming quickly, her eyes filled with the star-like pride and glory
-of the Woman who has found a Master. For a moment they stood
-facing each other in the white stillness of the forest, and in
-that moment there came to them the low and mourning wail of a dog
-beyond them. And then the full voice of the pack burst through the
-wilderness, a music that was wild and savage, and yet through
-which there ran a strange and plaintive note for Josephine.
-
-"They have caught us in the wind," she said, holding out her hand
-to him. "Come, Philip. I want you to love my beasts."
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER FIFTEEN
-
-
-After a little the trail through the thick spruce grew narrow and
-dark, and Josephine went ahead of Philip. He followed so close
-that he could reach out a hand and touch her. She had not replaced
-her hood. Her face was flushed and her lips parted and red when
-she turned to him now and then. His heart beat with a tumultuous
-joy as he followed. A few moments before he had not spoken to her
-boastfully, or to keep up a falling spirit. He had given voice to
-what was in his heart, what was there now, telling him that she
-belonged to him, that she loved him, that there could be nothing
-in the world that would long stand between them.
-
-The voice of the pack came to them stronger each moment, yet for a
-space it was unheard by him. His mind--all the senses he
-possessed--travelled no farther than the lithesome red and gold
-figure ahead of him. The thick strands of her braid had become
-partly undone, covering her waist and hips in a shimmering veil of
-gold. He wanted to touch that rare treasure with his hands. He was
-filled with the desire to stop her, and hold her close in his
-arms. And yet he knew that this was a thing which he must not do.
-For him she had risen above a thing merely physical. The touching
-of her hair, her lips, her face, were no longer the first passions
-of love with him. And because Josephine knew these things rose the
-joyous flush in her face and the wonder-light in her eyes. The
-still, deep forests had long ago brought her dreams of this man.
-And these same forests seemed to whisper to Philip that her beauty
-was a part of her soul, and that it was not to be desecrated in
-such moments of desire as he was fighting back in himself now.
-
-Suddenly she ran a little ahead of him, and then stopped. A moment
-later he stood at her side. They were peering into what looked
-like a great, dimly lighted and carpeted hall. For the space of a
-hundred feet in diameter the spruce had been thinned out. The
-trees that remained were lopped of their lower branches, leaving
-their upper parts crowding in a dense shelter that shut out cold
-and storm. No snow had filtered through their tops, and on the
-ground lay cedar and balsam needles two inches deep, a brown and
-velvety carpet that shone with the deep lustre of a Persian rug.
-
-The place was filled with moving shapes and with gleaming eyes
-that were half fire in the gloom. Here were leashed the forty
-fierce and wolfish beasts of the pack. The dogs had ceased their
-loud clamour, and at sight of Josephine and sound of her voice, as
-she cried out greeting to them, there ran through the whole space
-a whining and a clinking of chains, and with that a snapping of
-jaws that sent a momentary shiver up Philip's back.
-
-Josephine took him by the hand now. With him she ran in among
-them, calling out their names, laughing with them, caressing the
-shaggy heads that were thrust against her--until it seemed to
-Philip that every beast in the pit was straining at the end of his
-chain to get at them and rend them into pieces. And yet, above
-this thought, the nervousness that he could not fight it out of
-himself, rose the wonder of it all.
-
-Philip had seen a husky snap off a man's hand at a single lunge;
-he knew it was a creature of the whip and the club, with the
-hatred of men inborn in it from the wolf. What he looked on now
-filled him with a sort of awe--and a fear for Josephine. He gave a
-warning cry and half drew his pistol when she dropped on her knees
-and flung her arms about the shaggy head of a huge beast that
-could have torn the life from her in an instant. She looked up at
-him, laughing, the inch-long fangs of Captain, the lead-dog,
-gleaming in brute happiness close to her soft, flushed face.
-
-"Don't be afraid, Philip!" she cried. "They are my pets--all of
-them. This is Captain, who leads my sledge team. Isn't he
-magnificent?"
-
-"Good God!" breathed Philip, looking about him. "I know something
-of sledge-dogs, Josephine. These are not from mongrel breeds.
-There are no hounds, no malemutes, none of the soft-footed breeds
-here. They are WOLF!"
-
-She rose and stood beside him, panting, triumphant, glorious.
-
-"Yes--they've all got the strain of wolf," she said. "That is why
-I love them, Philip. They are of the forests. AND I HAVE MADE THEM
-LOVE ME!"
-
-A yellow beast, with small, dangerous eyes, was leaping fiercely
-at the end of his chain close to them. Philip pointed to him.
-
-"And you would trust yourself THERE?" he exclaimed, catching her
-by the arm.
-
-"That is Hero," she said. "Once his name was Soldier. Three years
-ago a man from Thoreau's Place offered me an insult in the woods,
-and Soldier almost killed him. He would have killed him if I had
-not dragged him off. From that day I called him Hero. He is a
-quarter-strain wolf."
-
-She went to the husky, and the yellow giant leaped up against her,
-so that her arms were about him, with his wolfish muzzle reaching
-for her face. Under the cedars Philip's face was as white as the
-snow out in the open. Josephine saw this, and came and put her arm
-through his fondly.
-
-"You are afraid for me, Philip?" she asked, with a little laugh of
-pleasure at his anxiety. "You mustn't be, for you must love them--
-for my sake. I have brought them all up from puppyhood. And they
-would fight for me--just as you would fight for me, Philip. Once I
-was lost in a storm. Father turned the dogs loose. And they found
-me--miles and miles away. When you hear the wonderful stories I
-have to tell about them you will love them. They will not harm
-you. They will harm nothing that I have touched. I have taught
-them that. I am going to unleash them now. Metoosin is coming
-along the trail with their frozen fish."
-
-Before she had moved, Philip went straight up to the yellow
-creature that she had told him was a quarter wolf.
-
-"Hero," he spoke softly. "Hero--"
-
-He held out his hands. The giant husky's eyes burned a deeper
-glow; for an instant his upper lip drew back, baring his stiletto-
-like fangs, and the hair along his neck and back stood up like a
-brush. Then, inch by inch, his muzzle drew nearer to Philip's
-steady hands, and a low whine rose in his throat. His crest
-drooped, his ears shot forward a little, and Philip's hand rested
-on the wolfish head.
-
-"That is proof," he laughed, turning to Josephine. "If he had
-snapped off my hand I would say that you were wrong."
-
-She passed quickly from one dog to another now, with Philip close
-at her side, and from the collar of each dog she snapped the
-chain. After she had freed a dozen, Philip began to help her. A
-few of the huskies snarled at him. Others accepted him already as
-a part of her. Yet in their eyes he saw the smouldering menace,
-the fire that wanted only a word from her to turn them into a
-horde of tearing demons.
-
-At first he was startled by Josephine's confidence in them. Then
-he was only amazed. She was not only unafraid herself; she was
-unafraid for him. She knew that they would not touch him. When
-they were all free the pack gathered in close about them, and then
-Josephine came and stood at Philip's side, and put her hands to
-his shoulders. Thus she stood for a few moments, half facing the
-dogs, calling their names again; and they crowded up still closer
-about them, until Philip fancied he could feel their warm breath.
-
-"They have all seen me with you now," she cried after that. "They
-have seen me touch you. Not one of them will snap at you after
-this."
-
-The dogs swept on ahead of them in a great wave as they left the
-spruce shelter. Out in the clear light Philip drew a deep breath.
-He had never seen anything like this pack. They crowded shoulder
-to shoulder, body to body, in the open trail. Most of them were
-the tawny dun and gray and yellow of the wolf. There were a few
-blacks, and a few pure whites, but none that wore the mongrel
-spots of the soft-footed and softer-throated dogs from the south.
-
-He shivered as he measured the pent-up power, the destructive
-possibilites of the whining, snapping, living sea of sinew and
-fang ahead of them. And they were Josephine's! They were her
-slaves! What need had she of his protection? What account would be
-the insignificant automatic at his side in the face of this wild
-horde that awaited only a word from her? What could there be in
-these forests that she feared, with them at her command? Ten men
-with rifles could not have stood in the face of their first mad
-rush--and yet she had told him that everything depended upon his
-protection. He had thought that meant physical protection. But it
-could not be. He spoke his thoughts aloud, pointing to the dogs:
-
-"What danger can there be in this world that you need fear--with
-them?" he asked. "I don't understand. I can't guess."
-
-She knew what he meant. The hand on his arm pressed a little
-closer to him.
-
-"Please don't try to understand," she answered in a low voice.
-"They would fight for me. I have seen them tear a wolf-pack into
-shreds. And I have called them back from the throat of a wind-run
-deer, so that not a hair of her was harmed. But, Philip, I guess
-that sometimes mistakes were made in the creation of things. They
-have a brain. But it isn't REASON!"
-
-"You mean--" he cried.
-
-"That you, a man, unarmed, alone, are still their master," she
-interrupted him. "In the face of reason they are powerless. See,
-there comes Metoosin with the frozen fish! What if he were a
-stranger and the fish were poisoned?"
-
-"I understand," he replied. "But others drive them besides you?"
-
-"Only those very near to the family. Twenty of them are used in
-the traces. The others are my companions--my bodyguard, I call
-them."
-
-Metoosin approached them now, weighted down under a heavy load in
-a gunny-sack, and Philip believed that he recognized in the silent
-Indian the man whom he had first seen at the door of Adare House
-with a rifle in his hands. At a few commands from Josephine the
-dogs gathered about them, and Metoosin opened the bag.
-
-"I want you to throw them the fish, Philip," said Josephine.
-"Their brains comprehend the hand that feeds them. It is a sort of
-pledge of friendship between you and them."
-
-With Metoosin she drew a dozen steps back, and Philip found that
-he had become the centre of interest for the pack. One by one he
-pulled out the fish. Snapping jaws met the frozen feast in midair.
-There was no fighting--no vengeful jealousy of fang. Once when a
-gray and yellow husky snapped at a fish already in the jaws of
-another, Josephine reprimanded him sharply, and at the sound of
-his name he slunk back. One by one Philip threw out the fish until
-they were all gone. Then he stood and looked down upon the flat-
-bellied pack, listening to the crunching of bones and frozen
-flesh, and Josephine came and stood beside him again.
-
-Suddenly he felt her start. He looked up, and saw that her face
-was turned down the trail. He had caught the quick change in her
-eyes, the swift tenseness that flashed for an instant in her
-mouth. The vivid colour in her face had paled. She looked again as
-he had seen her for that short space at the door in Miriam's room.
-He followed the direction of her eyes.
-
-A hundred yards away two figures were advancing toward them. One
-was her father, the master of Adare. And on his arm was Miriam his
-wife.
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER SIXTEEN
-
-
-The strange effect upon Josephine of the unexpected appearance of
-Adare and his wife passed as quickly as it had come. When Philip
-looked at her again she was waving a hand and smiling. Adare's
-voice came booming up the trail. He saw Miriam laughing. Yet in
-spite of himself--even as he returned Adare's greeting--he could
-not keep himself from looking at the two women with curious
-emotions.
-
-"This is rank mutiny!" cried Adare, as they came up. "I told them
-they must sleep until noon. I have already punished Miriam. And
-you, Mignonne? Does Philip let you off too easily?"
-
-Adare's wife had given Philip her hand. A few hours' rest had
-brightened her eyes and brought colour into her face. She looked
-still younger, still more beautiful. And Adare was riotous with
-joy because of it.
-
-"Look at your mother, Josephine," he commanded in a hoarse
-whisper, meant for all to hear. "I said the forests would do more
-than a thousand doctors in Montreal!"
-
-"You do look splendid, Mikawe," said Josephine, slipping an arm
-about her mother's waist.
-
-Adare had turned into a sudden volley of greetings to the feasting
-dogs, and for another moment Philip's eyes were on mother and
-daughter. Josephine was the taller of the two by half a head. She
-was more like her father. He noted that the colour had not
-returned fully into her cheeks, while the flush in Miriam's face
-had deepened. There was something forced in Josephine's laugh, a
-note that was unreal and make-believe, as she turned to Philip.
-
-"Isn't my mother wonderful, Philip? I call her Mikawe because that
-means a little more than Mother in Cree--something that is almost
-undying and spirit-like. You will never grow old, my little
-mother!"
-
-"Ponce de Leon made a great mistake when he didn't search in these
-forests for his fountain of eternal youth," said Adare, laying a
-hand on Philip's shoulder. "Would you guess that it was twenty-two
-years ago a month from to-day that she came to be mistress of
-Adare House? And you, Ma Cheri," added Adare tenderly, taking his
-wife by the hand, "Do you remember that it was over this same
-trail that we took our first walk--from home? We went to the
-Chasm."
-
-"Yes, I remember."
-
-"And here--where we stand--the wood violets were so thick they
-left perfume on our boots."
-
-"And you made me a wreath of them--with the red bakneesh," said
-Miriam softly.
-
-"And braided it in your hair."
-
-"Yes."
-
-She was breathing a little more quickly. For a moment it seemed as
-if these two had forgotten Philip and Josephine. Their eyes had
-turned to each other.
-
-"Twenty-two years ago--A MONTH FROM TO-DAY!" repeated Josephine.
-
-It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch
-their hidden meaning.
-
-Adare straightened with a sudden idea:
-
-"On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast," he
-declared. "We will ask every soul--red and white--for a hundred
-miles about, with the exception of the rogues over at Thoreau's
-Place! What do you say, Philip?"
-
-"Splendid!" cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in
-the face of Josephine's plans for him. He looked straight into her
-eyes as he spoke. "A month from to-day these forests shall ring
-with our joy. And there will be a reason for it--MORE THAN ONE!"
-
-She could not misunderstand that! And Philip's heart beat joyously
-as Josephine turned quickly to her mother, the colour flooding to
-the tips of her ears.
-
-The dogs had eaten their fish and were crowding about them. For
-the first time Adare seemed to notice Metoosin, who had stood
-motionless twenty paces behind them.
-
-"Where is Jean?" he asked.
-
-Josephine shook her head.
-
-"I haven't seen him since last night."
-
-"I had almost forgotten what I believe he intended me to tell
-you," said Philip. "He has gone somewhere in the forest. He may be
-away all day."
-
-Philip saw the anxious look that crept into Josephine's eyes. She
-looked at him closely, questioningly, yet he guessed that beyond
-what he had said she wanted him to remain silent. A little later,
-when Adare and his wife were walking ahead of them, she asked:
-
-"Where is Jean? What did he tell you last night?"
-
-Philip remembered Jean's warning.
-
-"I cannot tell you," he replied evasively. "Perhaps he has gone
-out to reconnoitre for--game."
-
-"You are true," she breathed softly. "I guess I understand. Jean
-doesn't want me to know. But after I went to bed I lay awake a
-long time and thought of you--out in the night with that gun in
-your hand. I can't believe that you were there simply because of a
-noise, as you said. A man like you doesn't hunt for a noise with a
-pistol, Philip. What is the matter with your arm?"
-
-The directness of her question startled him.
-
-"Why do you ask that?" he managed to stammer.
-
-"You have flinched twice when I touched it--this arm."
-
-"A trifle," he assured her. "It should have healed by this time."
-
-She smiled straight up into his eyes.
-
-"You are too true to tell me fairy stories in a way that I must
-believe them, Philip. Day before yesterday your sleeves were up
-when you were paddling, and there was nothing wrong with this arm
---this forearm--then. But I'm not going to question you. You don't
-want me to know." In the same breath she recalled his attention to
-her father and mother. "I told you they were lovers. Look!"
-
-As if she had been a little child John Adare had taken his wife up
-in his arms and sat her high on the trunk of a fallen tree that
-was still held four or five feet above the ground by a crippled
-spruce. Philip heard him laugh. He saw the wife lean over, still
-clinging for safety to her husband's shoulders.
-
-"It is beautiful," he said.
-
-Josephine spoke as if she had not heard him.
-
-"I do not believe there is another man in the world quite like my
-father. I cannot understand how a woman could cease to love such a
-man as he even for a day--an hour. She couldn't forget, could
-she?"
-
-There was something almost plaintive in her question. As if she
-feared an answer, she went on quickly:
-
-"He has made her happy. She is almost forty--thirty-nine her last
-birthday. She does not look that old. She has been happy. Only
-happiness keeps one young. And he is fifty. If it wasn't for his
-beard, I believe he would appear ten years younger. I have never
-known him without a beard; I like him that way. It makes him look
-'beasty'--and I love beasts."
-
-She ran ahead of him, and John Adare lifted his wife down from the
-tree when they joined them. This time Josephine took her mother's
-arm. At the door to Adare House she turned to the two men, and
-said:
-
-"Mother and I have a great deal to talk over, and we are scheming
-not to see you again until dinner time. Little Daddy, you can go
-to your foxes. And please keep Philip out of mischief."
-
-The dogs had followed her close to the door. As the men entered
-after Josephine and her mother, Philip paused for a moment to look
-at the pack. A dozen of them had already settled themselves upon
-their bellies in the snow.
-
-"The Grand Guard," chuckled Adare, waiting for him. "Come, Philip.
-I'm going to follow Mignonne's suggestion and do some work on my
-foxes. Jean had a splendid surprise for me when I returned--a
-magnificent black. This is the dull season, when I can amuse
-myself only by writing and experimenting. A little later, when the
-furs begin to come in, there will be plenty of life at Adare
-House."
-
-"Do you buy many furs?" asked Philip.
-
-"Yes. But not because I am in the business for money. Josephine
-got me into it because of her love for the forest people." He led
-the way into his big study; and added, as he threw off his cap and
-coat:
-
-"You know in all the world no people have a harder struggle than
-these men, women, and little children of the trap-lines. From
-Labrador westward to the Mackenzie it is the land of the caribou,
-the rabbit, and the fur-bearing animals, but the land is not
-suitable for farming. It has been, it will always be, the country
-of the hunter.
-
-"To the south the Ojibway may grow a little corn and wheat. To the
-north the Eskimo might seem to dwell in a more barren land, but
-not so, for he has an ever abundant supply of game from the sea,
-seal in winter, fish in summer, but here are only the rabbit, the
-caribou, and small game. The Indians would starve if they could
-not trade their furs for a little flour, traps, guns, and cloth to
-fight the cold and aid the hunter. Even then it is hard. The
-Indians cannot live in villages, except at a post, like Adare
-House. Such a large number of people living in one spot could not
-feed themselves, and in the winter each family goes to its own
-allotted hunting grounds. From father to son for generations the
-same district has been handed down, each territory rich enough in
-fur to support one family. One--not two, for two would starve, and
-if a strange trapper poaches the fight is to the death, even in
-the normal year when game is plentiful and fur prime.
-
-"But every seventh year there may be famine. Here in the North it
-is the varying hare, the rabbit, that feeds the children of the
-trap-lines and the marten and fox they trap, and every seventh
-year there comes a mysterious disease. One year there are rabbits
-in millions, the next there are none. The lynx and the wolf and
-the fox starve, there are no fur bearers in the traps, the trapper
-faces the blizzard and the cold to find empty deadfalls day after
-day, and however skillfully he may hunt there is no game for his
-gun. What would he do, but starve, if it were not for the fur
-trader and the post, where there is flour, a little food to help
-John the Trapper through the winter? The people about us are not
-thin in the waist. Josephine has made a little oasis of plenty
-where John the Trapper is safe in good years and bad. That's why I
-buy fur."
-
-The giant's eyes were flushed with enthusiasm again. He pushed the
-cigars across the table to Philip, and one of his fists was
-knotted.
