The burden upon the man’s soul grew heavier with every step homeward. He
was going to meet his wife, the woman he had wronged, the woman who was
to him the very centre of his being, the dearest of all he possessed in
life, without whose respect and love life would lose its meaning and
value. As to the Indian woman and her wrong, truth to tell, though he
pitied her, he felt no very acute concern. True enough, the astonishing
advance she had made during the past five years in the white man’s
civilisation and culture had given her a new place in his consideration.
She was no longer an ignorant squaw whose rights and wrongs could be
estimated in terms purely materialistic. She had developed a mind and a
soul. The memory of that appeal of hers for her son, for his son, calm,
dignified, pungent, still shook him. But his chief concern now was how
to bury this whole wretched business from the knowledge of his wife
beyond possibility of resurrection.
The picture of his wife’s face following the possible revelation of his
sin halted him in his stride and wrung from his soul’s depths a groan.
“My God! My God!” he cried aloud, lifting his hands heavenward. “Let
that never come! Let that never come!”
Sooner death to her, to him, and, as for the Indian and her child, to
them death a thousand times. He wiped the sweat from his face and stood
gazing about him. How changed the whole world was within a brief two
hours’ space! The same mountains, trees, river, sun and sky, yet to him
all seemed flooded with a new light, lurid and awesome. Yet it was not
his sin, but the dread terror of detection, of its consequences, that
had wrought this change in his world. He could not keep his wife’s face
out of his mind. Her dark blue reproachful eyes, sad and
horror-stricken, were holding him in relentless grip. He dreaded facing
her. His artistic and highly emotional temperament, his power of vivid
imagination, gave living reality to the picture. He flung his hands
again high above his head.
“God in Heaven, this is madness!” he exclaimed. “Madness, sheer, fool
madness! She will never know. How can she know?”
He shivered and stamped, as if smitten with mid-winter cold. He glanced
about him. A warm and sunny ledge of rock carpeted with moss and pine
needles invited him. He threw himself down upon it, pulled out his pipe,
deliberately filled it from his pouch and struck a match. The flame
shook in his fingers. He cursed himself for a fool. He was acting like a
frightened child. He raged at himself and his weak folly. He must take a
grip of himself. His pipe helped him to a more normal mood. The mere
performance of the familiar physical act of sucking in and exhaling the
smoke helped him. He held up his hand before him. The discovery that his
hand was no longer shaking helped him. He stretched himself at full
length upon the sunny ledge and let his eyes wander over the scene
spread out before him. Unconsciously, the wild, wide, lonely beauty of
the landscape reached his soul and quieted him. His artist’s eye began
to select, group, compose into a picture, the elements in this wonder
world before him. The very tensity of his nervous condition aided him.
His mind was working with swift constructive power.
“Lord! What a light! What colour!” he said, as his eye rested upon the
rich deep purple in the hollows of the hills on the far side of the
valley. He longed for his brushes. His fingers dived into the pocket of
his jacket for his sketch book, without which he never walked abroad. In
another moment he was deep in his work, sketching with swift, sure
fingers, filling in the outlines, noting the colours, the lights, the
shadows, the fall of foothills from the great mountain peaks, the
serried lines of the pines at the horizon, the broad silver ribbon of
the river, the tawny gold of the grassy levels. He had an hour of
absorbing delight in his work.
“There! Never did anything finer!” he exulted. He rapidly reviewed his
work, re-touching, emphasising, correcting.
“I’ll get that into colour at once,” he muttered, thrusting his book
into his pocket. The act recalled him to the grim reality of his
situation.
He was surprised to discover that most of its horror had somehow gone.
He was immensely relieved.
“What a baby I am!” he said, with a smile of complacent self-pity. “What
an emotional, imaginative ass!” But even as he spoke he felt the shadows
creeping again over the landscape of his soul.
“Here! Enough of this!” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “I’m going
to face this thing like a man. I played the fool. I’ll do the right
thing by the girl—and her baby.”
Her baby? His mind was away on a new tack, like a ship caught by a
sudden shift of wind. His baby? His son? Indian or white? Or half-breed?
