SNOW-BOUND
Late in the following afternoon Ethel awoke and lay for a long time
revelling in her new-found happiness, and thinking of the big man who
had come once more into her life, this time bringing her only gladness
and the joy of an infinite love.
Her heart glowed with pride as she thought of the strength and the fine
courage of him, and she flushed as she wondered how, even with the
bonds in her hands, she could have doubted his innocence. Ah, well, she
would never doubt him again.
She smiled fondly, but the smile slowly faded, for in her mind at that
moment was a doubt--a vague, elusive doubt, that rested upon the
slender fabric of a half-breed's fireside tale.
Somewhere in the wild country was another girl--a girl who was
beautiful and who loved this man--_her_ man.
In the small hours of the morning as they talked he had not mentioned
this girl, and Ethel forbore to question him, hoping that he would tell
her of his own accord. But whether or not he purposely avoided the
subject she did not know.
She believed in him--believed in his great love for her, in his
absolute honesty and the new-found strength in him. Yet, hovering like
a specter, intangible, elusive, menacing--the one disturbing element in
her otherwise perfect happiness--was the other girl.
Who was she? What was she? What had she been to him? What had been
their relations? And why had she accompanied him on his journey out of
the woods? The phantom girl took on a sinister form as the question
tantalized her brain.
This wild woman had helped to draw him from the river, had nursed him
through a long sickness. He was under obligations to her, and--was that
the _only obligation_?
The girl flushed hotly, and with an impatient movement flung the
blankets from her, and proceeded to dress.
"I will never, never ask him," she decided, as she sat upon the thick
bearskin in front of the stove and drew on her stockings. "He loves me
and I love him.
"If he tells me it will be of his own free will; he shall not know that
I ever heard of this girl. What is past, is past. There are sealed
chapters in the lives of most men--why should I care?
"He is mine--mine!" she cried aloud, "and I love him!"
But deep down in her heart she knew that she did care--and that she
would always care. And the knowledge hurt.
Her toilet completed, the girl passed into the other room, where
Appleton and Sheridan were engaged in a lively discussion with the
ladies.
"How is he?" She addressed her uncle, who answered with twinkling eyes.
"Bill? Oh, he's all right. Feeling fit as a fiddle. Wanted to get out
on the job, but I wouldn't let him. He was going anyhow, and the only
way I could make him stay in was to threaten to wake you up to give him
his orders straight from headquarters."
Ethel blushed furiously as the smiles of the others were directed
toward her. "Yup, he wouldn't stand for that," went on Appleton. "Said
he'd rather lie in bed for a week than have you puttering around."
With a disdainful toss of her head the girl seated herself at the
table.
"Now, Hubert Appleton, you stop teasing that poor girl!" Aunt Margaret
rallied in her defence. "Don't pay any attention to him, honey. Bill is
doing nicely, and we're all crazy to congratulate you. We think he is
just _grand_!"
Dinner had been kept piping hot, and Ethel hid her confusion behind an
appetizing array of steaming dishes.
"And what do you think?" continued her aunt, who hovered about the
table with fussy little pats and arrangement of dishes, "we have to
stay here all winter!"
"What?" cried the girl in dismay.
"That is just what we both said--Mary and I. But there is no help for
it. The tote-road is drifted twenty feet deep. Hubert and Mr. Sheridan
are going to make the trip on snowshoes; they must get back to
business. The supplies will have to be brought in on dog-sleds, and we
have got to stay."
"I'll bet Ethel could think of a worse predicament," grinned Appleton.
"She'll be a regular sourdough before spring; won't want to come out."
"But I have nothing to wear!"
"Nothing to wear!" scoffed her uncle. "Tell me, please, what in time
you women have got packed in those half a dozen trunks, then? It's not
grub. I'll bet there's clothes enough in those trunks to last three
women fourteen years! Still, if you really get cold, you might ask Bill
to lend you a pair of his----"
"Hubert Appleton!" The lumberman glanced at his wife in surprise. "A
pair of his moccasins--they'll keep your toes warm."