-
-"She wants me to publish a lot of these things," he went on. "She
-says they are facts which would interest the whole world. Perhaps
-that is so. Fur is gotten with hardship and danger and suffering.
-It may be there are not many people who know that up here at the
-top end of the world there is a country of forest and stream
-twenty times as large as the State of Ohio, and in which the
-population per square mile is less than that of the Great African
-Desert. And it's all because everyone must live off the game.
-Everything goes back to that. Let something happen, some little
-thing--a migration of game, a case of measles. The Indians will
-die if there are not white men near to help them. That's why
-Josephine makes me buy fur."
-
-He pointed to the wall behind Philip. Over the door through which
-they had just come hung a huge, old-fashioned flint-lock six feet
-in length. There was something like the snarl of an animal in John
-Adare's voice when he spoke again.
-
-"That's the tool of the Northland," he said. "That is the only
-tool John the Trapper knows, all he can know in a land where even
-trees are stunted and there are no plows. His clothes and the
-blankets he weaves of twisted strips of rabbit fur are adapted to
-the cold, he is a master of the canoe and the most skilful trapper
-in the world, but in all else he must be looked after like a
-child. He is still largely one of God's men, this John the
-Trapper. He hasn't any measurements of value. He doesn't know what
-the dollar means. He measures his wealth in 'skins,' and when he
-trades the basis for whatever mental calculations he may make is
-in the form of lead bullets taken from one tin-pan and transferred
-to another. He doesn't keep track of figures. He trusts alone to
-the white man's word, and only those who understand him, who have
-dealt with him for years, can be trusted not to take advantage of
-his faith. That's why I buy fur--to give John his chance to live."
-
-Adare laughed, and ran a hand through his shaggy hair as if
-rousing himself from thought of a relentless struggle. "But this
-isn't working on my foxes, is it? On second thought I think I
-shall postpone that until to-morrow, Philip. I have promised
-Miriam that I will have Metoosin trim my hair and beard before
-dinner. Shall I send him to you?"
-
-"A hair cut would be a treat," said Philip, rising. He was
-surprised at the sudden change in the other's mood. But he was not
-sorry Adare had given him the opportunity to go. He had planned to
-say other things to Josephine that morning if they had not been
-interrupted, and he did not believe that she would be long with
-her mother.
-
-In this, however, he was doomed to disappointment. When he
-returned to his room he found that Josephine had not forgotten the
-condition of his wardrobe, and he guessed immediately why she had
-surprised them all by rising so early. On his bed were spread
-several changes of shirts and underwear, a pair of new corduroy
-trousers, a pair of caribou skin leggings, and moccasins. In a box
-were a dozen linen handkerchiefs and a number of ties for the
-blue-gray soft shirts Josephine had chosen for him. He was not
-much ahead of Metoosin, who came in a few minutes later and
-clipped his hair. When this was done and he had clad himself in
-his new raiment he looked at himself in the mirror. Josephine had
-shown splendid judgment. Everything fitted him.
-
-For an hour he listened for footsteps in the hall, and
-occasionally looked out of the window. He wondered if Josephine
-had seen the small round hole with its myriad of out-shooting
-cracks where the bullet had pierced the glass. He had made up his
-mind that she had not, for no one could mistake it, and she would
-surely have spoken to him of it. He found that the hole was so
-high up on the pane that he could draw the curtain over it without
-shutting out much light. He did this.
-
-Later he went outside, and found that the dogs regarded him with
-certain signs of friendship. In him was a growing presentiment
-that something had happened to Jean. He was sure that Croisset had
-taken up the trail of the man who had shot at him soon after they
-had separated at the gravesides. He was equally certain that the
-chase would be short. Jean was quick. Dogs and sledge would be an
-impediment for the other in the darkness of the night. Before
-this, hours ago, they must have met. If Jean had come out of that
-meeting unharmed, it was time for him to be showing up at Adare
-House. Still greater perturbation filled Philip's mind when he
-recalled the unpleasant skill of the mysterious forest man's
-fighting. He had been more than his equal in swiftness and
-trickery; he was certainly Jean's.
-
-Should he make some excuse and follow Jean's trail? He asked
-himself this question a dozen times without arriving at an answer.
-Then it occurred to him that Jean might have some definite reason
-for not returning to Adare House immediately. The longer he
-reasoned with himself the more confident he became that Croisset
-had been the victor. He knew Jean. Every advantage was on his
-side. He was as watchful as a lynx. It was impossible to conceive
-of him walking into a trap. So he determined to wait, at least
-until that night.
-
-It was almost noon when Adare sent word by Metoosin asking Philip
-to rejoin him in the big room. A little later Josephine and her
-mother came in. Again Philip noticed that in the face of Adare's
-wife was that strange look which he had first observed in her
-room. The colour of the morning had faded from her cheeks. The
-glow in her eyes was gone. Adare noted the change, and spoke to
-her tenderly.
-
-Miriam and Josephine went ahead of them to the dining-room, and
-with his hand on Philip's arm John Adare whispered:
-
-"Sometimes I am afraid, Philip. She changes so suddenly. This
-morning her cheeks and lips were red, her eyes were bright, she
-laughed--she was the old Miriam. And now! Can you tell me what it
-means? Is it some terrible malady which the doctors could not
-find?"
-
-"No, it is not that," Philip felt his heart beat a little faster.
-Josephine had fallen a step behind her mother. She had heard
-Adare's words, and at Philip she flung back a swift, frightened
-look. "It is not that," he repeated. "See how much better she
-looks to-day than yesterday! You understand, Mon Pere, that
-oftentimes there comes a period of nervousness--of a sickness that
-is not sickness--in a woman's life. The winter will build her up."
-
-The dinner passed too swiftly for Philip. They sat at a long
-table, and Josephine was opposite him. For a time he forgot the
-strain he was under, that he was playing a part in which he must
-not strike a single false key. Yet in another way he was glad when
-it came to an end, for it gave him an opportunity of speaking a
-few words with Josephine. Adare and Miriam went out ahead of them.
-At the door Philip held Josephine back.
-
-"You are not going to leave me alone this afternoon?" he asked.
-"It is not quite fair, or safe, Josephine. I am travelling on thin
-ice. I--"
-
-"You are doing splendidly, Philip," she protested. "To-morrow I
-will be different. Metoosin says there is a little half-breed girl
-very sick ten miles back in the forest, and you may go with me to
-visit her. There are reasons why I must be with my mother all of
-to-day. She has had a long journey and is worn out and nervous.
-Perhaps she will not want to appear at supper. If that is so, I
-will remain with her. But we will be together to-morrow. All day.
-Is that not recompense?"
-
-She smiled up into his face as they followed Adare and his wife.
-
-"You may help Metoosin with the dogs," she suggested. "I want you
-to be good friends--you and my beasts."
-
-The hours that followed proved to be more than empty ones for
-Philip. Twice he went to the big room and found that Adare himself
-had yielded to the exhaustion of the long trip up from
-civilization, and was asleep. He accompanied Metoosin to the pit
-and assisted in chaining the dogs, but Metoosin was taciturn and
-uncommunicative. Josephine and her mother send down their excuses
-at supper time, and he sat down alone with Adare, who was
-delighted when he received word that they had been sleeping most
-of the afternoon, and would join them a little later. His face
-clouded, however, when he spoke of Jean.
-
-"It is unusual," he said. "Jean is very careful to leave word of
-his movements. Metoosin says it is possible he went after fresh
-caribou meat. But that is not so. His rifle is in his room. He
-left during the night, or he would have spoken to us. I saw him as
-late as midnight, and he made no mention of it then. It has been
-snowing for two or three hours or I would send Metoosin on his
-trail."
-
-"What possible cause for worry can you have?" asked Philip.
-
-"Thoreau's cutthroats," replied Adare, a sudden fire in his eyes.
-"This winter may see--things happen. The force behind Thoreau's
-success in trade is whisky. That damnable stuff is his lure, or
-all the fur in this country would come to Adare House. If he could
-drive me out he would have nothing to fight against--his hands
-would be at the throat of every living soul in these regions, and
-all through whisky. Among those who were killed or turned up
-missing last winter were four of my best hunters. Twice Jean was
-shot at on the trail. I fear for him because he is my right arm."
-
-When Philip left Adare he went to his room, put on heavier
-moccasins, and went quietly from the house. Three inches of fresh
-snow had fallen, and the air was thick with the white deluge. He
-hurried into the edge of the forest. A few minutes futile
-searching convinced him of the impossibility of following the
-trail made by Jean and the man he had pursued. Through the
-thickening darkness he returned to Adare House.
-
-Again he changed his moccasins, and waited for the expected word
-from Josephine or Adare. Half an hour passed, and during this time
-his mind became still more uneasy. He had hoped that Croisset was
-hanging in the edge of the forest, waiting for darkness. Each
-minute now added to his fear that all had not gone well with the
-half-breed. He paced up and down his room, smoking, and looking at
-his watch frequently. After a time he went to the window and tried
-to peer out into the white swirl of the night. The opening of his
-door turned him about. He expected to see Adare. Words that were
-on his lips froze in a moment of speechless horror.
-
-He knew that it was Jean Croisset who stood before him. But it did
-not look like Jean. The half-breed's cap was gone. He was swaying,
-clutching at the partly opened door to support himself. His face
-was disfigured with blood, the front of his coat was spattered
-with frozen clots of it. His long hair had fallen in ropelike
-strands over his eyes and frozen there. His lips were terrible.
-
-"Good God!" gasped Philip.
-
-He sprang forward and caught Jean as the half-breed staggered
-toward him. Jean's body hung a weight in his arms. His legs gave
-way under him, but for a moment the clutch of his fingers on
-Philip's shoulder were viselike.
-
-"A little help, M'sieur," he gasped. "I am faint, sick. Whatever
-happens, as you love Our Lady, let no one know of this to-night!"
-
-With a rattling breath his head dropped upon Philip's arm.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
-
-
-Scarcely had Jean uttered the few words that preceded his lapse
-into unconsciousness than Philip heard the laughing voice of Adare
-at the farther end of the hall. Heavy footsteps followed the
-voice. Impulse rather than reason urged him into action. He
-lowered Jean to the floor, sprang to the partly open door, closed
-it and softly locked it. He was not a moment too soon. A few steps
-more and Adare was beating on the panel with his fist.
-
-"What, ho!" he cried in his booming voice. "Josephine wants to
-know if you have forgotten her?" Adare's hand was on the latch.
-
-"I am--undressed," explained Philip desperately. "Offer a thousand
-apologies for me, Mon Pere. I will finish my bath in a hurry!"
-
-He dropped on his knees beside Jean as the master of Adare moved
-away from the door. A brief examination showed him where Croisset
-was hurt. The half-breed had received a scalp wound from which the
-blood had flowed down over his face and breast. He breathed easier
-when he discovered nothing beyond this. In a few minutes he had
-him partially stripped and on his bed. Jean opened his eyes as he
-bathed the blood from his face. He made an effort to rise, but
-Philip held him back.
-
-"Not yet, Jean," he said.
-
-Jean's glance shifted in a look of alarm toward the door.
-
-"I must, M'sieur," he insisted. "It was the last few hundred yards
-that made me dizzy. I am better now. And there is no time to lose.
-I must get into my room--into other clothes!"
-
-"We will not be interrupted," Philip assured him. "Is this your
-only hurt, Jean?"
-
-"That alone, M'sieur. It was not bad until an hour ago. Then it
-broke out afresh, and made me so dizzy that with my last breath I
-stumbled into your room. The saints be praised that I managed to
-reach you!"
-
-Philip left him, to return in a moment with a flask. Jean had
-pulled himself to a sitting posture on the side of the bed.
-
-"Here's a drop of whisky, Jean. It will stir up your blood."
-
-"Mon Dieu, it has been stirred up enough this night, tanike,"
-smiled Jean feebly. "But it may give me voice, M'sieur. Will you
-get me fresh clothes? They are in my room--which is next to this
-on the right. I must be prepared for Josephine or Le M'sieur
-before I talk."
-
-Philip went to the door and opened it cautiously. He could hear
-voices coming from the room through which he had first entered
-Adare House. The hall was clear. He slipped out and moved swiftly
-to Jean's room. Five minutes later he reentered his own room with
-an armful of Jean's clothes. Already Croisset was something like
-himself. He quickly put on the garments Philip gave him, brushed
-the tangles from his hair, and called upon Philip to examine him
-to make sure he had left no spot of blood on his face or neck.
-
-"You have the time?" he asked then.
-
-Philip looked at his watch.
-
-"It is eight o'clock."
-
-"And I must see Josephine--alone--before ten," said Jean quickly.
-"You must arrange it, M'sieur. No one must know that I have
-returned until I see her. It is important. It means--"
-
-"What?"
-
-"The great God alone can answer that," replied Jean in a strange
-voice. "Perhaps it will mean that to-morrow, or the next day, or
-the day after that M'sieur Weyman will know the secret we are
-keeping from him now, and will fight shoulder to shoulder with
-Jean Jacques Croisset in a fight that the wilderness will remember
-so long as there are tongues to tell of it!"
-
-There was nothing of boastfulness or of excitement in his words.
-They were in the voice of a man who saw himself facing the final
-arbiter of things--a voice dead to visible hope, yet behind which
-there trembled a thing that made Philip face him with a new fire
-in his eyes.
-
-"Why to-morrow or the next day?" he demanded. "Why shroud me in
-this damnable mystery any longer, Jean? If there is fighting to be
-done, let me fight!"
-
-Jean's hollowed cheeks took on a flush.
-
-"I would give my life if we two could go out and fight--as I want
-to fight," he said in a low, tense voice, "It would be worth your
-life and mine--that fight. It would be glorious. But I am a
-Catholic, M'sieur. I am a Catholic of the wilderness. And I have
-taken the most binding oath in the world. I have sworn by the
-sweet soul of my dead Iowaka to do only as Josephine tells me to
-do in this. Over her grave I swore that, with Josephine kneeling
-at my side. I have prayed that my Iowaka might come to me and tell
-me if I am right. But in this her voice has been silent. I have
-prayed Josephine to free me from my oath, and she has refused. I
-am afraid. I dare reveal nothing. I cannot act as I want to act.
-But to-night--"
-
-His voice sank to a whisper. His fingers gripped deep into the
-flesh of Philip's hand.
-
-"To-night may mean--something," he went on, his voice filled with
-an excitement strange to him. "The fight is coming, M'sieur. We
-cannot much longer evade what we have been trying to evade! It is
-coming. And then, shoulder to shoulder, we will fight!"
-
-"And until then, I must wait?"
-
-"Yes, you must wait, M'sieur."
-
-Jean freed his hand and sat down in one of the chairs near the
-table. His eyes turned toward the window.
-
-"You need not fear another shot, M'sieur," he said quietly. "The
-man who fired that will not fire again."
-
-"You killed him?"
-
-Jean bowed his head without replying. The movement was neither of
-affirmation nor denial:
-
-"He will not fire again."
-
-"It was more than one against one," persisted Philip. "Does your
-oath compel you to keep silent about that, too?"
-
-There was a note of irritation in his voice which was almost a
-challenge to Jean. It did not prick the half-breed. He looked at
-Philip a moment before he replied:
-
-"You are an unusual man, M'sieur," he said at last, as though he
-had been carefully measuring his words. "We have known each other
-only a few days, and yet it seems a long time. I had my suspicions
-of you back there. I thought it was Josephine's beauty you were
-after, and I have stood ready to kill you if I saw in you what I
-feared. But you have won, M'sieur. Josephine loves you. I have
-faith in you. And do you know why? It is because you have fought
-the fight of a strong man. It does not take great soul in a man to
-match knife against knife, or bullet against bullet. Not to keep
-one's word, to play a hopeless part in the dark, to leap when the
-numma wapew is over the eyes and you are blind--that takes a man.
-And now, when Jean Jacques Croisset says for the first time that
-there is a ray of hope for you, where a few hours ago no hope
-existed, will you give me again your promise to play the part you
-have been asked to play?"
-
-"Hope!" Philip was at Jean's side in an instant. "Jean, what do
-you mean? Is it that you, even YOU--now give me hope of
-possessing Josephine?"
-
-Slowly Jean rose from his chair.
-
-"I am part Cree, M'sieur," he said. "And in our Cree there is a
-saying that the God of all things, Kisamunito, the Great Spirit,
-often sits on high and laughs at the tricks which he plays on men.
-Perhaps this is one of those times. I am beginning to believe so.
-Kisamunito has begun to run our destinies, not ourselves.
-Yesterday we--our Josephine and I--had our hopes, our plans, our
-schemes well laid. To-night they no longer exist. Before the night
-is much older all that Josephine has done, all that she has made
-you promise, will count for nothing. After that--a matter of
-hours, perhaps of days--will come the great fight for you and me.
-Until then you must know nothing, must see nothing, must ask
-nothing. And when the crash comes--"
-
-"It will give Josephine to me?" cried Philip eagerly.
-
-"I did not say that, M'sieur," corrected Jean quietly. "Out of
-fighting such as this strange things may happen. And where things
-happen there is always hope. Is that not true?"
-
-He moved to the door and listened. Quietly he opened it, and
-looked out.
-
-"The hall is clear," he whispered softly. "Go to Josephine. Tell
-her that she must arrange to see me within an hour. And if you
-care for that bit of hope I have shown you, let it happen without
-the knowledge of the master of Adare. From this hour Jean Jacques
-Croisset sacrifices his soul. Make haste, M'sieur--and use
-caution!"
-
-Without a word Philip went quietly out into the hall. Behind him
-Jean closed and locked the door.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
-
-
-For a few moments Philip stood without moving. Jean's return and
-the strange things he had said had worked like sharp wine in his
-blood. He was breathing quickly. He was afraid that his appearance
-just now would betray the mental excitement which he must hide. He
-drew back deeper into the shadow of the wall and waited, and while
-he waited he thought of Jean. It was not the old Jean that had
-returned this night, the Jean with his silence, his strange
-repression, the mysterious something that had seemed to link him
-with an age-old past. Out of that spirit had risen a new sort of
-man--the fighting man. He had seen a new fire in Jean's eyes and
-face; he had caught new meaning in his words, Jean was no longer
-the passive Jean--waiting, watching, guarding. Out in the forest
-something had happened to rouse in him what a word from Josephine
-would set flaming in the savage breasts of her dogs. And the
-excitement in Philip's blood was the thrill of exultation--the
-joy of knowing that action was close at hand, for deep in him had
-grown the belief that only through action could Josephine be freed
-for him.
-
-Suddenly, softly, there came floating to him the low, sweet tones
-of the piano, and then, sweeter still, the voice of Josephine.
-Another moment and Miriam's voice had joined her in a song whose
-melody seemed to float like that of spirit-voices through the
-thick fog walls of Adare House. Soundlessly he moved toward the
-room where they were waiting for him, a deeper flush mounting into
-his face now. He opened the door without being heard, and looked
-in.
-
-Josephine was at the piano. The great lamp above her head flooded
-her in a mellow light in which the rich masses of her hair
-shimmered in a glorious golden glow. His heart beat with the
-knowledge that she had again dressed for him to-night. Her white
-neck was bare. In her hair he saw for a second time a red rose.
-For a space he saw no one but her. Then his eyes turned for an
-instant to Miriam. She was standing a little back, and it seemed
-to him that he had never seen her so beautiful. Against the wall,
-in a great chair, sat the master of Adare, his bearded chin in the
-palm of his hand, looking at the two with a steadiness of gaze
-that was more than adoration. Philip entered. Still he was
-unheard. He stood silent until the song was finished, and it was
-Josephine, turning, who saw him first.