What! His son! Truly, he was in a devilish cleft. Well he knew, none
better, for he had lived with and worked with him, that, of all the
human beings roving the new country, the half-breed, in spite of many
splendid exceptions which he had met, was the most to be pitied, the
most despicable. Too often inheriting the weaknesses and vices of both
races, he was the derelict of the borderland of civilisation. Settled
down upon the land, as in the Red River Valley, he could climb to
strength and honour among the white race. Roving the plains and the
woods with the tribes, he frequently sank beneath their level, more
easily accessible to the vices of the white man, unable and unwilling to
attain to the splendid and unspoiled nobility of the red man in his
native wilds. Indian or white man? Again he could hear that calm,
passionless voice putting to him the alternative, clearly he visualised
those steady, relentless eyes holding his with unwavering grip. The
problem was his, not hers. Alone, she would,, she must find the only
solution possible; his son would be Indian—no, not even Indian, but
half-breed. He was conscious of a fearful shrinking from that
alternative. He had a very clear picture of the little chap, with his
straight back, his sturdy legs, his shy, dark, yet fearless eyes, the
curl to his hair. Ho! He would give the boy a chance! With a mother like
that he had a right to a chance. He would have him educated.
Trader—trapper—rancher—there were many possibilities open to him of
escape from the degradation of the roving half-breed, haunting the
Indian wigwam, slinking round the saloons of the frontier village. He
would give him a chance. He would keep a distant eye upon him. The
little chap should have his full opportunity, for manhood, for Canadian
citizenship. After all, it would be easy enough. The whole thing could
be arranged to do justice to every one involved.
He smiled at his recent terror. But again, even as he smiled, deep
within him there was an uneasy stirring that his terrors would come upon
him again when his mood had changed. For the present he had shaken from
him his fear. He would meet his wife with a quiet face and a steady eye.
He sprang to his feet. He must get home quickly. The lunch hour was long
since past, and explanations would be expected. Well, they were easy: he
had carried the woman’s bundle to her camp by the Big Rapid. He set off,
whistling bravely a merry lilt. A sudden memory killed the song at his
lips. There was his son Paul. He had witnessed the meeting with the
Indian woman. Just what had been said and done, he could not well
remember, the shock of the meeting had been so overpowering. The boy’s
powers of perception were uncanny and, too, he was free of speech,
terribly so. What had he noticed? What were the boy’s thoughts about
that meeting and conversation? That there had been previous acquaintance
had been made clear. Had he not called her by her Indian name? He was
almost sure he had. He could not deny acquaintance. Well! It was safest
not to deny too much. Of course, he had met her and her people in his
wanderings, had hunted with her tribe—very decent lot they were too,
they had done him a good turn and were great friends of his. There must
be no mystery about this. Yes, he would take Paul to visit their camp
some day, as doubtless the boy would demand. But he would take care that
the camp would be deserted on the day of the visit. It was all simple
enough. Why make such a fuss about it? The main consideration was to get
the Indian woman and her people out of the country with all speed, and
that he could accomplish without much difficulty. When he had arrived at
this satisfactory conclusion, however, he made the disturbing discovery
that that vast sense of relief, that scorn of himself and of his
childish terror, which had cheered him half an hour ago, had largely
evaporated from his spirit, and once more the haunting dread of
discovery was upon him. Once more he found himself visualising the
accusing face, the steady, disquieting eye of his wife. Again he cursed
himself for a fool.
“Imagination! My damned imagination!” he muttered, as he smashed his way
through the bushes. “Look here, this will not do,” he said aloud, coming
to a dead stop. “I must get hold of myself.”
Resolutely he slowed his pace. Suddenly with a sickening sinking of
heart, it came upon him that henceforth throughout his life he must
carry this haunting load of fear. He would never be without it. Be it
so! He would carry it as a man should. He would face the fear and fight
it. He would play the man for his own sake, but more for the sake of the
woman to whom he was now going with his lie and who stood to him for all
that was best in life. For his boy’s sake too. No shadow would lie
suffer to fall on them if lie had to go through hell itself for it. This
resolve steadied him, and with this resolve he arrived at his own back
door. His son’s shout welcomed him.
“Hello, Daddy! Where are they? Where is their camp? Will you take me to
see them?”
“Who? Oh, the Indians! Yes, they are safely at their camp. Long way off
though. I’ll take you some day. I say, I am hungry! Lunch over?”
“Yes, Daddy, we couldn’t wait any longer. Where is the camp? Do you know
them? Where did you meet them? Mother,” he shouted, as she came to the
door, “Daddy’s going to take me to the Indian camp.”
“Why did she run away like that, Hugh? That little boy needs care. He
will be having another attack. They should be under shelter.”
He glanced at her face. How worn and ill and worried she looked!
“Oh, don’t you worry about that little chap. You can’t kill those
Indians. They’re all right. Very decent lot they are,” he went on
nonchalantly, “better than most. Father’s quite a superior old boy.
Chippewayans they are. Met them some time ago. Did some hunting with
them. But here! I’m hungry as a hawk, starving, ravenous, dangerous.