The girl finished her belated dinner, and throwing a coat over her
shoulders stepped out into the clear, crisp air. Immediately in front
of the building the wind had swept the ground almost bare of snow, but
Ethel gasped with surprise as her eyes sought the other buildings of
the camp.
The blacksmith's shop was entirely buried under a huge drift; only one
half of the cook-shack roof was visible, and the bunk-house was buried
to the eaves. A twenty-foot drift cut off the view of the stables, and
the whole crew was busy digging paths and breaking out skidways.
The storm had ceased as suddenly as it had come, and the sun shone with
dazzling whiteness upon the mystic, snow-buried world.
In the office she found Bill fully dressed, propped against his
pillows, a villainous black pipe between his lips, reading. He laid
aside his book and pipe and stretched his arms toward her.
She crossed, blushing, to his side, and for a long time sat with her
head resting upon his shoulder, while his great arms held her close
against his beating heart.
And under the spell of his presence and his gently murmured words of
love, the disquieting fear vanished, and she knew that he was all hers.
And she laughed at her fear, and drove it from her in the foolish
belief that it could never return.
"Dear," she said later when their conversation assumed an intelligible
form, "you must send those bonds back by Uncle Appleton. Just
think--your father thinks you _stole_ them!"
The man smiled:
"Yes, poor old dad. It must be kind of rough on him to think his son is
a thief. He was sore that morning, and so was I, and we didn't part the
best of friends. But I would rather return the bonds myself. Darling,
we will take them to him, you and I, next summer, when we go back to
the old town."
"Go back!" exclaimed the girl.
"Sure. When we go back on our honeymoon. Now that I have you I am
never, never going to let you go, and when next you see the big burg,
you will be Mrs. Bill Carmody."
He kissed the serious blue eyes that looked up into his.
"But, dear, we are coming back here?"
"Back here!" he exclaimed in surprise. "You! Back here! In the woods!"
The girl nodded.
"I love the woods; I will always love them. It was in the woods that
you found _yourself_ and your place among men. And it was in the woods
that I found you--the _real_ you--the _you_ I have always loved!"
"But, dear heart, it is a rough life up here. It is new to you now, and
you are enchanted; but there is so much you would miss. I have to come
back, of course--will have to for several years to come. We could have
a house in Minneapolis, and Charlie could go to school."
"What! And only have you for five or six months in the year? No, _sir_!
Charlie could live with Uncle and Aunt Margaret and go to school, but
you and I are coming into the woods.
"Aunt Margaret lived in camps for years when she was first married, and
they were as poor as church mice. She told me all about it. Of course,
there is hard work; but it is all so big, and grand, and free, and
there is lots of fun, too, and you will have to teach me to shoot and
walk on snowshoes and fish through holes cut in the ice.
"I can cook and sew, and we will have a victrola, and lots of books and
things--anyway, that is the way it is going to be, so there is no use
arguing about it." And the boss smiled as he realized what Appleton
meant when he said: "Orders straight from headquarters."
The two lumbermen took their departure the following morning amid the
hearty farewells of the snow-bound camp. They were accompanied by Blood
River Jack, who reluctantly agreed to see the dog-team tote service
established before returning to his lodge at the foot of the rapid.
"We'll come up for you in the spring," called Appleton, "and we'll
follow the drive in a bateau. You got a bigger taste of the old life
than you bargained for, little girl," he smiled at his wife; "but the
tote-road is ruined for this winter and you'll have to make the best of
it."
"H. D. and I will sure think of you girls while we're sitting in the
baldheaded pews at the Gaiety this winter gloating over the grand opera
we're missing!" called Sheridan, rolling his cigar juicily between his
grinning lips.
"Men of your age----" began Mrs. Sheridan.
"Hubert Appleton! If I hear----" But the protests of the "girls" fell
upon deaf ears as the men disappeared in the wake of the guide,
slapping each other upon the back in high glee.
The question of grand opera was a joke of long standing between them,
and up to the present had been on the husbands, who, despite their
protests, had manfully endured their annual week of martyrdom.
"Cheer up, ladies," smiled Bill, "the graphophone is a very good one,
and in the office is a whole box of records of my own selection. If we
are snow-bound we will not have to entirely forego even grand opera."