-
-"Philip!" she cried.
-
-Adare started, as if awakening from a dream. Josephine came to
-Philip, holding out both her hands, her beautiful face smiling
-with welcome. Even as their warm touch thrilled him he felt a
-sudden chill creep over him. A swift glance showed him that Adare
-had gone to Miriam. Instead of words of greeting, he whispered low
-in Josephine's ear:
-
-"I would have come sooner, but I have been with Jean. He returned
-a few minutes ago. Strange things have happened, and he says that
-he must see you within an hour, and that your father must not
-know. He is in my room. You must get away without rousing
-suspicion."
-
-Her fingers gripped his tightly. The soft glow in her eyes faded
-away. A look of fear leapt into them and her face went suddenly
-white. He drew her nearer, until her hands were against his
-breast.
-
-"Don't look like that," he whispered. "Nothing can hurt you.
-Nothing in the world. See--I must do this to bring your colour
-back, or they will guess something is wrong!"
-
-He bent and kissed her on the lips.
-
-Adare's voice burst out happily:
-
-"Good boy, Philip! Don't be bashful when we're around. That's the
-first time I've seen you kiss your wife!"
-
-There was none of the white betrayal in Josephine's cheeks now.
-They were the colour of the rose in her hair. She had time to look
-up into Philip's face, and whisper with a laughing break in her
-voice:
-
-"Thank you, Philip. You have saved me again."
-
-With Philip's hand in hers she turned to her father and mother.
-
-"Philip wants to scold me, Mon Pere," she said. "And I cannot
-blame him. He has seen almost nothing of me to-day."
-
-"And I have been scolding Miriam because they have given me no
-chance with the baby," rumbled Adare. "I have seen him but twice
-to-day--the little beggar! And both times he was asleep. But I
-have forced them to terms, Philip. From to-morrow I am to have him
-as much as I please. When they want him they will find him in the
-big room."
-
-Josephine led Philip to her mother, who had seated herself on one
-of the divans.
-
-"I want you to talk with Philip, Mikawe," she said. "I have
-promised father that he should have a peep at the baby. I will
-bring him back very soon."
-
-Philip seated himself beside Miriam as Adare and Josephine left
-the room. He noticed that her hair was dressed like Josephine's,
-and that in the soft depths of it was partly buried a rose.
-
-"Do you know--I sometimes think that I am half dreaming," he said.
-"All this seems too wonderful to be true--you, and Josephine,
-almost a thousand miles out of the world. Even flowers like that
-which you wear in your hair--hot-house flowers!"
-
-There was a strange sweetness in Miriam's smile, a smile softened
-by something that was almost pathetic, a touch of sadness.
-
-"That is the one thing we keep alive out of the world I used to
-know--roses," she said. "The first roots came from my babyhood
-home, and we have grown them here for more than twenty years. Of
-course Josephine has shown you our little hot-house?"
-
-"Yes." lied Philip. Then he added, finding her dear eyes resting
-on him steadily. "And you have never grown lonesome up here?"
-
-"Never. I am sorry that we ever went back into that other world,
-even for a day. This has been paradise. We have always been happy.
-And you?" she asked suddenly. "Do you sometimes wish for that
-other world?"
-
-"I have been out of it four years--with the exception of a short
-break. I never want to go back. Josephine has made my paradise, as
-you have made another man's."
-
-He fancied, as she turned her face from him, that he heard a
-little catch in her breath. But she faced him again quickly.
-
-"We have been happy. No woman in the world has been happier than
-I. And you--four years? In that time you have not heard much
-music. Shall I play for you?"
-
-She rose and went to the piano without waiting for him to reply.
-Philip leaned back and partly closed his eyes as she began to
-play. The spell of music held him silent, and neither spoke until
-Josephine and her father returned. Philip did not catch the
-laughing words Adare turned to his wife. In the door Josephine had
-stopped. To his surprise she was dressed in her red coat and hood,
-and her feet were moccasined. She made a quick little signal to
-him.
-
-"I am ready, Philip," she said.
-
-He arose, fearing that his tongue might betray him if he replied
-to her in words. Adare came unwittingly to his assistance.
-
-"You'll get used to this before the winter is over, Philip," he
-exclaimed banteringly. "Metoosin once called Josephine
-'Wapikunoo'--the White Owl, and the name has stuck ever since. I
-haven't known Mignonne to miss a walk on a moonlit winter night
-since I can remember. But I prefer my airings in the day. Eh,
-Miriam?"
-
-"And there is no moon to-night," laughed his wife.
-
-"Hush--but there is Philip!" whispered Adare loudly. "It may be
-that our Josephine will prefer the darker nights after this. Can
-you remember--"
-
-Josephine was pulling Philip through the door, laughing back over
-her shoulder. As soon as they were in the hall she caught his arm
-excitedly.
-
-"Let us hurry to your room," she urged. "You can dress and slip
-out unseen, leaving Jean and me alone. You are sure--he wants to
-see me--alone?"
-
-There was a tremble in her voice now.
-
-"Yes." They came to his door and he tapped on it lightly.
-Instantly it was opened. Josephine stared at Jean as she darted
-in.
-
-"Jean--you have something to tell me?" she whispered, no longer
-hiding the fear in her face. "You must see me--alone?"
-
-"Oui, M'selle," murmured Jean, turning to Philip. "If M'sieur
-Philip can arrange for us to be alone."
-
-"I will be gone in a moment," said Philip, hastily beginning to
-put on heavier garments. "Lock the door, Jean. It will not do to
-be interrupted now."
-
-When he was ready Josephine went to him, her eyes shining softly.
-Jean turned to the window.
-
-"You--your faith in me is beautiful," she said gratefully, so low
-that only he could hear her. "I don't deserve it, Philip."
-
-For a moment he pressed her hand, his face telling her more than
-he could trust his lips to speak. Jean heard him turn the key in
-the lock, and he turned quickly.
-
-"I have thought it would be better for you to go out by the
-window, M'sieur."
-
-"You are right," agreed Philip, relocking the door.
-
-Jean raised the window. As Philip dropped himself outside the
-half-breed said:
-
-"Go no farther than the edge of the forest, M'sieur. We will turn
-the light low and draw the curtain. When the curtain is raised
-again return to us as quickly as you can. Remember, M'sieur--and
-go no farther than the edge of the forest."
-
-The window dropped behind him, and he turned toward the dark wall
-of spruce. There were six inches of fresh snow on the ground, and
-the clouds were again drifting out of the sky. Here and there a
-star shone through, but the moon was only a pallid haze beyond the
-gray-black thickness above. In the first shelter of the spruce and
-balsam Philip paused. He found himself a seat by brushing the snow
-from a log, and lighted his pipe. Steadily he kept his eyes on the
-curtained window. What was happening there now? To what was
-Josephine listening in these tense minutes of waiting?
-
-Even as he stared through the darkness to that one lighter spot in
-the gloom he knew that the world was changing for the woman he
-loved. He believed Jean, and he knew Jean was now telling her the
-story of that day and the preceding night--the story which he had
-said would destroy the hopes she had built up, throw their plans
-into ruin, perhaps even disclose to him the secret which they had
-been fighting to hide. What could that story be? And what effect
-was it having on Josephine? The minutes passed slowly--with an
-oppressive slowness. Three times he lighted matches to look at his
-watch. Five minutes passed--ten, fifteen. He rose from the log and
-paced back and forth, making a beaten path in the snow. It was
-taking Jean a long time to tell the story!
-
-And then, suddenly, a flood of light shot out into the night. The
-curtain was raised! It was Jean's signal to him, and with a wildly
-beating heart he responded to it.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER NINETEEN
-
-
-The window was open when Philip came to it, and Jean was waiting
-to give him an assisting hand. The moment he was in the room he
-turned to look at Josephine. She was gone. Almost angrily he
-whirled upon the half-breed, who had lowered the window, and was
-now drawing the curtain. It was with an effort that he held back
-the words on his lips. Jean saw that effort, and shrugged his
-shoulders with an appreciative gesture.
-
-"It is partly my fault that she is not here, M'sieur," he
-explained. "She would have told you nothing of what has passed
-between us--not as much, perhaps, as I. She will see you in the
-morning."
-
-"And there's damned little consolation at the present moment in
-that," gritted Philip, with clenched hands. "Jean--I'm ready to
-fight now! I feel like a rat must feel when it's cornered. I've
-got to jump pretty soon--in some direction--or I'll bust. It's
-impossible--"
-
-Jean's hand fell softly upon his arm.
-
-"M'sieur, you would cut off this right arm if it would give you
-Josephine?"
-
-"I'd cut off my head!" exploded Philip.
-
-"Do you remember that it was only a few hours ago that I said she
-could never be yours in this world?" Croisset reminded him, in the
-same quiet voice. "And now, when even I say there is hope, can you
-not make me have the confidence in you that I must have--if we
-win?"
-
-Philip's face relaxed. In silence he gripped Jean's hand.
-
-"And what I am going to tell you--a thing which Josephine would
-not say if she were here, is this, M'sieur," went on Jean. "Before
-you left us alone in this room I had a doubt. Now I have none. The
-great fight is coming. And in that fight all the spirits of
-Kisamunito must be with us. You will have fighting enough. And it
-will be such fighting its you will remember to the end of your
-days. But until the last word is said--until the last hour, you
-must be as you have been. I repeat that. Have you faith enough in
-me to believe?"
-
-"Yes, I believe," said Philip. "It seems inconceivable, Jean--but
-I believe."
-
-Jean moved to the door.
-
-"Good-night, M'sieur," he said.
-
-"Good-night, Jean."
-
-For a few moments after Croisset had left him Philip stood
-motionless. Then he locked the door. Until he was alone he did not
-know what a restraint he had put upon himself. Jean's words, the
-mysterious developments of the evening, the half promise of the
-fulfilment of his one great hope--had all worked him into a white
-heat of unrest. He knew that he could not stay in his room, that
-it would be impossible for him to sleep. And he was not in a
-condition to rejoin Adare and his wife. He wanted to walk--to find
-relief in physical exertion, Of a sudden his mind was made up. He
-extinguished the light. Then he reopened the window, and dropped
-out into the night again.
-
-He made his way once more to the edge of the forest. He did not
-stop this time, but plunged deeper into its gloom. Moon and stars
-were beginning to lighten the white waste ahead of him. He knew he
-could not lose himself, as he could follow his own trail back. He
-paused for a moment in the shelter of a spruce to fill his pipe
-and light it. Then he went on. Now that he was alone he tried to
-discover some key to all that Jean had said to him. After all, his
-first guess had not been so far out of the way: it was a physical
-force that was Josephine's deadliest menace. What was this force?
-How could he associate it with the baby back in Adare House?
-Unconsciously his mind leaped to Thoreau, the Free Trader, as a
-possible solution, but in the same breath he discarded that as
-unreasonable. Such a force as Thoreau and his gang would be dealt
-with by Adare himself, or the forest people. There was something
-more. Vainly he racked his brain for some possible enlightenment.
-
-He walked ten minutes without noting the direction he was taking
-when he was brought to a standstill with a sudden shock. Not
-twenty paces from him he heard voices. He dodged behind a tree,
-and an instant later two figures hurried past him. A cry rose to
-his lips, but he choked it back. One of the two was Jean. The
-other was Josephine!
-
-For a moment he stood staring after them, his hand clutching at
-the bark of the tree. A feeling that was almost physical pain
-swept over him as he realized the truth. Josephine had not gone to
-her room. He understood now. She had purposely evaded him that she
-might be with Jean alone in the forest. Three days before Philip
-would not have thought so much of this. Now it hurt. Josephine had
-given him her love, yet in spite of that she was placing greater
-confidence in the half-breed than in him. This was what hurt--at
-first. In the next breath his overwhelming faith in her returned
-to HIM. There was some tremendous reason for her being here with
-Jean. What was it? He stepped out from behind the tree as he
-stared after them.
-
-His eyes caught the pale glow of something that he had not seen
-before. It was a campfire, the illumination of it only faintly
-visible deeper in the forest. Toward this Josephine and Jean were
-hurrying. A low exclamation of excitement broke from his lips as a
-still greater understanding dawned upon him. His hand trembled.
-His breath came quickly. In that camp there waited for Josephine
-and Croisset those who were playing the other half of the game in
-which he had been given a blind man's part! He did not reason or
-argue with himself. He accepted the fact. And no longer with
-hesitation his hand fell to his automatic, and he followed swiftly
-after Josephine and the half-breed.
-
-He began to see what Jean had meant. In the room he had simply
-prepared Josephine for this visit. It was in the forest--and not
-in Adare House, that the big test of the night was to come.
-
-It was not curiosity that made him follow them now. More than ever
-he was determined to keep his faith with Jean and the girl, and he
-made up his mind to draw only near enough to give his assistance
-if it should become necessary. Roused by the conviction that
-Josephine and the half-breed were not making this mysterious tryst
-without imperilling themselves, he stopped as the campfire burst
-into full view, and examined his pistol. He saw figures about the
-fire. There were three, one sitting, and two standing. The fire
-was not more than a hundred yards ahead of him, and he saw no
-tent. A moment later Josephine and Jean entered the circle of
-fireglow, and the sitting man sprang to his feet. As Philip drew
-nearer he noticed that Jean stood close to his companion, and that
-the girl's hand was clutching his arm. He heard no word spoken,
-and yet he could see by the action of the man who had been sitting
-that he was giving the others instructions which took them away
-from the fire, deeper into the gloom of the forest.
-
-Seventy yards from the fire Philip dropped breathlessly behind a
-cedar log and rested his arm over the top of it. In his hand was
-his automatic. It covered the spot of gloom into which the two men
-had disappeared. If anything should happen--he was ready.
-
-In the fire-shadows he could not make out distinctly the features
-of the third man. He was not dressed like the others. He wore
-knickerbockers and high laced boots. His face was beardless.
-Beyond these things he could make out nothing more. The three drew
-close together, and only now and then did he catch the low murmur
-of a voice. Not once did he hear Jean. For ten minutes he crouched
-motionless, his eyes shifting from the strange tableau to the spot
-of gloom where the others were hidden. Then, suddenly, Josephine
-sprang back from her companions. Jean went to her side. He could
-hear her voice now, steady and swift--vibrant with something that
-thrilled him, though he could not understand a word that she was
-speaking. She paused, and he could see that she was tense and
-waiting. The other replied. His words must have been brief, for it
-seemed he could scarcely have spoken when Josephine turned her
-back upon him and walked quickly out into the forest. For another
-moment Jean Croisset stood close to the other. Then he followed.
-
-Not until he knew they were safe did Philip rise from his
-concealment. He made his way cautiously back to Adare House, and
-reentered his room through the window. Half an hour later, dressed
-so that he revealed no evidence of his excursion in the snow, he
-knocked at Jean's door. The half-breed opened it. He showed some
-surprise when he saw his visitor.
-
-"I thought you were in bed, M'sieur," he exclaimed. "Your room was
-dark."
-
-"Sleep?" laughed Philip. "Do you think that I can sleep to-night,
-Jean?"
-
-"As well as some others, perhaps," replied Jean, offering him a
-chair. "Will you smoke, M'sieur?"
-
-Philip lighted a cigar, and pointed to the other's moccasined
-feet, wet with melting snow.
-
-"You have been out," he said. "Why didn't you invite me to go with
-you?"
-
-"It was a part of our night's business to be alone," responded
-Jean. "Josephine was with me. She is in her room now with the
-baby."
-
-"Does Adare know you have returned?"
-
-"Josephine has told him. He is to believe that I went out to see a
-trapper over on the Pipestone."
-
-"It is strange," mused Philip, speaking half to himself. "A
-strange reason indeed it must be to make Josephine say these false
-things."
-
-"It is like driving sharp claws into her soul," affirmed Jean.
-
-"I believe that I know something of what happened to-night, Jean.
-Are we any nearer to the end--to the big fight?"
-
-"It is coming, M'sieur. I am more than ever certain of that. The
-third night from this will tell us."
-
-"And on that night--"
-
-Philip waited expectantly.
-
-"We will know," replied Jean in a voice which convinced him that
-the half-breed would say no more. Then he added: "It will not be
-strange if Josephine does not go with you on the sledge-drive to-
-morrow, M'sieur. It will also be curious if there is not some
-change in her, for she has been under a great strain. But make as
-if you did not see it. Pass your time as much as possible with the
-master of Adare. Let him not guess. And now I am going to ask you
-to let me go to bed. My head aches. It is from the blow."
-
-"And there is nothing I can do for you, Jean?'
-
-"Nothing, M'sieur."
-
-At the door Philip turned.
-
-"I have got a grip on myself now, Jean," he said. "I won't fail
-you. I'll do as you say. But remember, we are to have the fight at
-the end!"
-
-In his room he sat up for a time and smoked. Then he went to bed.
-Half a dozen times during the night he awoke from a restless
-slumber. Twice he struck a match to look at his watch. It was
-still dark when he got up and dressed. From five until six he
-tried to read. He was delighted when Metoosin came to the door and
-told him that breakfast would be ready in half an hour. This gave
-him just time to shave.
-
-He expected to eat alone with Adare again this morning, and his
-heart jumped with both surprise and joy when Josephine came out
-into the hall to meet him. She was very pale. Her eyes told him
-that she had passed a sleepless night. But she was smiling
-bravely, and when she offered him her hand he caught her suddenly
-in his arms and held her close to his breast while he kissed her
-lips, and then her shining hair.
-
-"Philip!" she protested. "Philip--"
-
-He laughed softly, and for a moment his face was close against
-hers.
-
-"My brave little darling! I understand," he whispered. "I know
-what a night you've had. But there's nothing to fear. Nothing
-shall harm you. Nothing shall harm you, nothing, nothing!"
-
-She drew away from him gently, and there was a mist in her eyes.
-But he had brought a bit of colour into her face. And there was a
-glow behind the tears. Then, her lip quivering, she caught his
-arm.
-
-"Philip, the baby is sick--and I am afraid. I haven't told father.
-Come!"
-
-He went with her to the room at the end of the hall. The Indian
-woman was crooning softly over a cradle. She fell silent as
-Josephine and Philip entered, and they bent over the little
-flushed face on the pillow. Its breath came tightly, gaspingly,
-and Josephine clutched Philip's hand, and her voice broke in a
-sob.
-
-"Feel, Philip--its little face--the fever--"
-
-"You must call your mother and father," he said after a moment.
-"Why haven't you done this before, Josephine?"
-
-"The fever came on suddenly--within the last half hour," she
-whispered tensely. "And I wanted you to tell me what to do,
-Philip. Shall I call them--now?"
-
-He nodded.
-
-"Yes."
-
-In an instant she was out of the room. A few moments later she
-returned, followed by Adare and his wife. Philip was startled by
-the look that came into Miriam's face as she fell on her knees
-beside the cradle. She was ghastly white. Dumbly Adare stood and
-gazed down on the little human mite he had grown to worship. And
-then there came through his beard a great broken breath that was
-half a sob.
-
-Josephine lay her cheek against his arm for a moment, and said:
-
-"You and Philip go to breakfast, Mon Pere. I am going to give the
-baby some of the medicine the Churchill doctor left with me. I was
-frightened at first. But I'm not now. Mother and I will have him
-out of the fever shortly."
-
-Philip caught her glance, and took Adare by the arm. Alone they
-went into the breakfast-room. Adare laughed uneasily as he seated
-himself opposite Philip.