Anything left to eat? Oh, by the way, got a fine picture this morning on
my way back. Wonderful thing—lights just right. Must get it down this
afternoon before I forget.”
“Come, Hugh, never mind your picture now. You must be famished. Come
along. I’ve kept your lunch hot for you. It is quite spoiled, of course,
but——” Her arms went about his neck. He could hardly repress a shudder
as he received her kisses.
“Never mind, Mother,” he said brusquely, “it will be the best ever. Let
me splash my face a bit. Run off, Paul, now. After lunch we will have a
walk.”
“Oh, splendid! To the camp, to see the Indians?” shouted the boy. “I
adore Indians. What——”
“Off you go, boy, and let me get through with my lunch. Vamoose! Clear
out! Do you hear?” he shouted at the boy with mock fierceness.
Thank God, the first meeting was safely over. He had carried it off
successfully. His spirits rose with a bound. He must get them thinking
of something else. Preoccupation was the idea. His new picture! He would
put some hard hours upon that. His wife would be interested and pleased.
She always was when he really worked at his easel, and more especially
when he carried the thing through to completion. He would put the
finishing touches to this picture. The scene began to come back to him.
He brought his sketch book to the lunch table with him.
“There is the making of a great picture, Marion,” he cried, opening out
the book for her.
Eagerly she came to his side, and stood with her hand on his shoulder.
“Show me, dear,” she said. Her tenderness was like a knife in him.
“See that line of mountains in the far distance, wonderful blue at the
sky line, and down the sides in the hollows and at the base purple. My
dear! Such purple—shot through with rose tints!” He grew enthusiastic.
“There, that will do, Hugh!” she said, taking away his sketch book from
him and patting his head as if he were a little boy. “Lunch just now,
and then you will get at your picture right after. You are starved. Your
lunch is spoiled, I fear, but it is the very best Jinny could do.”
All through lunch he talked eagerly, excitedly, about his picture. His
art work always excited him, and when a scene really gripped his
imagination he was mad to be at it. He hurried through his meal, seized
his sketch book, and in a minute was busy with his palette. An hour
later his wife came in to him and, sitting down in an easy chair,
watched him at his work. Back and forward, with quick step and with
eager, clever fingers, he touched and re-touched, spreading upon the
canvas the scene of the morning, with never a pause and never an
erasure. He had rarely worked so surely, rarely with such mastery in his
brush.
“Splendid! Hugh, wonderful!” said his wife. Something in her voice
arrested his swiftly moving brush. He faced about and glanced at her.
Her face was ashen. His heart sank with a terrible fear—did she suspect
anything?
“Marion, you are ill,” he cried, flinging down his brush and palette.
“What is it?”
“Nothing much, dear,” she said wearily. “I am tired a bit. The morning
has been a little trying.”
“What do you mean, darling?”
“The Indian woman,” she said faintly.
“The Indian woman?” he echoed, his voice as faint as her own. Had the
thing he dreaded come to pass? “What do you mean?”
Then she told him of her experience with the sick child and the fight
with death, in which she had played the chief rôle.
“It was a very serious case, Hugh,” she said. “It made me think of our
little Marie. The little fellow was just gone when I got him into the
tub. He must be a very, very strong child, stronger than——”
He was immensely relieved for the moment.
“But, my dear Marion, you have knocked yourself up. You are all in, I
say. And all for a little Indian brat——”
“Oh, Hugh! He was a perfect darling. I never saw a more lovely, a more
perfect little body—and so fair for an Indian.”
“But it nearly killed you.” His recent scare and his anxiety for his
wife’s condition made him savage. “You should not have done it. You know
well you cannot stand excitement.”
“Dear Hugh,” she said, drawing his head down to her breast, “I love you
when you are in a rage like this. But, darling boy,” she paused a few
moments, “I am going to tell you something, and promise me you will be
very, very brave. Indeed, you must be brave, for I am such a coward. I
fear there is something wrong, terribly wrong with me. I have had such a
strange, heavy pain here for so long.” She laid her hand upon her
stomach. “I am afraid, Hugh, afraid.” Her voice died away in a whisper.
He was about to break forth into indignant, scornful protest against
such nonsense, but when he looked into her face his words died at his
lips, his heart grew cold and he could only continue gazing at her.
“Don’t, Hugh!” she cried. “You must not look like that, or I cannot bear
it.”
For answer he groaned like a man who has been stricken with a death
wound, put his arms round her and held her in a shuddering embrace. For
a moment or two his world had gone black, but only for a moment or two.