-
-"I don't like to see the little beggar like that," he said, taking
-to shake off his own and Philip's fears with a smile. "It was
-Mignonne who scared me--her face. She has nursed so many sick
-babies that it frightened me to see her so white. I thought he
-might be--dying."
-
-"Cutting teeth, mebby," volunteered Philip.
-
-"Too young," replied Adare.
-
-"Or a touch of indigestion, That brings fever."
-
-"Whatever it is, Josephine will soon have him kicking and pulling
-my thumb again," said Adare with confidence. "Did she ever tell
-you about the little Indian baby she found in a tepee?"
-
-"No."
-
-"It was in the dead of winter. Mignonne was out with her dogs, ten
-miles to the south. Captain scented the thing--the Indian tepee.
-It was abandoned--banked high with snow--and over it was the
-smallpox signal. She was about to go on, but Captain made her go
-to the flap of the tepee. The beast knew, I guess. And Josephine--
-my God, I wouldn't have let her do it for ten years of my life!
-There had been smallpox in that tent; the smell of it was still
-warm. Ugh! And she looked in! And she says she heard something
-that was no louder than the peep of a bird. Into that death-hole
-she went--and brought out a baby. The parents, starving and half
-crazed after their sickness, had left it--thinking it was dead.
-
-"Josephine brought it to a cabin close to home, in two weeks she
-had that kid out rolling in the snow. Then the mother and father
-heard something of what had happened, and came to us as fast as
-their legs could bring them. You should have seen that Indian
-mother's gratitude! She didn't think it so terrible to leave the
-baby unburied. She thought it was dead. Pasoo is the Indian
-father's name. Several times a year they come to see Josephine,
-and Pasoo brings her the choicest furs of his trap-line. And each
-time he says: 'Nipa tu mo-wao,' which means that some day he hopes
-to be able to kill for her. Nice, isn't it--to have friends who'll
-murder your enemies for you if you just give 'em the word?"
-
-"One never can tell," began Philip cautiously. "A time might come
-when she would need friends. If such a day should happen--"
-
-He paused, busying himself with his steak. There was a note of
-triumph, of exultation, in Adare's low laugh.
-
-"Have you ever seen a fire run through a pitch-dry forest?" he
-asked. "That is the way word that Josephine wanted friends would
-sweep through a thousand square miles of this Northland. And the
-answer to it would be like the answer of stray wolves to the cry
-of the hunt-pack!"
-
-All over Philip there surged a warm glow.
-
-"You could not have friends like that down there, in the cities,"
-he said.
-
-Adare's face clouded.
-
-"I am not a pessimist," he answered, after a moment. "It has been
-one of my few Commandments always to look for the bright spot, if
-there is one. But, down there, I have seen so many wolves, human
-wolves. It seems strange to me that so many people should have the
-same mad desire for the dollar that the wolves of the forest have
-for warm, red, quivering flesh. I have known a wolf-pack to kill
-five times what it could eat in a night, and kill again the next
-night, and still the next--always more than enough. They are like
-the Dollar Hunters--only beasts. Among such, one cannot have solid
-friends--not very many who will not sell you for a price. I was
-afraid to trust Josephine down among them. I am glad that it was
-you she met, Philip. You were of the North--a foster-child, if not
-born there."
-
-That day was one of gloom in Adare House. The baby's fever grew
-steadily worse, until in Josephine's eyes Philip read the terrible
-fear. He remained mostly with Adare in the big room. The lamps
-were lighted, and Adare had just risen from his chair, when Miriam
-came through the door. She was swaying, her hands reaching out
-gropingly, her face the gray of ash that crumbles from an ember.
-Adare sprung to meet her, a strange cry on his lips, and Philip
-was a step behind her. He heard her moaning words, and as he
-rushed past them into the hall he knew that she had fallen
-fainting into her husband's arms.
-
-In the doorway to Josephine's room he paused. She was there,
-kneeling beside the little cradle, and her face as she lifted it
-to him was tearless, but filled with a grief that went to the
-quick of his soul. He did not need to look into the cradle as she
-rose unsteadily, clutching a hand at her heart, as if to keep it
-from breaking. He knew what he would see. And now he went to her
-and drew her close in his strong arms, whispering the pent-up
-passion of the things that were in his heart, until at last her
-arms stole up about his neck, and she sobbed on his breast like a
-child. How long he held her there, whispering over and over again
-the words that made her grief his own, he could not have told; but
-after a time he knew that some one else had entered the room, and
-he raised his eyes to meet those of John Adare. The face of the
-great, grizzled giant had aged five years. But his head was erect.
-He looked at Philip squarely. He put out his two hands, and one
-rested on Josephine's head, the other on Philip's shoulder.
-
-"My children," he said gently, and in those two words were
-weighted the strength and consolation of the world.
-
-He pointed to the door, motioning Philip to take Josephine away,
-and then he went and stood at the crib-side, his great shoulders
-hunched over, his head bowed down.
-
-Tenderly Philip led Josephine from the room. Adare had taken his
-wife to her room, and when they entered she was sitting in a
-chair, staring and speechless. And now Josephine turned to Philip,
-taking his face between her two hands, and her soul looking at him
-through a blinding mist of tears.
-
-"My Philip," she whispered, and drew his face down and kissed him.
-"Go to him now. We will come--soon."
-
-He returned to Adare like one in a dream--a dream that was grief
-and pain, with its one golden thread of joy. Jean was there now,
-and the Indian woman; and the master of Adare had the still little
-babe huddled up against his breast. It was some time before they
-could induce him to give it to Moanne. Then, suddenly, he shook
-himself like a great bear, and crushed Philip's shoulders in his
-hands.
-
-"God knows I'm sorry for you, Boy," he cried brokenly. "It's hurt
-me--terribly. But YOU--it must be like the cracking of your soul.
-And Josephine, Mignonne, my little flower! She is with her
-mother?"
-
-"Yes," replied Philip. "Come. Let us go. We can do nothing here.
-And Josephine and her mother will be better alone for a time."
-
-"I understand," said Adare almost roughly, in his struggle to
-steady himself. "You're thinking of ME, Boy. God bless you for
-that. You go to Josephine and Miriam. It is your place. Jean and I
-will go into the big room."
-
-Philip left them at Adare's room and went to his own, leaving the
-door open that he might hear Josephine if she came out into the
-hall. He was there to meet her when she appeared a little later.
-They went to Moanne. And at last all things were done, and the
-lights were turned low in Adare House. Philip did not take off his
-clothes that night, nor did Jean and Metoosin. In the early dawn
-they went out together to the little garden of crosses. Close to
-the side of Iowaka, Jean pointed out a plot.
-
-"Josephine would say the little one will sleep best there, close
-to HER," he said. "She will care for it, M'sieur. She will know,
-and understand, and keep its little soul bright and happy in
-Heaven."
-
-And there they digged. No one in Adare House heard the cautious
-fall of pick and spade.
-
-With morning came a strangely clear sun. Out of the sky had gone
-the last haze of cloud. Jean crossed himself, and said:
-
-"She knows--and has sent sunshine instead of storm."
-
-Hours later it was Adare who stood over the little grave, and said
-words deep and strong, and quivering with emotion, and it was Jean
-and Metoosin who lowered the tiny casket into the frozen earth.
-Miriam was not there, but Josephine clung to Philip's side, and
-only once did her voice break in the grief she was fighting back.
-Philip was glad when it was over, and Adare was once more in his
-big room, and Josephine with her mother. He did not even want
-Jean's company. In his room he sat alone until supper time. He
-went to bed early, and strangely enough slept more soundly than he
-had been able to sleep for some time.
-
-When he awoke the following morning his first thought was that
-this was the day of the third night. He had scarcely dressed when
-Adare's voice greeted him from outside the door. It was different
-now--filled with the old cheer and booming hopefulness, and
-Philip smiled as he thought how this stricken giant of the
-wilderness was rising out of his own grief to comfort Josephine
-and him. They were all at breakfast, and Philip was delighted to
-find Josephine looking much better than he had expected. Miriam
-had sunk deepest under the strain of the preceding hours. She was
-still white and wan. Her hands trembled. She spoke little.
-Tenderly Adare tried to raise her spirits.
-
-During the rest of that day Philip saw but little of Josephine,
-and he made no effort to intrude himself upon her. Late in the
-afternoon Jean asked him if he had made friends with the dogs, and
-Philip told him of his experience with them. Not until nine
-o'clock that night did he know why the half-breed had asked.
-
-At that hour Adare House had sunk into quiet. Miriam and her
-husband had gone to bed, the lights were low. For an hour Philip
-had listened for the footsteps which he knew he would hear to-
-night. At last he knew that Josephine had come out into the hall.
-He heard Jean's low voice, their retreating steps, and then the
-opening and closing of the door that let them out into the night.
-There was a short silence. Then the door reopened, and some one
-returned through the hall. The steps stopped at his own door--a
-knock--and a moment later he was standing face to face with
-Croisset.
-
-"Throw on your coat and cap and come with me, M'sieur," he cried
-in a low voice. "And bring your pistol!"
-
-Without a word Philip obeyed. By the time they stood out in the
-night his blood was racing in a wild anticipation. Josephine had
-disappeared. Jean gripped his arm.
-
-"To-night something may happen," he said, in a voice that was as
-hard and cold as the blue lights of the aurora in the polar sky.
-"It is--possible. We may need your help. I would have asked
-Metoosin, but it would have made him suspicious of something--and
-he knows nothing. You have made friends with the dogs? You know
-Captain?"
-
-"Yes!"
-
-"Then go to them--go as fast as you can, M'sieur. And if you hear
-a shot to-night--or a loud cry from out there in the forest, free
-the dogs swiftly, Captain first, and run with them to our trail,
-shouting 'KILL! KILL! KILL!' with every breath you take, and don't
-stop so long as there is a footprint in the snow ahead of you or a
-human bone to pick! Do you understand, M'sieur?"
-
-His eyes were points of flame in the gloom.
-
-"Do you understand?"
-
-"Yes," gasped Philip. "But--Jean--"
-
-"If you understand--that is all," interrupted Jean, "If there is a
-peril in what we are doing this night the pack will be worth more
-to us than a dozen men. If anything happens to us they will be our
-avengers. Go! There is not one moment for you to lose. Remember--a
-shot--a single cry!"
-
-His voice, the glitter in his eyes, told Philip this was no time
-for words. He turned and ran swiftly across the clearing in the
-direction of the dog pit, Ten minutes later he came into a gloom
-warm with the smell of beast. Eyes of fire glared at him. The
-snapping of fangs and the snarling of savage throats greeted him.
-One by one he called the names of the dogs he remembered--called
-them over and over again, advancing fearlessly among them, until
-he dropped upon his knees with his hand on the chain that held
-Captain. From there he talked to them, and their whines answered
-him.
-
-Then he fell silent--listening. He could hear his own heart beat.
-Every fibre in his body was aquiver with excitement and a strange
-fear. The hand that rested on Captain's collar trembled. In the
-distance an owl hooted, and the first note of it sent a red-hot
-fire through him. Still farther away a wolf howled. Then came a
-silence in which he thought he could hear the rush of blood
-through his own throbbing veins.
-
-With his fingers at the steel snap on Captain's collar he waited.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY
-
-
-In the course of nearly every human life there comes an hour which
-stands out above all others as long as memory lasts. Such was the
-one in which Philip crouched in the dog pit, his hand at Captain's
-collar, waiting for the sound of cry or shot. So long as he lived
-he knew this scene could not be wiped out of his brain. As he
-listened, he stared about him and the drama of it burning into his
-soul. Some intuitive spirit seemed to have whispered to the dogs
-that these tense moments were heavy with tragic possibilities for
-them as well as the man. Out of the surrounding darkness they
-stared at him without a movement or a sound, every head turned
-toward him, forty pairs of eyes upon him like green and opal
-fires. They, too, were waiting and listening. They knew there was
-some meaning in the attitude of this man crouching at Captain's
-side. Their heads were up. Their ears were alert. Philip could
-hear them breathing. And he could feel that the muscles of
-Captain's splendid body were tense and rigid.
-
-Minutes passed. The owl hooted nearer; the wolf howled again,
-farther away. Slowly the tremendous strain passed and Philip began
-to breathe easier. He figured that Josephine and the half-breed
-had reached last night's meeting-place. He had given them a margin
-of at least five minutes--and nothing had happened. His knees were
-cramped, and he rose to his feet, still holding Captain's chain.
-The tension was broken among the beasts. They moved; whimpering
-sounds came to him; eyes shifted uneasily in the gloom. Fully half
-an hour had passed when there was a sudden movement among them.
-The points of green and opal fire were turned from Philip, and to
-his ears came the clink of chains, the movement of bodies, a
-subdued and menacing rumble from a score of throats. Captain
-growled. Philip stared out into the darkness and listened.
-
-And then a voice came, quite near:
-
-"Ho, M'sieur Philip!"
-
-It was Jean! Philip's hand relaxed its clutch at Captain's collar,
-and almost a groan of relief fell from his lips. Not until Jean's
-voice came to him, quiet and unexcited, did he realize under what
-a strain he had been.
-
-"I am here," he said, moving slowly out of the pit.
-
-On the edge of it, where the light shone down through an opening
-in the spruce tops, he found Jean. Josephine was not with him.
-Eagerly Philip caught the other's arm, and looked beyond him.
-
-"Where is she?"
-
-"Safe," replied Jean. "I left her at Adare House, and came to you.
-I came quickly, for I was afraid that some one might shout in the
-night, or fire a shot. Our business was done quickly to-night,
-M'sieur!"
-
-He was looking straight into Philip's eyes, a cold, steady look
-that told Philip what he meant before he had spoken the words.
-
-"Our business was done quickly!" he repeated. "And it is coming!"
-
-"The fight?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"And Josephine knows? She understands?"
-
-"No, M'sieur. Only you and I know. Listen: To-night I kneeled down
-in darkness in my room, and prayed that the soul of my Iowaka
-might come to me. I felt her near, M'sieur! It is strange--you
-may not believe--but some day you may understand. And we were
-there together for an hour, and I pleaded for her forgiveness, for
-the time had come when I must break my oath to save our Josephine.
-And I could hear her speak to me, M'sieur, as plainly as you hear
-that breath of wind in the tree-tops yonder. Praise the Holy
-Father, I heard her! And so we are going to fight the great fight,
-M'sieur."
-
-Philip waited. After a moment Jean said, as quietly as if he were
-asking the time of day:
-
-"Do you know whom we went out to see last night--and met again to-
-night?" he asked.
-
-"I have guessed," replied Philip. His face was white and hard.
-
-Jean nodded.
-
-"I think you have guessed correctly, M'sieur. It was the baby's
-father!"
-
-And then, in amazement, he stared at Philip. For the other had
-flung off his arm, and his eyes were blazing in the starlight.
-
-"And you have had all this trouble, all this mystery, all this
-fear because of HIM?" he demanded. His voice rang out in a harsh
-laugh. "You met him last night, and again to-night, and LET HIM
-GO? You, Jean Croisset? The one man in the whole world I would
-give my life to meet--and YOU afraid of him? My God, if that is
-all--"
-
-Jean interrupted him, laying a firm, quiet hand on his arm.
-
-"What would you do, M'sieur?"
-
-"Kill him," breathed Philip. "Kill him by inches, slowly,
-torturingly. And to-night, Jean. He is near. I will follow him,
-and do what you have been afraid to do."
-
-"Yes, that is it, I have been afraid to kill him," replied Jean.
-Philip saw the starlight on the half-breed's face. And he knew, as
-he looked, that he had called Jean Jacques Croisset the one thing
-in the world that he could not be: a coward.
-
-"I am wrong," he apologized quickly. "Jean, it is not that. I am
-excited, and I take back my words. It is not fear. It is something
-else. Why have you not killed him?"
-
-"M'sieur, do you believe in an oath that you make to your God?"
-
-"Yes. But not when it means the crushing of human souls. Then it
-is a crime."
-
-"Ah!" Jean was facing him now, his eyes aflame. "I am a Catholic,
-M'sieur--one of those of the far North, who are different from the
-Catholics of the south, of Montreal and Quebec. Listen! To-night I
-have broken a part of my oath; I am breaking a part of it in
-telling you what I am about to say. But I am not a coward, unless
-it is a coward who lives too much in fear of the Great God. What
-is my soul compared to that in the gentle breast of our Josephine?
-I would sacrifice it to-night--give it to Wetikoo--lend it
-forever to hell if I could undo what has been done. And you ask me
-why I have not killed, why I have not taken the life of a beast
-who is unfit to breathe God's air for an hour! Does it not occur
-to you, M'sieur, that there must be a reason?"
-
-"Besides the oath, yes!"
-
-"And now, I will tell you of the game I played, and lost, M'sieur.
-In me alone Josephine knew that she could trust, and so it was to
-me that she bared her sorrow. Later word came to me that this man,
-the father of the baby, was following her into the North, That was
-after I had given my oath to Josephine. I thought he would come by
-the other waterway, where we met you. And so we went there, alone.
-I made a camp for her, and went on to meet him. My mind was made
-up, M'sieur. I had determined upon the sacrifice: my soul for
-hers. I was going to kill him. But I made a mistake. A friend I
-had sent around by the other waterway met me, and told me that I
-had missed my game. Then I returned to the camp--and you were
-there. You understand this far, M'sieur?"
-
-"Yes. Go on."
-
-"The friend I had sent brought a letter for Josephine," resumed
-Jean. "A runner on his way north gave it to him. It was from Le
-M'sieur Adare, and said they were not starting north. But they did
-start soon after the letter, and this same friend brought me the
-news that the master had passed along the westward waterway a few
-days behind the man I had planned to kill. Then we returned to
-Adare House, and you came with us. And after that--the face at
-the window, and the shot!"
-
-Philip felt the half-breed's arm quiver.
-
-"I must tell you about him or you will not understand," he went
-on, and there was effort in his voice now. "The man whose face you
-saw was my brother. Ah, you start! You understand now why I was
-glad you failed to kill him. He was bad, all that could be bad,
-M'sieur, but blood is thicker than water, and up here one does not
-forget those early days when childhood knows no sin. And my
-brother came up from the south as canoe-man for the man I wanted
-to kill! A few hours before you saw his face at the window I met
-him in the forest. He promised to leave. Then came the shot--and I
-understood. The man I was going to kill had sent him to
-assassinate the master of Adare. That is why I followed his trail
-that night. I knew that I would find the man I wanted not far
-away."
-
-"And you found him?"
-
-"Yes. I came upon my brother first. And I lied. I told him he had
-made a mistake, and killed you, that his life was not worth the
-quill from a porcupine's back if he remained in the country. I
-made him believe it was another who fought him in the forest. He
-fled. I am glad of that. He will never come back. Then I followed
-over the trail he had made to Adare House, and far back in the
-swamp I came upon them, waiting for him. I passed myself off as my
-brother, and I tricked the man I was after. We went a distance
-from the camp--alone--and I was choking the life from him, when
-the two others that were with him came upon us. He was dying,
-M'sieur! He was black in the face, and his tongue was out. Another
-second--two or three at the most--and I would have brought ruin
-upon every soul at Adare House. For he was dying. And if I had
-killed him all would have been lost!"
-
-"That is impossible!" gasped Philip, as the half-breed paused. "If
-you had killed him--"
-
-"All would have been lost," repeated Jean, in a strange, hard
-voice. "Listen, M'sieur. The two others leaped upon me. I fought.
-And then I was struck on the head, and when I came to my senses I
-was in the light of the campfire, and the man I had come to kill
-was over me. One of the other men was Thoreau, the Free Trader. He
-had told who I was. It was useless to lie. I told the truth--that
-I had come to kill him, and why. And then--in the light of that
-campfire, M'sieur--he proved to me what it would have meant if I
-had succeeded. Thoreau carried the paper. It was in an envelope,
-addressed to the master of Adare. They tore this open, that I
-might read. And in that paper, written by the man I had come to
-kill, was the whole terrible story, every detail--and it made me
-cold and sick. Perhaps you begin to understand, M'sieur. Perhaps
-you will see more clearly when I tell you--"
-
-"Yes, yes," urged Philip.
-
-"--that this man, the father of the baby, is the Lang who owns
-Thoreau, who owns that freebooters' hell, who owns the string of
-them from here to the Athabasca, and who lives in Montreal!"
-
-Philip could only stare at Jean, who went on, his face the colour
-of gray ash in the starlight.
-
-"I must tell you the rest. You must understand before the great
-fight comes. You know--the terrible thing happened in Montreal.
-And this man Lang--all the passion of hell is in his soul! He is
-rich. He has power up here, for he owns Thoreau and all his
-cutthroats. And he is not satisfied with the ruin he worked down
-there. He has followed Josephine. He is mad with passion--with the
-desire--"
-
-"Good God, don't tell me more of that!" cried Philip. "I
-understand. He has followed. And Josephine is to be the price of
-his silence!"
-
-"Yes, just that. He knows what it means up here for such a thing
-to happen. His love for her is not love. It is the passion that
-fills hell with its worst. He laid his plans before he came. That
-letter, the paper I read, M'sieur! He meant to see Josephine at
-once, and show it to her. There are two of those papers: one at
-Thoreau's place and one in Thoreau's pocket. If anything happens
-to Lang, one of them is to be delivered to the master of Adare by
-Thoreau. If I had killed him it would have gone to Le M'sieur. It
-is his safeguard. And there are two copies--to make the thing
-sure. So we cannot kill him.
-
-"Josephine listened to all this to-night, from Lang's own lips.
-And she pleaded with him, M'sieur. She called upon him to think of
-the little child, letting him believe that it was still alive; and
-he laughed at her. And then, almost as I was ready to plunge my
-knife into his heart, she threw up her head like an angel and told
-him to do his worst--that she refused to pay the price. I never
-saw her stronger than in that moment, M'sieur--in that moment when
-there was no hope! I would have killed him then for the paper he
-had, but the other is at Thoreau's. He has gone back there. He
-says that unless he receives word of Josephine's surrender within
-a week--the crash will come, the paper will be given to the master
-of Adare. And now, M'sieur Philip, what do you have to say?"
-
-"That there never was a game lost until it was played to the end,"
-replied Philip, and he drew nearer to look straight and steadily
-into the half-breed's eyes. "Go on, Jean. There is something more
-which you have not told me. And that is the biggest thing of all.
-Go on!"
-
-For a space there was a startled look in Jean's eyes. Then he
-shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
-
-"Of course there is more," he said. "You have known that, M'sieur.
-There is one thing which you will never know--that which Josephine
-said you would not guess if you lived a thousand years. You must
-forget that there is more than I have told you, for it will do you
-no good to remember."
-
-Expectancy died out of Philip's eyes.
-
-"And yet I believe that what you are holding back from me is the
-key to everything."
-
-"I have told you enough, M'sieur--enough to make you see why we
-must fight."
-
-"But not how."
-
-"That will come soon," replied Jean, a little troubled.
-
-The men were silent. Behind them they heard the restless movement
-of the dogs. Out of the gloom came a wailing whine. Again Philip
-looked at Jean.
-
-"Do you know, your story seems weak in places, Jean," he said. "I
-believe every word you have said. And yet, when you come to think
-of it all, the situation doesn't seem to be so terribly alarming
-to me after all. Why, for instance, do you fear those letters--
-this scoundrel Lang's confession? Kill him. Let the letter come to
-Adare. Cannot Josephine swear that she is innocent? Can she not
-have a story of her own showing how foully Lang tried to blackmail
-her into a crime? Would not Adare believe her word before that of
-a freebooter? And am I not here to swear--that the child--was
-mine?"
-
-There was almost a pitying look in the half-breed's eyes.
-
-"M'sieur, what if in that letter were named people and places: the
-hospital itself, the doctors, the record of birth? What if it
-contained all those many things by which the master of Adare might
-trail back easily to the truth? With those things in the letter
-would he not investigate? And then--" He made a despairing
-gesture.
-
-"I see," said Philip. Then he added, quickly "But could we not
-keep the papers from Adare, Jean? Could we not watch for the
-messenger?"
-
-"They are not fools, M'sieur. Such a thing would be easy--if they
-sent a messenger with the papers. But they have guarded against
-that. Le M'sieur is to be invited to Thoreau's. The letter will be
-given to him there."
-
-Philip began pacing back and forth, his head bowed in thought, his
-hands deep in his pockets.
-
-"They have planned it well--like very devils!" he exclaimed. "And
-yet--even now I see a flaw. Is Lang's threat merely a threat?
-Would he, after all, actually have the letter given to Adare? If
-these letters are his trump cards, why did he try to have him
-killed? Would not Adare's death rob him of his greatest power?"
-
-"In a way, M'sieur. And yet with Le M'sieur gone, both Josephine
-and Miriam would be still more hopelessly in his clutches. For I
-know that he had planned to kill me after the master. My brother
-had not guessed that. And then the women would be alone. Holy
-Heaven, I cannot see the end of crime that might come of that!
-Even though they escaped him to go back to civilization, they
-would be still more in his power there."
-
-Philip's face was upturned to the stars. He laughed, but there was
-no mirth in the laugh. And then he faced Jean again, and his eyes
-were filled with the merciless gleam that came into those of the
-wolf-beasts back in the pit.
-
-"It is the big fight then, Jean. But, before that, just one
-question more. All of this trouble might have been saved if
-Josephine had married Lang. Why didn't she?"
-
-For an instant every muscle in Jean's body became as taut as a
-bowstring. He hunched a little forward, as if about to leap upon
-the other, and strike him down. And then, all at once, he relaxed.
-His hands unclenched. And he answered calmly:
-
-"That is the one story that will never be told, M'sieur. Come!
-They will wonder about us at Adare House. Let us return."
-
-Philip fell in behind him. Not until they were close to the door
-of the house did Jean speak again.
-
-"You are with me, M'sieur--to the death, if it must be?"
-
-"Yes, to the death," replied Philip.
-
-"Then let no sleep come to your eyes so long as Josephine is
-awake," went on Jean quickly. "I am going to leave Adare House to-
-night, M'sieur, with team and sledge. The master must believe I
-have gone over to see my sick friend on the Pipestone. I am going
-there--and farther!" His voice became a low, tense whisper. "You
-understand, M'sieur? We are preparing."
-
-The two clasped hands.
-
-"I will return late to-morrow, or to-morrow night," resumed Jean.
-"It may even be the next day. But I shall travel fast--without
-rest. And during that time you are on guard. In my room you will
-find an extra rifle and cartridges. Carry it when you go about.
-And spend as much of your time as you can with the master of
-Adare. Watch Josephine. I will not see her again to-night. Warn
-her for me. She must not go alone in the forests--not even to the
-dog pit."
-
-"I understand," said Philip.
-
-They entered the house. Twenty minutes later, from the window of
-his room, Philip saw a dark figure walking swiftly back toward the
-forest. Still later he heard the distant wail of a husky coming
-from the direction of the pit, and he knew that the first gun in
-the big fight had been fired--that Jean Jacques Croisset was off
-on his thrilling mission into the depths of the forests. What that
-mission was he had not asked him. But he had guessed. And his
-blood ran warm with a strange excitement.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
-
-
-Again there filled Philip the desire to be with Jean in the
-forest. The husky's wail told him that the half-breed had begun
-his journey. Between this hour and to-morrow night he would be
-threading his way swiftly over the wilderness trails on his
-strange mission. Philip envied him the action, the exhaustion that
-would follow. He envied even the dogs running in the traces. He
-was a living dynamo, overcharged, with every nerve in him drawn to
-the point that demanded the reaction of physical exertion. He knew
-that he could not sleep. The night would be one long and tedious
-wait for the dawn. And Jean had told him not to sleep as long as
-Josephine was awake!
-
-Was he to take that literally? Did Jean mean that he was to watch
-her? He wondered if she was in bed now. At least the half-breed's
-admonition offered him an excuse. He would go to her room. If
-there was a light he would knock, and ask her if she would join
-him in the piano-room. He looked at his watch. It was nearly
-midnight. Probably she had retired.
-
-He opened his door and entered the hall. Quietly he went to the
-end room. There was no light--and he heard no sound. He was
-standing close to it, concealed in the shadows, when his heart
-gave a sudden jump. Advancing toward him down the hall was a
-figure clad in a flowing white night-robe.
-
-At first he did not know whether it was Josephine or Miriam. And
-then, as she came under one of the low-burning lamps, he saw that
-it was Miriam. She had turned, and was looking back toward the
-room where she had left her husband. Her beautiful hair was loose,
-and fell in lustrous masses to her hips. She was listening. And in
-that moment Philip heard a low, passionate sob. She turned her
-face toward him again, and he could see it drawn with agony. In
-the lamp-glow her hands were clasped at her partly bared breast.
-She was barefoot, and made no sound as she advanced. Philip drew
-himself back closer against the wall. He was sure she had not seen
-him. A moment later Miriam turned into the corridor that led into
-Adare's big room.
-
-Philip felt that he was trembling. In Miriam's face he had seen
-something that had made his heart beat faster. Quietly he went to
-the corridor, turned, and made his way cautiously to the door of
-Adare's room. It was dark inside, the corridor was black. Hidden
-in the gloom he listened. He heard Miriam sink in one of the big
-chairs, and from her movement, and the sound of her sobbing, he
-knew that she had buried her head in her arms on the table. He
-listened for minutes to the grief that seemed racking her soul.
-Then there was silence. A moment later he heard her, and she was
-so close to the door that he dared not move. She passed him, and
-turned into the main hall. He followed again.
-
-She paused only for an instant at the door of the room in which
-she and her husband slept. Then she passed on, and scarcely
-believing his eyes Philip saw her open the door that led out into
-the night!
-
-She was full in the glow of the lamp that hung over the door now,
-and Philip saw her plainly. A biting gust of wind flung back her
-hair. He saw her bare arms; she turned, and he caught the white
-gleam of a naked shoulder. Before he could speak--before he could
-call her name, she had darted out into the night!
-
-With a gasp of amazement he sprang after her. Her bare feet were
-deep in the snow when he caught her. A frightened cry broke from
-her lips. He picked her up in his arms as if she had been a child,
-and ran back into the hall with her, closing the door after them.
-Panting, shivering with the cold, she stared at him without
-speaking.
-
-"Why were you going out there?" he whispered. "Why--like that?"
-
-For a moment he was afraid that from her heaving bosom and
-quivering lips would burst forth the strange excitement which she
-was fighting back. Something told him that Adare must not discover
-them in the hall. He caught her hands. They were cold as ice.
-
-"Go to your room," he whispered gently. "You must not let him know
-you were out there in the snow--like this. You--were partly
-asleep."
-
-Purposely he gave her the chance to seize upon this explanation.
-The sobbing breath came to her lips again.
-
-"I guess--it must have been--that," she said, drawing her hands
-from him. "I was going out--to--the baby. Thank you, Philip. I--I
-will go to my room now."
-
-She left him, and not until her door had closed behind her did he
-move. Had she spoken the truth? Had she in those few moments been
-temporarily irresponsible because of grieving over the baby's
-death? Some inner consciousness answered him in the negative. It
-was not that. And yet--what more could there be? He remembered.
-Jean's words, his insistent warnings. Resolutely he moved toward
-Josephine's room, and knocked softly upon her door. He was
-surprised at the promptness with which her voice answered. When he
-spoke his name, and told her it was important for him to see her,
-she opened the door. She had unbound her hair. But she was still
-dressed, and Philip knew that she had been sitting alone in the
-darkness of her room.
-
-She looked at him strangely and expectantly. It seemed to Philip
-as if she had been waiting for news which she dreaded, and which
-she feared that he was bringing her.
-
-"May I come in?" he whispered. "Or would you prefer to go into the
-other room?"
-
-"You may come in, Philip," she replied, letting him take her hand.
-"I am still dressed. I have been so dreadfully nervous to-night
-that I haven't thought of going to bed. And the moon is so
-beautiful through my window. It has been company." Then she asked:
-"What have you to tell me, Philip?"
-
-She had stepped into the light that flooded through the window. It
-transformed her hair into a lustrous mantle of deep gold; into her
-eyes it put the warm glow of the stars. He made a movement, as if
-to put his arms about her, but he caught himself, and a little
-joyous breath came to Josephine's lips. It was her room, where she
-slept--and he had come at a strange hour. She understood the
-movement, his desire to take her in his arms, and his big, clean
-thoughts of her as he drew a step back. It sent a flush of
-pleasure and still deeper trust into her cheeks.
-
-"You have something to tell me?" she asked.
-
-"Yes--about your mother."
-
-Her hand had touched his arm, and he felt her start. Briefly he
-told what had happened. Josephine's face was so white that it
-startled him when he had finished.
-
-"She said--she was going to the baby!" she breathed, as if
-whispering the words to herself. "And she was in her bare feet,
-with her hair down, and her gown open to the snow and wind! Oh my
-God!"
-
-"Perhaps she was in her sleep," hurried Philip. "It might have
-been that, Josephine."
-
-"No, she wasn't in her sleep," replied Josephine, meeting his
-eyes. "You know that, Philip. She was awake. And you have come to
-tell me so that I may watch her. I understand."
-
-"She might rest easier with you--if you can arrange it," he
-agreed. "Your father worries over her now. It will not do to let
-him know this."
-
-She nodded.
-
-"I will bring her to my room, Philip. I will tell my father that I
-am nervous and cannot sleep. And I will say nothing to her of what
-has happened. I will go as soon as you have returned to your
-room."
-
-He went to the door, and there for a moment she stood close to
-him, gazing up into his face. Still he did not put his hands to
-her. To-night--in her own room--it seemed to him something like
-sacrilege to touch her. And then, suddenly, she raised her two
-arms up through her shimmering hair to his shoulders. and held her
-lips to him.
-
-"Good-night, Philip!"
-
-He caught her to him. Her arms tightened about his shoulders. For
-a moment he felt the thrill of her warm lips. Then she drew back,
-whispering again:
-
-"Good-night, Philip!"
-
-The door closed softly, and he returned to his room. Again the
-song of life, of love, of hope that pictured but one glorious end
-filled his soul to overflowing. A little later and he knew that
-Adare's wife had gone with Josephine to her room. He went to bed.
-And sleep came to him now, filled with dreams in which he lived
-with Josephine always at his side, laughing and singing with him,
-and giving him her lips to kiss in their joyous paradise.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
-
-
-Out of these dreams he was awakened by a sound that had slowly and
-persistently become a part of his mental consciousness. It was a
-tap, tap, tap at his window. At last he sat up and listened. It
-was in the gray gloom of dawn. Again the sound was repeated: tap,
-tap, tap on the pane of glass.
-
-He slipped out of bed, his hand seeking the automatic under his
-pillow. He had slept with the window partly open. Covering it with
-his pistol, he called:
-
-"Who is there?"
-
-"A runner from Jean Croisset," came back a cautious voice. "I have
-a written message for you, M'sieur."
-
-He saw an arm thrust through the window, in the hand a bit of
-paper. He advanced cautiously until he could see the face that was
-peering in. It was a thin, dark, fur-hooded face, with eyes black
-and narrow like Jean's, a half-breed. He seized the paper, and,
-still watching the face and arm, lighted a lamp. Not until he had
-read the note did his suspicion leave him.
-
-
-
-This is Pierre Langlois, my friend of the Pipestone. If anything
-should happen that you need me quickly let him come after me. You
-may trust him. He will put up his tepee in the thick timber close
-to the dog pit. We have fought together. L'Ange saved his wife
-from the smallpox. I am going westward.
-
-JEAN.
-
-
-
-Philip sprang back to the window and gripped the mittened hand
-that still hung over the sill.
-
-"I'm glad to know you, Pierre! Is there no other word from Jean?"
-
-"Only the note, Ookimow."
-
-"You just came?"
-
-"Aha. My dogs and sledge are back in the forest."
-
-"Listen!" Philip turned toward the door. In the hall he heard
-footsteps. "Le M'sieur is awake," he said quickly to Pierre. "I
-will see you in the forest!"
-
-Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when the half-breed was
-gone. A moment later Philip knew that it was Adare who had passed
-his door. He dressed and shaved himself before he left his room.
-He found Adare in his study. Metoosin already had a fire burning,
-and Adare was standing before this alone, when Philip entered.
-Something was lacking in Adare's greeting this morning. There was
-an uneasy, searching look in his eyes as he looked at Philip. They
-shook hands, and his hand was heavy and lifeless. His shoulders
-seemed to droop a little more, and his voice was unnatural when he
-spoke.
-
-"You did not go to bed until quite late last night, Philip?"
-
-"Yes, it was late, Mon Pere."
-
-For a moment Adare was silent, his head bowed, his eyes on the
-floor. He did not raise his gaze when he spoke again.
-
-"Did you hear anything--late--about midnight?" he asked. He
-straightened, and looked steadily into Philip's eyes. "Did you see
-Miriam?"
-
-For an instant Philip felt that it was useless to attempt
-concealment under the searching scrutiny of the older man's eyes.
-Like an inspiration came to him a thought of Josephine.
-
-"Josephine was the last person I saw after leaving you," he said
-truthfully. "And she was in her room before eleven o'clock."
-
-"It is strange, unaccountable," mused Adare. "Miriam left her bed
-last night while I was asleep. It must have been about midnight,
-for it is then that the moon shines full into our window. In
-returning she awakened me. And her hair was damp, there was snow
-on her gown! My God, she had been outdoors, almost naked! She said
-that she must have walked in her sleep, that she had awakened to
-find herself in the open door with the wind and snow beating upon
-her. This is the first time. I never knew her to do it before. It
-disturbs me."
-
-"She is sleeping now?"
-
-"I don't know. Josephine came a little later and said that she
-could not sleep. Miriam went with her."
-
-"It must have been the baby," comforted Philip, placing a hand on
-Adare's arm. "We can stand it, Mon Pere. We are men. With them it
-is different. We must bear up under our grief. It is necessary for
-us to have strength for them as well as ourselves."
-
-"Do you think it is that?" cried Adare with sudden eagerness. "If
-it is, I am ashamed of myself, Philip! I have been brooding too
-much over the strange change in Miriam. But I see now. It must
-have been the baby. It has been a tremendous strain. I have heard
-her crying when she did not know that I heard. I am ashamed of
-myself. And the blow has been hardest on you!"
-
-"And Josephine," added Philip.
-
-John Adare had thrown back his shoulders, and with a deep feeling
-of relief Philip saw the old light in his eyes.
-
-"We must cheer them up," he added quickly. "I will ask Josephine
-if they will join us at breakfast, Mon Pere."
-
-He closed the door behind him when he left the room, and he went
-at once to rouse Josephine if she was still in bed. He was
-agreeably surprised to find that both Miriam and Josephine were up
-and dressing. With this news he returned to Adare.