“No, Marion,” he said, with resolute voice, “we shall not yield to our
fears. You gave me an awful shock. There may be something quite
seriously wrong. It would be foolish to say anything else. I have seen
you failing in strength for a few months past. But we are not going to
give up. There are wonderful doctors in the world today. We are going to
fight and fight with all we’ve got to fight with.”
“Thank you, dear Hugh. You are a brave man.” Then she added brightly, “I
want you to do something for me today.”
“Anything! Today or any day,” he said fervently. “I only hope it is hard
enough. What is it, dear?”
“Finish that picture. You know your failing, dear. It is going to be
wonderful.”
He looked at her aghast. “You have surely asked a hard one,” he
murmured.
“I know, dear, but I want to sit here and watch that picture grow under
your hands till it is quite perfect. Come, Hugh, I am feeling better. I
have been feeling much better the last few weeks. It was the sudden
excitement and the heavy work this morning. The little chap is quite a
weight, you know. I shall be better tomorrow. Now, get to work, dear
boy. See, that light over the left background is too high, I think.”
Dully his eyes followed her finger, as she pointed out defects and
excellencies in the picture. Suddenly he picked up his brush.
“I’ll do it! I’ll finish it for your sake! I haven’t often done it, but
I’ll finish this before I do a stroke of anything else.”
There was still abundance of light throughout the long spring afternoon,
while hour after hour he wrought at his canvas under the inspiration of
a great scene, listening to his wife’s approving or critical comments,
discussing with her lights and shadows, distance, composition, balance,
giving her the while a simple and perfect joy. As the best of the light
failed she drew him away from his easel and, after tea, out into the
soft spring evening.
There was something very tender in their love for each other that
evening. It was an hour that Gaspard never forgot for all the following
years of his life. In his wife there was an almost unreal buoyancy of
spirit in reaction from her depression of the morning, a subtle
sweetness of charm, a delicate tenderness that brought back to him the
early days of their betrothal when just to hear her speak, to watch the
color come into her cheek, to catch the mystic, meaningful look in her
eye, which he knew was for him alone, had been wont to work in him a joy
beyond words to express, an exaltation of imaginative ecstasy which had
power to turn Glasgow’s muddy streets and solidly dull tenements into
“pathways of silver and palaces of gold.” Slowly they walked down the
driveway, under the tall red pines which now were standing like rigid
sentinels in the windless silence of the soft spring air. Far across the
valley stood the distant mountains, now showing dark blue in clean-cut
outline against a sky of wonderful, quivering liquid gold, and between
the mountains and the bench of foothills on which stood their home lay
the broad valley still deep in soft yellow sunshine reflected from the
sky overhead, except where the shadows from the mountain peaks fell in
long dark lances and where the masses of the pine tops showed a deep
blue black. A hushed stillness had fallen upon the world, except for the
exquisite notes of the meadow lark which now and then fell upon the
silent air, liquid and golden, as from no other living bird in any known
land. As they walked thus beneath the pines, holding each other’s hand
like children, the sweet sad beauty of the dying day, the mystic silence
of the wide valley at their feet, the deep shadow of the pines splashed
with wide pools of gold, the liquid bell-like note of the bird, like a
voice from another world, all together brought a great ease to strained
nerves and tortured hearts.
“It is a good world, Hugh, a dear, good world,” said his wife as they
stood together drinking in with all their senses the beauty, the glory,
the soft tender silence of the falling evening.
“The best ever,” replied her husband, “if only——”
“Oh, let’s have no ‘if’ today. I’ve had a wonderful afternoon. You’ve
given me a wonderful afternoon, Hugh. I won’t forget it ever.”
“Forget what?”
“How good you are to me, Hugh,” she said.
“Good to you? Good Lord! But I mean to be! I want to be! You can bank on
that.” His voice grew uncertain.
“I do, I do. I know it well,” she said.
“And you will always believe that?” he asked with a strange intensity.
“Always? No matter what comes?” He threw his arm about her.
“Hugh, I believe you are making love to me.” She laughed happily.
“God knows I am,” he said with emphasis. “And God knows that never will
I do anything else than make love to you, so long as I live. I am really
only beginning to love you.”
“What? You dare to tell me that you have been deceiving me all these
dozen years?”
“Of course I imagined I loved you. But I was only a boy and I was only
beginning to know you. Indeed, I am only beginning to know you now.”
Again she laughed, a happy laugh, the laugh of a carefree light-hearted
girl.
“How serious you are, Hugh, old boy! Let us be happy.”
They returned to the verandah and there, while the night came up from
behind the distant hills, they sat watching in almost complete silence,
needing no words for perfect fellowship, till old Jinny brought in a
dirty and very weary boy to say good-night.