-
-Three quarters of an hour later they met in the breakfast-room. It
-took only a glance to tell him that Josephine was making a last
-heroic fight. She had dressed her hair in shining coils low over
-her neck and cheeks this morning in an effort to hide her pallor.
-Miriam seemed greatly changed from the preceding night. Her eyes
-were clearer. A careful toilette had taken away the dark circles
-from under them and had added a touch of colour to her lips and
-cheeks. She went to Adare when the two men entered, and with a
-joyous rumble of approval the giant held her off at arm's length
-and looked at her.
-
-"It didn't do you any harm after all," Philip heard him say. "Did
-you tell Mignonne of your adventure, Ma Cheri?"
-
-He did not hear Miriam's reply, for he was looking down into
-Josephine's face. Her lips were smiling. She made no effort to
-conceal the gladness in her eyes as he bent and kissed her.
-
-"It was a hard night, dear."
-
-"Terrible," she whispered. "Mother told me what happened. She is
-stronger this morning. We must keep the truth from HIM."
-
-"The TRUTH?"
-
-He felt her start.
-
-"Hush!" she breathed. "You know--you understand what I mean. Let
-us sit down to breakfast now."
-
-During the hour that followed Philip was amazed at Miriam. She
-laughed and talked as she had not done before. The bit of
-artificial colour she had given to her cheeks and lips faded under
-the brighter flush that came into her face. He could see that
-Josephine was nearly as surprised as himself. John Adare was
-fairly boyish in his delight. The meal was finished and Philip and
-Adare were about to light their cigars when a commotion outside
-drew them all to the window that overlooked one side of the
-clearing. Out of the forest had come two dog-teams, their drivers
-shouting and cracking their long caribou-gut whips. Philip stared,
-conscious that Josephine's hand was clutching his arm. Neither of
-the shouting men was Jean.
-
-"An Indian, and Renault the quarter-blood," grunted Adare. "Wonder
-what they want here in November. They should be on their trap-
-lines."
-
-"Perhaps, Mon Pere, they have come to see their friends,"
-suggested Josephine. "You know, it has been a long time since some
-of them have seen us. I would be disappointed if our people didn't
-show they were glad because of your home-coming!"
-
-"Of course, that's it!" cried Adare. "Ho, Metoosin!" he roared,
-turning toward the door. "Metoosin! Paitoo ta! Wawep isewin!"
-
-Metoosin appeared at the door.
-
-"Build a great fire in the una kah house," commanded Adare. Feed
-all who come in from the forests, Metoosin. Open up tobacco and
-preserves, and flour and bacon. Nothing in the storeroom is too
-good for them. And send Jean to me! Where is he?"
-
-"Numma tao, ookimow."
-
-"Gone!" exclaimed Adare.
-
-"He didn't want to disturb you last night," explained Philip. "He
-made an early start for the Pipestone."
-
-"If he was an ordinary man, I'd say he was in love with one of the
-Langlois girls," said Adare, with a shrug of his shoulders. "Neah,
-Metoosin! Make them comfortable, and we will all see them later."
-As Metoosin went Adare turned upon the others: "Shall we all go
-out now?" he asked.
-
-"Splendid!" accepted Josephine eagerly. "Come, Mikawe, we can be
-ready in a moment!"
-
-She ran from the room, leading her mother by the hand. Philip and
-Adare followed them, and shortly the four were ready to leave the
-house. The una kah, or guest house, was in the edge of the timber.
-It was a long, low building of logs, and was always open with its
-accommodations to the Indians and half-breeds--men, women, and
-children--who came in from the forest trails. Renault and the
-Indian were helping Metoosin build fires when they entered. Philip
-thought that Renault's eyes rested upon him in a curious and
-searching glance even as Adare shook hands with him. He was more
-interested in the low words both the Indian and the blood muttered
-as they stood for a moment with bowed heads before Josephine and
-Miriam. Then Renault raised his head and spoke direct to
-Josephine:
-
-"I breeng word for heem of Jan Breuil an' wewimow over on Jac'
-fish ma Kichi Utooskayakun," he said in a low voice. "Heem lee'l
-girl so seek she goin' die."
-
-"Little Marie? She is sick--dying, you say?" cried Josephine.
-
-"Aha. She ver' dam' seek. She burn up lak fire."
-
-Josephine looked up at Philip.
-
-"I knew she was sick," she said. "But I didn't think it was so
-bad. If she dies it will be my fault. I should have gone." She
-turned quickly to Renault. "When did you see her last?" she asked.
-"Listen! Papak-oo-moo?"
-
-"Aha."
-
-"It is a sickness the children have each winter," she explained,
-looking questioningly into Philip's eyes again. "It kills quickly
-when left alone. But I have medicine that will cure it. There is
-still time. We must go, Philip. We must!"
-
-Her face had paled a little. She saw the gathering lines in
-Philip's forehead. He thought of Jean's words--the warning they
-carried. She pressed his arm, and her mouth was firm.
-
-"I am going, Philip," she said softly. "Will you go with me?"
-
-"I will, if you must go," he said. "But it is not best."
-
-"It is best for little Marie," she retorted, and left him to tell
-Adare and her mother of Renault's message.
-
-Renault stepped close to Philip. His back was to the others. He
-spoke in a low voice:
-
-"I breeng good word from Jean Croisset, M'sieur. Heem say Soomin
-Renault good man lak Pierre Langlois, an' he fight lak devil when
-ask. I breeng Indian an' two team. We be in forest near dog
-watekan, where Pierre mak his fire an' tepee. You understand?
-Aha?"
-
-"Yes--I understand," whispered Philip, "And Jean has gone on--to
-see others?"
-
-"He go lak win' to Francois over on Waterfound. Francois come in
-one hour--two, t'ree, mebby."
-
-Josephine and Adare approached them.
-
-"Mignonne is turning nurse again," rumbled Adare, one of his great
-arms thrown affectionately about her waist. "You'll have a jolly
-run on a clear morning like this, Philip. But remember, if it is
-the smallpox I forbid her to expose herself!"
-
-"I shall see to that, Mon Pere. When do we start, Josephine?"
-
-"As soon as I can get ready and Metoosin brings the dogs," replied
-Josephine. "I am going to the house now. Will you come with me?"
-
-It was an hour before Metoosin had brought the dogs up from the
-pit and they were ready to start. Philip had armed himself with a
-rifle and his automatic, and Josephine had packed both medicine
-and food in a large basket. The new snow was soft, and Metoosin
-had brought a toboggan instead of a sledge with runners. In the
-traces were Captain and five of his team-mates.
-
-"Isn't the pack going with us?" asked Philip.
-
-"I never take them when there is very bad sickness, like this,"
-explained Josephine. "There is something about the nearness of
-death that makes them howl. I haven't been able to train that out
-of them."
-
-Philip was disappointed, but he said nothing more. He tucked
-Josephine among the furs, cracked the long whip Metoosin had given
-him, and they were off, with Miriam and her husband waving their
-hands from the door of Adare House. They had scarcely passed out
-of view in the forest when with a sudden sharp command Josephine
-stopped the dogs. She sprang out of her furs and stood laughingly
-beside Philip.
-
-"Father always insists that I ride. He says it's not good for a
-woman to run," she said. "But I do. I love to run. There!"
-
-As she spoke she had thrown her outer coat on the sledge, and
-stood before him, straight and slim. Her hair was in a long braid.
-
-"Now, are you ready?" she challenged.
-
-"Good Lord, have mercy on me!" gasped Philip. "You look as if you
-might fly, Josephine!"
-
-Her signal to the dogs was so low he scarcely heard it, and they
-sped along the white and narrow trail into which Josephine had
-directed them. Philip fell in behind her. It had always roused a
-certain sense of humour in him to see a woman run. But in
-Josephine he saw now the swiftness and lithesome grace of a fawn.
-Her head was thrown back, her mittened hands were drawn up to her
-breast as the forest man runs, and her shining braid danced and
-rippled in the early sun with each quick step she took.
-
-Ahead of her the gray and yellow backs of the dogs rose and fell
-with a rhythmic movement that was almost music. Their ears aslant,
-their crests bristling, their bushy tails curling like plumes over
-their hips, they responded with almost automatic precision to the
-low words that fell from the lips of the girl behind them.
-
-With each minute that passed Philip wondered how much longer
-Josephine could keep up the pace. They had run fully a mile and
-his own breath was growing shorter when the toe of his moccasined
-foot caught under a bit of brushwood and he plunged head foremost
-into the snow. When he had brushed the snow out of his eyes and
-ears Josephine was standing over him, laughing. The dogs were
-squatted on their haunches, looking back.
-
-"My poor Philip!" she laughed, offering him an assisting hand. "We
-almost lost you, didn't we? It was Captain who missed you first,
-and he almost toppled me over the sled!"
-
-Her face was radiant. Lips, eyes, and cheeks were glowing. Her
-breast rose and fell quickly.
-
-"It was your fault!" he accused her. "I couldn't keep my eyes off
-you, and never thought of my feet. I shall have my revenge--here!"
-
-He drew her into his arms, protesting. Not until he had kissed her
-parted, half-smiling lips did he release her.
-
-"I'm going to ride now," she declared. "I'm not going to run the
-danger of being accused again."
-
-He wrapped her again in the furs on the toboggan. It was eight
-miles to Jac Breuil's, and they reached his cabin in two hours.
-Breuil was not much more than a boy, scarcely older than the dark-
-eyed little French girl who was his wife, and their eyes were big
-with terror. With a thrill of wonder and pleasure Philip observed
-the swift change in them as Josephine sprang from the toboggan.
-Breuil was almost sobbing as he whispered to Philip:
-
-"Oh, ze sweet Ange, M'sieur! She cam jus' in time."
-
-Josephine was bending over little Marie's cot when they followed
-her and the girl mother into the cabin. In a moment she looked up
-with a glad smile.
-
-"It is the same sickness, Marie," she said to the mother. "I have
-medicine here that will cure it. The fever isn't as bad as I
-thought it would be."
-
-Noon saw a big change in the cabin. Little Marie's temperature was
-falling rapidly. Breuil and his wife were happy. After dinner
-Josephine explained again how they were to give the medicine she
-was leaving, and at two o'clock they left on their return journey
-to Adare House. The sun had disappeared hours before. Gray banks
-of cloud filled the sky, and it had grown much colder.
-
-"We will reach home only a little before dark," said Philip. "You
-had better ride, Josephine."
-
-He was eager to reach Adare House. By this time he felt that Jean
-should have returned, and he was confident that there were others
-of the forest people besides Pierre, Renault, and the Indian in
-the forest near the pit. For an hour he kept up a swift pace.
-Later they came to a dense cover of black spruce two miles from
-Adare House. They had traversed a part of this when the dogs
-stopped. Directly ahead of them had fallen a dead cedar, barring
-the trail. Philip went to the toboggan for the trail axe.
-
-"I haven't noticed any wind, have you?" he asked. "Not enough to
-topple over a cedar."
-
-He went to the tree and began cutting. Scarcely had his axe fallen
-half a dozen times when a scream of terror turned him about like a
-flash. He had only time to see that Josephine had left the sledge,
-and was struggling in the arms of a man. In that same instant two
-others had leaped upon him. He had not time to strike, to lift his
-axe. He went down, a pair of hands gripping at his throat. He saw
-a face over him, and he knew now that it was the face of the man
-he had seen in the firelight, the face of Lang, the Free Trader.
-Every atom of strength in him rose in a superhuman effort to throw
-off his assailants. Then came the blow. He saw the club over him,
-a short, thick club, in the hand of Thoreau himself. After that
-followed darkness and oblivion, punctuated by the CRACK, CRACK,
-CRACK of a revolver and the howling of dogs--sounds that grew
-fainter and fainter until they died away altogether, and he sank
-into the stillness of night.
-
-It was almost dark when consciousness stirred Philip again. With
-an effort he pulled himself to his knees, and stared about him.
-Josephine was gone, the dogs were gone. He staggered to his feet,
-a moaning cry on his lips. He saw the sledge. Still in the traces
-lay the bodies of two of the dogs, and he knew what the pistol
-shots had meant. The others had been cut loose; straight out into
-the forest led the trails of several men; and the meaning of it
-all, the reality of what had happened, surged upon him in all its
-horror. Lang and his cutthroats had carried off Josephine. He knew
-by the thickening darkness that they had time to get a good start
-on their way to Thoreau's.
-
-One thought filled his dizzy brain now. He must reach Jean and the
-camp near the pit. He staggered as he turned his face homeward. At
-times the trail seemed to reach up and strike him in the face.
-There was a blinding pain back of his eyes. A dozen times in the
-first mile he fell, and each time it was harder for him to regain
-his feet. The darkness of night grew heavier about him, and now
-and then he found himself crawling on his hands and knees. It was
-two hours before his dazed senses caught the glow of a fire ahead
-of him. Even then it seemed an age before he reached it. And when
-at last he staggered into the circle of light he saw half a dozen
-startled faces, and he heard the strange cry of Jean Jacques
-Croisset as he sprang up and caught him in his arms. Philip's
-strength was gone, but he still had time to tell Jean what had
-happened before he crumpled down into the snow.
-
-And then he heard a voice, Jean's voice, crying fierce commands to
-the men about the fire; he heard excited replies, the hurry of
-feet, the barking of dogs. Something warm and comforting touched
-his lips. He struggled to bring himself back into life. He seemed
-to have been fighting hours before he opened his eyes. He pulled
-himself up, stared into the dark, livid face of Jean, the half-
-breed.
-
-"The hour--has come--" he murmured.
-
-"Yes, the hour has come, M'sieur!" cried Jean. "The swiftest teams
-and the swiftest runners in this part of the Northland are on the
-trail, and by morning the forest people will be roused from here
-to the Waterfound, from the Cree camp on Lobstick to the Gray Loon
-waterway! Drink this, M'sieur. There is no time to lose. For it is
-Jean Jacques Croisset who tells you that not a wolf will howl this
-night that does not call forth the signal to those who love our
-Josephine! Drink!"
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
-
-
-Jean's thrilling words burned into Philip's consciousness like
-fire. They roused him from his stupor, and he began to take in
-deep breaths of the chill night air, and to see more clearly. The
-camp was empty now. The men were gone. Only Jean was with him, his
-face darkly flushed and his eyes burning. Philip rose slowly to
-his feet. There was no longer the sickening dizziness in his head,
-He inhaled still deeper breaths, while Jean stood a step back and
-watched. Far off in the forest he heard the faint barking of dogs.
-
-"They are running like the wind!" breathed Jean. "Those are
-Renault's dogs. They are two miles away!"
-
-He took Philip by the arm.
-
-"I have made a comfortable bed for you in Pierre's tepee, M'sieur.
-You must lie down, and I will get your supper. You will need all
-of your strength soon."
-
-"But I must know what is happening," protested Philip. "My God, I
-cannot lie down like a tired dog--with Josephine out there with
-Lang! I am ready now, Jean. I am not hungry. And the pain is gone.
-See--I am as steady as you!" he cried excitedly, gripping Jean's
-hand. "God in Heaven, who knows what may be happening out there!"
-
-"Josephine is safe for a time, M'sieur," assured Jean. "Listen to
-me, Netootam! I feared this. That is why I warned you. Lang is
-taking her to Thoreau's. He believes that we will not dare to
-pursue, and that Josephine will send back word she is there of her
-own pleasure. Why? Because he has sworn to give Le M'sieur the
-confession if we make him trouble. Mon Dieu, he thinks we will not
-dare! and even now, Netootam, six of the fastest teams and
-swiftest runners within a hundred miles are gone to spread the
-word among the forest people that L'Ange, our Josephine, has been
-carried off by Thoreau and his beasts! Before dawn they will begin
-to gather where the forks meet, twelve miles off there toward the
-Devil's Nest, and to-morrow--"
-
-Jean crossed himself.
-
-"Our Lady forgive us, if it is a sin to take the lives of twenty
-such men," he said softly. "Not one will live to tell the story.
-And not a log of Thoreau House will stand to hold the secret which
-will die forever with to-morrow's end."
-
-Philip came near to Jean now. He placed his two hands on the half-
-breed's shoulders, and for a moment looked at him without
-speaking. His face was strangely white.
-
-"I understand--everything, Jean," he whispered huskily, and his
-lips seemed parched. "To-morrow, we will destroy all evidence, and
-kill. That is the one way. And that secret which you dread, which
-Josephine has told me I could not guess in a thousand years, will
-be buried forever. But Jean--I HAVE GUESSED IT. I KNOW! It has
-come to me at last, and--my God!--I understand!"
-
-Slowly, with a look of horror in his eyes, Jean drew back from
-him. Philip, with bowed head, saw nothing of the struggle in the
-half-breed's face. When Jean spoke it was in a strange voice and
-low.
-
-"M'sieur!"
-
-Philip looked up. In the fire-glow Jean was reaching out his hand
-to him. In the faces of the two men was a new light, the birth of
-a new brotherhood. Their hands clasped. Silently they gazed into
-each other's eyes, while over them the beginning of storm moaned
-in the treetops and the clouds raced in snow-gray armies under the
-moon.
-
-"Breathe no word of what may have come to you to-night," spoke
-Jean then. "You will swear that?"
-
-"Yes."
-
-"And to-morrow we fight! You see now--you understand what that
-fight means, M'sieur?"
-
-"Yes. It means that Josephine--"
-
-"Tsh! Even I must not hear what is on your lips, M'sieur! I cannot
-believe that you have guessed true. I do not want to know. I dare
-not. And now, M'sieur, will you lie down? I will go to Le M'sieur
-and tell him I have received word that you and Josephine are to
-stay at Breuil's overnight. He must not know what has happened. He
-must not be at the big fight to-morrow. When it is all over we
-will tell him that we did not want to terrify him and Miriam over
-Josephine. If he should be at the fight, and came hand to hand
-with Lang or Thoreau--"
-
-"He must not go!" exclaimed Philip. "Hurry to him, Jean. I will
-boil some coffee while you are gone. Bring another rifle. They
-robbed me of mine, and the pistol."
-
-Jean prepared to leave.
-
-"I will return soon," he said. "We should start for the Forks
-within two hours, M'sieur. In that time you must rest."
-
-He slipped away into the gloom in the direction of the pit. For
-several minutes Philip stood near the fire staring into the
-flames. Then he suddenly awoke into life. The thought that had
-come to him this night had changed his world for him. And he
-wondered now if he was right. Jean had said: "I cannot believe
-that you have guessed true," and yet in the half-breed's face, in
-his horror-filled eyes, in the tense gathering of his body was
-revealed the fear that he HAD! But if he had made a mistake! If he
-had guessed wrong! The hot blood surged in his face. If he had
-guessed wrong--his thought would be a crime. He had made up his
-mind to drive the guess out of his head, and he went into the
-tepee to find food and coffee. When Jean returned, an hour later,
-supper was waiting in the heat of the fire. The half-breed had
-brought Philip's rifle along with his own.
-
-"What did he say?" asked Philip, as they sat down to eat. "He had
-no suspicions?"
-
-"None, M'sieur," replied Jean, a strange smile on his lips. "He
-was with Miriam. When I entered they were romping like two
-children in the music-room. Her hair was down. She was pulling
-his beard, and they were laughing so that at first they did not
-hear me when I spoke to them. Laughing, M'sieur!"
-
-His eyes met Philip's.
-
-"Has Josephine told you what the Indians call them?" he asked
-softly.
-
-"No."
-
-"In every tepee in these forests they speak of them as Kah
-Sakehewawin, 'the lovers.' Ah, M'sieur, there is one picture in my
-brain which I shall never forget. I first came to Adare House on a
-cold, bleak night, dying of hunger, and first of all I looked
-through a lighted window. In a great chair before the fire sat Le
-M'sieur, so that I could see his face and what was gathered up
-close in his arms. At first I thought it was a sleeping child he
-was holding. And then I saw the long hair streaming to the floor,
-and in that moment La Fleurette--beautiful as the angels I had
-dreamed of--raised her face and saw me at the window. And during
-all the years that have passed since then it has been like that,
-M'sieur. They have been lovers. They will be until they die."
-
-Philip was silent. He knew that Jean was looking at him. He felt
-that he was reading the thoughts in his heart. A little later he
-drew out his watch and looked at it.
-
-"What time is it, M'sieur?"
-
-"Nine o'clock," replied Philip. "Why wait another hour, Jean? I am
-ready."
-
-"Then we will go," replied Jean, springing to his feet. "Throw
-these things into the tepee, M'sieur, while I put the dogs in the
-traces."
-
-They moved quickly now. Over them the gray heavens seemed to drop
-lower. Through the forest swept a far monotone, like the breaking
-of surf on a distant shore. With the wind came a thin snow, and
-the darkness gathered so that beyond the rim of fire-light there
-was a black chaos in which the form of all things was lost. It was
-not a night for talk. It was filled with the whisperings of storm,
-and to Philip those whisperings were an oppressive presage of the
-tragedy that lay that night ahead of them. The dogs were
-harnessed, five that Jean had chosen from the pack; and straight
-out into the pit of gloom the half-breed led them. In that
-darkness Philip could see nothing. But not once did Jean falter,
-and the dogs followed him, occasionally whining at the strangeness
-and unrest of the night; and close behind them came Philip. For a
-long time there was no sound but the tread of their feet, the
-scraping of the toboggan, the patter of the dogs, and the wind
-that bit down from out of the thick sky into the spruce tops. They
-had travelled an hour when they came to a place where the
-smothering weight of the darkness seemed to rise from about them.
-It was the edge of a great open, a bit of the Barren that reached
-down like a solitary finger from the North: treeless, shrubless,
-the playground of the foxes and the storm winds. Here Jean fell
-back beside Philip for a moment.
-
-"You are not tiring, M'sieur?"
-
-"I am getting stronger every mile," declared Philip. "I feel no
-effects of the blow now, Jean. How far did you say it was to the
-place where our people are to meet?"
-
-"Eight miles. We have come four. In this darkness we could make it
-faster without the dogs, but they are carrying a hundred pounds of
-tepee, guns, and food."
-
-He urged the dogs on in the open space. Another hour and they had
-come again to the edge of forest. Here they rested.
-
-"There will be some there ahead of us," said Jean. "Renault and
-the other runners will have had more than four hours. They will
-have visited a dozen cabins on the trap-lines. Pierre reached old
-Kaskisoon and his Swamp Crees in two hours. They love Josephine
-next to their Manitou. The Indians will be there to a man!"
-
-Philip did not reply. But his heart beat like a drum at the
-sureness and triumph that thrilled in the half-breed's voice. As
-they went on, he lost account of time in the flashing pictures
-that came to him of the other actors in this night's drama; of
-those half-dozen Paul Reveres of the wilderness speeding like
-shadows through the mystery of the night, of the thin-waisted,
-brown-faced men who were spreading the fires of vengeance from
-cabin to cabin and from tepee to tepee. Through his lips there
-came a sobbing breath of exultation, of joy. He did not tire. At
-times he wanted to run on ahead of Jean and the dogs. Yet he saw
-that no such desire seized upon Jean. Steadily--with a precision
-that was almost uncanny--the half-breed led the way. He did not
-hurry, he did not hesitate. He was like a strange spirit of the
-night itself, a voiceless and noiseless shadow ahead, an automaton
-of flesh and blood that had become more than human to Philip. In
-this man's guidance he lost his fear for Josephine.
-
-At last they came to the foot of a rock ridge. Up this the dogs
-toiled, with Jean pulling at the lead-trace. They came to the
-top. There they stopped. And standing like a hewn statue, his
-voice breaking in a panting cry, Jean Jacques Croisett pointed
-down into the plain below.
-
-Half a mile away a light stood out like a glowing star in the
-darkness. It was a campfire.
-
-"It is a fire at the Forks," spoke Jean above the wind. "Mon Dieu,
-M'sieur--is it not something to have friends like that!"
-
-He led the way a short distance along the face of the ridge, and
-then they plunged down the valley of deeper gloom. The forest was
-thick and low, and Philip guessed that they were passing through a
-swamp. When they came out of it the fire was almost in their
-faces. The howling of dogs greeted them. As they dashed into the
-light half a dozen men had risen and were facing them, their
-rifles in the crooks of their arms. From out of the six there
-strode a tall, thin, smooth-shaven man toward them, and from
-Jean's lips there fell words which he tried to smother.
-
-"Mother of Heaven, it is Father George, the Missioner from
-Baldneck!" he gasped.
-
-In another moment the Missioner was wringing the half-breed's
-mittened hand. He was a man of sixty. His face was of cadaverous
-thinness, and there was a feverish glow in his eyes.
-
-"Jean Croisset!" he cried. "I was at Ladue's when Pierre came with
-the word. Is it true? Has the purest soul in all this world been
-stolen by those Godless men at Thoreau's? I cannot believe it! But
-if it is so, I have come to fight!"
-
-"It is true, Father," replied Jean. "They have stolen her as the
-wolves of white men stole Red Fawn from her father's tepee three
-years ago. And to-morrow--"
-
-"The vengeance of the Lord will descend upon them," interrupted
-the Missioner. "And this, Jean, your friend?"
-
-"Is M'sieur Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine," said
-Jean.
-
-As the Missioner gripped Philip's hand his thin fingers had in
-them the strength of steel.
-
-"Ladue told me that she had found her man," he said. "May God
-bless you, my son! It was I, Father George, who baptized her years
-and years ago. For me she made Adare House a home from the time
-she was old enough to put her tiny arms about my neck and lisp my
-name. I was on my way to see you when night overtook me at
-Ladue's. I am not a fighting man, my son. God does not love their
-kind. But it was Christ who flung the money-changers from the
-temple--and so I have come to fight."
-
-The others were close about them now, and Jean was telling of the
-ambush in the forest. Purple veins grew in the Missioner's
-forehead as he listened. There were no questions on the lips of
-the others. With dark, tense faces and eyes that burned with
-slumbering fires they heard Jean. There were the grim and silent
-Foutelles, father and son, from the Caribou Swamp. Tall and
-ghostlike in the firelight, more like spectre than man, was
-Janesse, a white beard falling almost to his waist, a thick marten
-skin cap shrouding his head, and armed with a long barrelled
-smooth-bore that shot powder and ball. From the fox grounds out on
-the Barren had come "Mad" Joe Horn behind eight huge malemutes
-that pulled with the strength of oxen. And with the Missioner had
-come Ladue, the Frenchman, who could send a bullet through the
-head of a running fox at two hundred yards four times out of five.
-Kaskisoon and his Crees had not arrived, and Philip knew that Jean
-was disappointed.
-
-"I heard three days ago of a big caribou herd to the west," said
-Janesse in answer to the half-breed's inquiry. "It may be they
-have gone for meat."
-
-They drew close about the fire, and the Foutelles dragged in a
-fresh birch log for the flames. "Mad" Joe Horn, with hair and
-beard as red as copper, hummed the Storm Song under his breath.
-Janesse stood with his back to the heat, facing darkness and the
-west. He raised a hand, and all listened. For sixty years his
-world had been bounded by the four walls of the forests. It was
-said that he could hear the padded footfall of the lynx--and so
-all listened while the hand was raised, though they heard nothing
-but the wailing of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the
-unrest of the dogs in the timber behind them. For many seconds
-Janesse did not lower his hand; and then, still unheard by the
-others, there came slowly out of the gloom a file of dusky-faced,
-silent, shadowy forms. They were within the circle of light before
-Jean or his companions had moved, and at their head was Kaskisoon,
-the Cree: tall, slender as a spruce sapling, and with eyes that
-went searchingly from face to face with the uneasy glitter of an
-ermine's. They fell upon Jean, and with a satisfied "Ugh!" and a
-hunch of his shoulders he turned to his followers. There were
-seven. Six of them carried rifles. In the hands of the seventh was
-a shotgun.
-
-After this, one by one, and two by two, there were added others to
-the circle of waiting men about the fire. By two o'clock there
-were twenty. They came faster after that. With Bernard, from the
-south, came Renault, who had gone to the end of his run. From the
-east, west, and south they continued to come--but from out of the
-northwest there led no trail. Off there was Thoreau's place. Pack
-after pack was added to the dogs in the timber. Their voices rose
-above and drowned all other sound. Teams strained at their leashes
-to get at the throats of rival teams, and from the black shelter
-in which they were fastened came a continuous snarling and
-gnashing of fangs. Over the coals of a smaller fire simmered two
-huge pots of coffee from which each arrival helped himself; and on
-long spits over the larger fire were dripping chunks of moose and
-caribou meat from which they cut off their own helpings.
-
-In the early dawn there were forty who gathered about Father
-George to listen to the final words he had to say. He raised his
-hands. Then he bowed his head, and there was a strange silence.
-Words of prayer fell solemnly from his lips. Partly it was in
-Cree, partly in French, and when he had finished a deep breath ran
-through the ranks of those who listened to him. Then he told them,
-beginning with Cree, in the three languages of the wilderness,
-that they were to be led that day by Jean Jacques Croisset and
-Philip Darcambal, the husband of Josephine. Two of the Indians
-were to remain behind to care for the camp and dogs. Beyond that
-they needed no instructions.
-
-They were ready, and Jean was about to give the word to start when
-there was an interruption. Out of the forest and into their midst
-came a figure--the form of a man who rose above them like a giant,
-and whose voice as it bellowed Jean's name had in it the wrath of
-thunder.
-
-It was the master of Adare!
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
-
-
-For a moment John Adare stood like an avenging demon in the midst
-of the startled faces of the forest men. His shaggy hair blew out
-from under his gray lynx cap. His eyes were red and glaring with
-the lights of the hunting wolf. His deep chest rose and fell in
-panting breaths. Then he saw Jean and Philip, side by side. Toward
-them he came, as if to crush them, and Philip sprang toward him,
-so that he was ahead of Jean. Adare stopped. The wind rattled in
-his throat.
-
-"And you came WITHOUT ME--"
-
-His voice was a rumble, deep, tense, like the muttering vibration
-before an explosion. Philip's hands gripped his arms, and those
-arms were as hard as oak. In one hand Adare held a gun. His other
-fist was knotted, heavy.
-
-"Yes, Mon Pere, we came without you," said Philip. "It is
-terrible. We did not want you two to suffer. We did not want you
-to know until it was all over, and Josephine was back in your
-arms. We thought it drive her mother mad. And you, Mon Pere, we
-wanted to save you!"
-
-Adare's face relaxed. His arm dropped. His red eyes shifted to the
-faces about him, and he said, as he looked:
-
-"It was Breuil. He said you and Josephine were not at his cabin.
-He came to tell Mignonne the child was so much better. I cornered
-Metoosin, and he told me. I have been coming fast, running."
-
-He drew in a deep breath. Then suddenly he became like a tiger. He
-sprang among the men, and threw up his great arms. His voice rose
-more than human, fierce and savage, above the growing tumult of
-the dogs and the wailing of the wind.
-
-"Ye are with me, men?"
-
-A rumble of voice answered him.
-
-"Then come!"
-
-He had seen that they were ready, and he strode on ahead of them.
-He was leader now, and Philip saw Father George close at his side,
-clutching his arm, talking. In Jean's face there was a great fear.
-He spoke low to Philip.
-
-"If he meets Lang, if he fights face to face with Thoreau, or if
-they call upon us to parley, all is lost! M'sieur, for the love of
-God, hold your fire for those two! We must kill them. If a parley
-is granted, they will come to us. We will kill them--even as they
-come toward us with a white flag, if we must!"
-
-"No truce will be granted!" cried Philip.
-
-As if John Adare himself had heard his words, he stopped and faced
-those behind him. They were in the shelter of the forest. In the
-gray gloom of dawn they were only a sea of shifting shadows.
-
-"Men, there is to be no mercy this day!" he said, and his voice
-rumbled like an echo through the aisles of the forest. "We are not
-on the trail of men, but of beasts and murderers. The Law that is
-three hundred miles away has let them live in our midst. It has
-let them kill. It said nothing when they stole Red Fawn from her
-father's tepee and ravaged her to death. It has said: 'Give us
-proof that Thoreau killed Reville, and that his wife did not die a
-natural death.' We are our own law. In these forests we are
-masters. And yet with this brothel at our doors we are not safe,
-our wives and daughters are within the reach of monsters. To-day
-it is my daughter--her husband's wife. To-morrow it may be yours.
-There can be no mercy. We must kill--kill and burn! Am I right,
-men?"
-
-This time it was not a murmur but a low thunder of voice that
-answered. Philip and Jean forged ahead to his side. Shoulder to
-shoulder they led the way.
-
-From the camp at the Forks it was eighteen miles to the Devil's
-Nest, where hung on the edge of a chasm the log buildings that
-sheltered Lang and his crew. To these men of the trails those
-eighteen miles meant nothing. White-bearded Janesse's trapline was
-sixty miles long, and he covered it in two days, stripping his
-pelts as he went. Renault had run sixty miles with his dogs
-between daybreak and dusk, and "Mad" Joe Horn had come down one
-hundred and eighty miles from the North in five days. These were
-not records. They were the average. Those who followed the master
-of Adare were thin-legged, small-footed, narrow-waisted--but
-their sinews were like rawhide, and their lungs filled chests that
-were deep and wide.
-
-With the break of day the wind fell, the sky cleared, and it grew
-colder. In silence John Adare, Jean, and Philip broke the trail.
-In silence followed close behind them the Missioner with his
-smooth-bore. In silence followed the French and half-breeds and
-Crees. Now and then came the sharp clink of steel as rifle barrel
-struck rifle barrel. Voices were low, monosyllabic; breaths were
-deep, the throbbing of hearts like that of engines. Here were
-friends who were meeting for the first time in months, yet they
-spoke no word of each other, of the fortunes of the "line," of
-wives or children. There was but one thought in their brains,
-pumping the blood through their veins, setting their dark faces in
-lines of iron, filling their eyes with the feverish fires of
-excitement. Yet this excitement, the tremendous passion that was
-working in them, found no vent in wild outcry.
-
-It was like the deadly undertow of the maelstroms in the spring
-floods. It was there, unseen--silent as death. And this thought,
-blinding them to all else, insensating them to all emotions but
-that of vengeance, was thought of Josephine.
-
-John Adare himself seemed possessed of a strange madness. He said
-no word to Jean or Philip. Hour after hour he strode ahead, until
-it seemed that tendons must snap and legs give way under the
-strain. Not once did he stop for rest until, hours later, they
-reached the summit of a ridge, and he pointed far off into the
-plain below. They could see the smoke rising up from the Devil's
-Nest. A breath like a great sigh swept through the band.
-
-And now, silently, there slipped away behind a rock Kaskisoon and
-his Indians. From under his blanket-coat the chief brought forth
-the thing that had bulged there, a tom-tom. Philip and the waiting
-men heard then the low Te-dum--Te-dum--Te-dum of it, as Kaskisoon
-turned his face first to the east and then the west, north and
-then south, calling upon Iskootawapoo to come from out of the
-valley of Silent Men and lead them to triumph. And the waiting men
-were silent--deadly silent--as they listened. For they knew that
-the low Te-dum was the call to death. Their hands gripped harder
-at the barrels of their guns, and when Kaskisoon and his braves
-came from behind the rock they faced the smoke above the Devil's
-Nest, wiped their eyes to see more clearly, and followed John
-Adare down into the plain.
-
-And to other ears than their own the medicine-drum had carried the
-Song of Death. Down in the thick spruce of the plain a man on the
-trail of a caribou had heard. He looked up, and on the cap of the
-ridge he saw. He was old in the ways and the unwritten laws of the
-North, and like a deer he turned and sped back unseen in the
-direction of the Devil's Nest. And as the avengers came down into
-the plain Kaskisoon chanted in a low monotone:
-
-    Our fathers--come!
-    Come from out of the valley.
-    Guide us--for to-day we fight,
-    And the winds whisper of death!
-
-And those who heard did not laugh. Father George crossed himself,
-and muttered something that might have been a prayer. For in this
-hour Kaskisoon's God was very near.
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
-
-
-Many years before, Thoreau had named his aerie stronghold the
-Eagle's Nest. The brown-faced people of the trails had changed it
-to Devil's Nest. It was not built like the posts, on level ground
-and easy of access. Its northern wall rose sheer up with the wall
-of Eagle Chasm, with a torrent two hundred feet below that rumbled
-and roared like distant thunder when the spring floods came. John
-Adare knew that this chasm worked its purpose. Somewhere in it
-were the liquor caches which the police never found when they came
-that way on their occasional patrols. On the east and south sides
-of the Nest was an open, rough and rocky, filled with jagged
-outcrops of boulders and patches of bush; behind it the thick
-forest grew up to the very walls.
-
-The forest people were three quarters of a mile from this open
-when they came upon the trail of the lone caribou hunter. Where he
-had stood and looked up at them the snow was beaten down; from
-that spot his back-trail began first in a cautious, crouching
-retreat that changed swiftly into the long running steps of a man
-in haste. Like a dog, Kaskisoon hovered over the warm trail. His
-eyes glittered, and he held out his hands, palms downward, and
-looked at Adare.
-
-"The snow still crumbles in the footmarks," he said in Cree. "They
-are expecting us."
-
-Adare turned to the men behind him.
-
-"You who have brought axes cut logs with which to batter in the
-doors," he said. "We will not ask them to surrender. We must make
-them fight, so that we may have an excuse to kill them. Two logs
-for eight men each. And you others fill your pockets with birch
-bark and spruce pitch-knots. Let no man touch fire to a log until
-we have Josephine. Then, burn! And you, Kaskisoon, go ahead and
-watch what is happening!"
-
-He was calmer now. As the men turned to obey his commands he laid
-a hand on Philip's shoulder.
-
-"I told you this was coming, Boy," he said huskily. "But I didn't
-think it meant HER. My God, if they have harmed her--"
-
-His breath seemed choking him.
-
-"They dare not!" breathed Philip.
-
-John Adare looked into the white fear of the other's face. There
-was no hiding of it: the same terrible dread that was in his own.
-
-"If they should, we will kill them by inches, Philip!" he
-whispered. "We will cut them into bits that the moose-birds can
-carry away. Great God, they shall roast over fires!" He hurried
-toward the men who were already chopping at spruce timber. Philip
-looked about for Jean. He had disappeared. A hundred yards ahead
-of them he had caught up with Kaskisoon, and side by side the
-Indian and the half-breed were speeding now over the man-trail.
-Perhaps in the hearts of these two, of all those gathered in this
-hour of vengeance, there ran deepest the thirst for blood. With
-Kaskisoon it was the dormant instinct of centuries of forebears,
-roused now into fierce desire. With Jean it was necessity.
-
-In the face of John Adare's words that there was to be no quarter,
-Jean still feared the possibility of a parley, a few minutes of
-truce, the meaning of which sent a shiver to the depths of his
-soul. He said nothing to the Cree. And Kaskisoon's lips were as
-silent as the great flakes of snow that began to fall about them
-now in a mantle so thick that it covered their shoulders in the
-space of two hundred yards. When the timber thinned out Kaskisoon
-picked his way with the caution of a lynx. At the edge of the
-clearing they crouched side by side behind a low windfall, and
-peered over the top.
-
-Three hundred yards away was the Nest. The man whose trail they
-had followed had disappeared. And then, suddenly, the door opened,
-and there poured out a crowd of excited men. The lone hunter was
-ahead of them, talking and pointing toward the forest. Jean
-counted--eight, ten, eleven--and his eyes searched for Lang and
-Thoreau. He cursed the thick snow now. Through it he could not
-make them out. He had drawn back the hammer of his rifle.
-
-At the click of it Kaskisoon moved. He looked at the half-breed.
-His breath came in a low monosyllable of understanding. Over the
-top of the windfall he poked the barrel of his gun. Then he looked
-again at Jean. And Jean turned. Their eyes met. They were eyes red
-and narrowed by the beat of storm. Jean Croisset knew what that
-silence meant. He might have spoken. But no word moved his lips.
-Unseen, his right hand made a cross over his heart. Deep in his
-soul he thought a prayer.
-
-Jean looked again at the huddled group about the door. And beside
-him there was a terrible silence. He held his breath, his heart
-ceased to beat, and then there came the crashing roar of the
-Cree's heavy gun, and one of the group staggered out with a shriek
-and fell face downward in the snow. Even then Jean's finger
-pressed lightly on the trigger of his rifle as he tried to
-recognize Lang. Another moment, and half a dozen rifles were
-blazing in their direction. It was then that he fired. Once,
-twice--six times, as fast as he could pump the empty cartridges
-out of his gun and fresh ones into the chamber. With the sixth
-came again the thunderous roar of the Cree's single-loader.
-
-"Pa, Kaskisoon!" cried Jean then. The last of Thoreau's men had
-darted back into the house. Three of their number they had carried
-in their arms. A fourth stumbled and fell across the threshold.
-"Pa! We have done. Quick--kistayetak!"
-
-He darted back over their trail, followed by the Cree. There would
-be no truce now! It was WAR. He was glad that he had come with
-Kaskisoon.
-
-Two hundred yards back in the forest they met Philip and Adare at
-the head of their people.
-
-"They were coming to ambush us when we entered the clearing!"
-shouted Jean. "We drove them back. Four fell under our bullets.
-The place is still full of the devils, M'sieur!"
-
-"It will be impossible to rush the doors," cried Philip, seeing
-the gathering madness in John Adare's face. "We must fight with
-caution, Mon Pere! We cannot throw away lives. Divide our men. Let
-Jean take twelve and you another twelve, and give Kaskisoon his
-own people. That will leave me ten to batter in the doors. You can
-cover the windows with your fire while we rush across the open
-with the one log. There is no need for two."
-
-"Philip is right," added the Missioner in a low voice. "He is
-right, John. It would be madness to attempt to rush the place in a
-body."
-
-Adare hesitated for a moment. His clenched hands relaxed.
-
-"Yes, he is right," he said. "Divide the men."
-
-Fifteen minutes later the different divisions of the little army
-had taken up their positions about the clearing. Philip was in the
-centre, with eight of the youngest and strongest of the forest men
-waiting for the signal to dash forward with the log. First, on his
-right, was Jean and his men, and two hundred yards beyond him the
-master of Adare, concealed in a clump of thick spruce, Kaskisoon
-and his braves had taken the windfalls on the left.
-
-As yet not a man had revealed himself to Thoreau and his band. But
-the dogs had scented them, and they stood watchfully in front of
-the long log building, barking and whining.
-
-From where he crouched Philip could see five windows. Through
-these would come the enemy's fire. He waited. It was Jean who was
-to begin, and draw the first shots. Suddenly the half-breed and
-his men broke from cover. They were scattered, darting low among
-the boulders and bush, partly protected and yet visible from the
-windows.
-
-Philip drew himself head and shoulders over his log as he watched.
-He forgot himself in this moment when he was looking upon men
-running into the face of death. In another moment came the crash
-of rifles muffled behind log walls. He could hear the whine of
-bullets, the ZIP, ZIP, ZIP of them back in the spruce and cedar.
-
-Another hundred yards beyond Jean, he saw John Adare break from
-his cover like a great lion, his men spreading out like a pack of
-wolves. Swiftly Philip turned and looked to the left. Kaskisoon
-and his braves were advancing upon the Nest with the elusiveness
-of foxes. At first he could not see them. Then, as Adare's voice
-boomed over the open, they rose with the suddenness of a flight of
-partridges, and ran swift-footed straight in the face of the
-windows. Thus far the game of the attackers had worked without
-flaw. Thoreau and his men would be forced to divide their fire,
-
-It had taken perhaps three quarters of a minute for the first
-forward rush of the three parties, and during this time the fire
-from the windows had concentrated upon Jean and his men. Philip
-looked toward them again. They were in the open. He caught his
-breath, stared--and counted eight! Two were missing.
-
-He turned to his own men, crouching and waiting. Eight were ready
-with the log. Two others were to follow close behind, prepared to
-take the place of the first who fell. He looked again out into the
-open field. There came a long clear cry from the half-breed, a
-shout from Adare, a screaming, animal-like response from
-Kaskisoon, and at those three signals the forest people fell
-behind rocks, bits of shrub, and upon their faces. In that same
-breath the crash of rifles in the open drowned the sound of those
-beyond the wall of the Nest. From thirty rifles a hail of bullets
-swept through the windows. This was Philip's cue. He rose with a
-sharp cry, and behind him came the eight with the battering-ram.
-It was two hundred yards from their cover to the building. They
-passed the last shelter, and struck the open on a trot. Now rose
-from the firing men behind rock and bush a wild and savage cheer.
-Philip heard John Adare roaring his encouragement. With each shot
-of the Crees came a piercing yell.
-
-Yard by yard they ran on, the men panting in their excitement.
-Then came the screech of a bullet, and the shout on Philip's lips
-froze into silence. At first he thought the bullet had struck. But
-it had gone a little high. A second--a third--and the biting dust
-of a shattered rock spat into their faces. With a strange thrill
-Philip saw that the fire was not coming from the windows. Flashes
-of smoke came from low under the roof of the building. Thoreau and
-his men were firing through loopholes! John Adare and Jean saw
-this, and with loud cries they led their men fairly out into the
-open in an effort to draw the fire from Philip and the log-
-bearers. Not a shot was turned in their direction.
-
-A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band. One of the
-log-bearers crumpled down without a moan. Instantly his place was
-filled. Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the
-line, clutched a hand to his breast, and sank into the snow. The
-last man filled his place. They were only a hundred yards from the
-door now, but without a rock or a stump between them and death.
-Another of the log-bearers rolled out from the line, and Philip
-sprang into the vacancy. A fourth, a fifth--and with a wild cry
-of horror John Adare called upon Philip to drop the log.
-
-Nothing but the bullets could stop the little band now. Seventy
-yards! Sixty! Only fifty more--and the man ahead of Philip fell
-under his feet. The remaining six staggered over him with the log.
-And now up from behind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his
-men, firing blindly at the loopholes, and enveloping the men along
-the log in those last thirty yards that meant safety from the fire
-above. And behind him came John Adare, and from the south
-Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling, triumphant horde of avengers
-now at the very doors of the Devil's Nest!
-
-Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle of
-blood running over his face. He heard the first thunder of the
-battering-ram against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare,
-and then a hand like ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up
-in the snow. In an instant he was on his knees at the half-breed's
-side. Jean was not dead. But in his eyes was a fading light that
-struck Philip with terror. A wan smile crept over his lips. With
-his head in Philip's arm, he whispered:
-
-"M'sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung. I do not know,
-but I am afraid." His voice was strangely steady. But in his eyes
-was that swiftly fading light! "If should go--you must know," he
-went on, and Philip bent low to hear his words above the roar of
-voices and the crashing of the battering-ram. "You must know--to
-take my place in the fight for Josephine. I think--you have
-guessed it. The baby was not Josephine's. IT WAS MIRIAM'S!"
-
-"Yes, yes, Jean!" cried Philip into the fading eyes. "That was
-what I guessed!"
-
-"Don't blame her--too much," struggled Jean. "She went down into a
-world she didn't know. Lang--trapped her. And Josephine, to save
-her, to save the baby, to save her father--did as Munito the White
-Star did to save the Cree god. You know. You understand. Lang
-followed--to demand Josephine as the price of her mother. M'sieur,
-YOU MUST KILL HIM! GO!"
-
-The door had fallen in with a crash, and now over the crime-
-darkened portals of the Devil's Nest poured the avengers, with
-John Adare at their head.
-
-"Go!" gasped Jean, almost rising to his knees. "You must meet this
-Lang before John Adare!"
-
-Philip sprang to his feet. The last of the forest people had
-poured through the door. Alone he stood--and stared. But not
-through the door! Two hundred yards away a man was flying along
-the edge of the forest, and he had come FROM BEHIND THE WALLS OF
-THE DEVIL'S NEST! He recognized him. It was Lang, the man he was
-to kill!
-
-
-
-
-
-CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
-
-
-In a moment the flying figure of the Free Trader had disappeared.
-With a last glance at Jean, who was slowly sinking back into the
-snow, Philip dashed in pursuit. Where Lang had buried himself in
-the deeper forest the trees grew so thick that Philip, could not
-see fifty yards ahead of him. But Lang's trail was distinct--and
-alone. He was running swiftly. Philip had noticed that Lang had no
-rifle, He dropped his own now, and drew his pistol. Thus
-unencumbered he made swifter progress. He had expected to overtake
-Lang within four or five hundred yards; but minute followed minute
-in the mad race without another view of his enemy. He heard a few
-faint shouts back in the direction of the Devil's Nest, the
-barking of dogs, and half a dozen shots, the sounds growing
-fainter and fainter. And then Lang's trail led him unexpectedly
-into one of the foot-beaten aisles of the forest where there were
-the tracks of a number of men.
-
-At this point the thick spruce formed a roof over-head that had
-shut out the fresh snow, and Philip lost several minutes before he
-found the place where Lang had left the trail to bury himself
-again in the unblazed forest. Half a mile farther he followed the
-Free Trader's trail without catching a glimpse of the man. He was
-at least a mile from the Devil's Nest when he heard sounds ahead
-of him. Beyond a clump of balsam he heard the voices of men, and
-then the whine of a cuffed dog. Cautiously he picked his way
-through the thick cover until he crouched close to the edge of a
-small open. In an instant it seemed as though his heart had leapt
-from his breast into his throat, and was choking him. Within fifty
-paces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But for a moment he
-scarcely saw them, or the powerful team of eight huskies,
-harnessed and waiting. For on the sledge, a cloth bound about her
-mouth, her hands tied behind her, was Josephine!
-
-At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The one
-thought that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and
-Thoreau had fooled the forest people--Josephine had not been taken
-to the Devil's Nest, and the two were attempting to get away with
-her.
-
-A cry burst from his lips as he ran from cover. Instantly the pair
-were facing him. Lang was still panting from his run. He held no
-weapons. In the crook of Thoreau's arm rested a rifle. Swift as a
-flash he raised it to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at
-Philip's breast. Josephine had turned. From her smothered lips
-came a choking cry of agony. Philip had now raised his automatic.
-It was level with his waistline. From that position he had trained
-himself to fire with the deadly precision that is a part of the
-training of the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted. Before
-Thoreau's forefinger had pressed the trigger of his rifle a stream
-of fire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic.
-
-Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifle
-dropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down
-into the snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like
-lightning from the black-muzzled Savage had passed completely
-through his body. It had all happened in a space so short that
-Lang had not stirred. Now he found himself looking into that
-little engine of death. With a cry of fear he staggered back.
-
-Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness
-that had been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than
-a wolf, one of the many at Devil's Nest. Lang was different. For
-all things this monster was accountable. He had no desire to
-shoot. He wanted to reach him with his HANDS--to choke the life
-from him slowly, to hear from his own blackening lips the
-confession that had come through Jean Croisset.
-
-He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was
-struggling to free her hands, but it was only in a swift glance
-that he saw this. In the same breath he had dropped his pistol and
-was at Lang's throat. They went down together. Even Thoreau, a
-giant in size and strength, would not have been a match for him
-now. Every animal passion in him was roused to its worst.
-
-Lang's jaws shot apart, his eyes protruded, his tongue came out--
-the breath rattled in his throat. Then for a moment Philip's
-death-grip relaxed. He bent down until his lips were close to the
-death-filled face of his victim.
-
-"The truth, Lang, or I'll kill you!" he whispered hoarsely.
-
-And then he asked the question--and as he asked Josephine freed
-her hands. She tore the cloth from her mouth, but before she could
-rush forward, through Lang's mottling lips had come the choking
-words:
-
-"It was Miriam's."
-
-Again Philip's fingers sank in their death-grip in Lang's throat.
-Twenty seconds more and he would have fulfilled his pact with
-Jean. A scream from Josephine turned his eyes for an instant from
-his victim. Out of that same cover of balsam three men were
-rushing upon him. A glance told him they were not of the forest
-people. He had time to gain his feet before they were upon him.
-
-It was a fight for life now, and his one hope lay in the fact that
-his assailants, escaping from the Nest, did not want to betray
-themselves by using firearms. The first man at him he struck a
-terrific blow that sent him reeling. A second caught his arm
-before he could recover himself--and then it was the hopeless
-struggle of one against three.
-
-Josephine stood free. She had seen Philip drop his pistol and she
-sprang to the spot where it had fallen. It was buried under the
-snow. The four men were on the ground now, Philip under. She heard
-a gasping sound--and then, far away, something else: a sound that
-thrilled her, that sent her voice back through the forest in cry
-after cry.
-
-What she heard was the wailing cry of the dog pack, her pack,
-following over the trail which her abductors had made in their
-flight from Adare House! A few steps away she saw a heavy stick in
-the snow. Fiercely she tore it loose, ran back to the men, and
-began striking blindly at those who were choking the life from
-Philip.
-
-Lang had risen to his knees, clutching his throat, and now
-staggered toward her. She struck at him, and he caught the club.
-The dogs heard her cries now. Half a mile back in the forest they
-were coming in a gray, fierce horde. Only Josephine knew, as she
-struggled with Lang. Under his assailants, Philip's strength was
-leaving him. Iron fingers gripped at his throat. A flood of fire
-seemed bursting his head. Josephine's cries were drifting farther
-and farther away, and his face was as Lang's face had been a few
-moments before.
-
-Nearer and nearer swept the pack, covering that last half mile
-with the speed of the wind, the huge yellow form of Hero leading
-the others by a body's length. They made no sound now. When they
-shot out of the forest into the little opening they had come so
-silently that even Lang did not see them. In another moment they
-were upon him. Josephine staggered back, her eyes big and wild
-with horror. She saw him go down, and then his shrieks rang out
-like a madman's. The others were on their feet, and not until she
-saw Philip lying still and white on the snow did the power of
-speech return to her lips. She sprang toward the dogs.
-
-"KILL! KILL! KILL!" she cried. "Hero--KILL! NIPA HAO, boys!
-Beaver--Wolf--Hero--Captain--KILL--KILL--KILL!"
-
-As her own voice rang out, Lang's screams ceased, and then she saw
-Philip dragging himself to his knees. At her calls there came a
-sudden surge in the pack, and those who could not get at Lang
-leaped upon the remaining three. With a cry Josephine fell upon
-her knees beside Philip, clasping his head in her arms, holding
-him in the protection of her own breast as they looked upon the
-terrible scene.
-
-For a moment more she looked, and then she dropped her face on
-Philip's shoulder with a ghastly cry. Still partly dazed, Philip
-stared. Screams such as he had never heard before came from the
-lips of the dying men. From screams they turned to moaning cries,
-and then to a horrible silence broken only by the snarling grind
-of the maddened dogs.
-
-Strength returned to Philip quickly. He felt Josephine limp and
-lifeless in his arms, and with an effort he staggered to his feet,
-half carrying her. A few yards away was a small tepee in which
-Lang had kept her. He partly carried, partly dragged her to this,
-and then he returned to the dogs.
-
-Vainly he called upon them to leave their victims. He was seeking
-for a club when through the balsam thicket burst John Adare and
-Father George at the head of a dozen men. In response to Adare's
-roaring voice the pack slunk off. The beaten snow was crimson.
-Even Adare, as he faced Philip, could find no words in his horror.
-Philip pointed to the tepee.
-
-"Josephine--is there--safe," he gasped. As Adare rushed into the
-tepee Philip swayed up to Father George.
-
-"I am dizzy--faint," he said. "Help me--"
-
-He went to Lang and dropped upon his knees beside him. The man was
-unrecognizable. His head was almost gone. Philip thrust a hand
-inside his fang-torn coat--and pulled out a long envelope. It was
-addressed to the master of Adare. He staggered to his feet, and
-went to Thoreau. In his pocket he found the second envelope.
-Father George was close beside him as he thrust the two in his own
-pocket. He turned to the forest men, who stood like figures turned
-to stone, gazing upon the scene of the tragedy.
-
-"Carry them--out there," said Philip, pointing into the forest.
-"And then--cover the blood with fresh snow."
-
-He still clung to Father George's arm as he staggered toward a
-near birch.
-
-"I feel weak--dizzy," he repeated again. "Help me--pull off some
-bark."
-
-A strange, inquiring look filled the Missioner's face as he tore
-down a handful of bark, and at Philip's request lighted a match.
-In an instant the bark was a mass of flame. Into the fire he put
-the letters.
-
-"It is best--to burn their letters," he said. Beyond this he gave
-no explanation. And Father George asked no questions.
-
-They followed Adare into the tepee. Josephine was sobbing in her
-father's arms. John Adare's face was that of a man who had risen
-out of black despair into day.
-
-"Thank God she has not been harmed," he said.
-
-Philip knelt beside them, and John Adare gave Josephine into his
-arms. He held her close to his breast, whispering only her name--
-and her arms crept up about him. Adare rose and stood beside
-Father George.
-
-"I will go back and attend to the wounded, Philip," he said. "Jean
-is one of those hurt. It isn't fatal."
-
-He went out. Father George was about to follow when Philip
-motioned him back.
-
-"Will you wait outside for a few minutes?" he asked in a low
-voice. "We shall need you--alone--Josephine and I."
-
-And now when they were gone, he raised Josephine's face, and said:
-
-"They are all gone, Josephine--Lang, Thoreau, AND THE LETTERS.
-Lang and Thoreau are dead, and I have burned the letters. Jean was
-shot. He thought he was dying, and he told me the truth that I
-might better protect you. Sweetheart, there is nothing more for me
-to know. The fight is done. And Father George is waiting--out
-there--to make us man and wife. No one will ever know but
-ourselves--and Jean. I will tell Father George that it has been
-your desire to have a SECOND marriage ceremony performed by him;
-that we want our marriage to be consecrated by a minister of the
-forests. Are you ready, dear? Shall I call him in?"
-
-For a full minute she gazed steadily into his eyes, and Philip did
-not break the wonderful silence. And then, with a deep sigh, her
-head drooped to his breast. After a moment he heard her whisper:
-
-"You may call him in, Philip. I guess--I've got to be--your wife."
-
-And as the logs of the Devil's Nest sent up a pall of smoke that
-rose to the skies, Metoosin crouched shiveringly far back in the
-gloom of the pit, wondering if the dogs he had loosed had come to
-the end of the trail.
-
-THE END
-The Project Gutenberg Etext of God's Country--And the Woman
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