IN THE DEPTHS
Although it would have been pure suicide for anyone to attempt to take
Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark
night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury
to his dog. So, refusing a room in the Mission House, he pitched his
tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside
him.
Here his staunch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector
Wallace had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and
although no one knew exactly what had transpired, whether he had as yet
become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that
the Scotchman would shortly remove the sole obstacle to his marriage to
Julie Breton.
With head in hands, Jean Marcel listened to the news, none the less
bitter because anticipated. The loyal Jules' crude attempt to console
the brokenhearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat's-paw.
Not only had he lost his heart's desire, but his name was now a byword
at Whale River; the woman he held dear and his honor, both gone. There
was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt.
During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who, in his
absence, had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she
never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for
caribou on the barrens and in Fleur's rescue of her master from the
lake.
For the delicacy of the girl in avoiding the tragedy which was plainly
claiming his thoughts, he was deeply grateful. Clearly from the first,
she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. But with what was
evidently a forced gaiety, the girl sought, on the night of his return,
to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future--of
the trying days ahead.
"Come, Jean Marcel," she laughed, speaking to him, as always, in French,
"are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not
told me how you like this muslin gown." She pirouetted on her shapely
moccasined feet challenging his approval. "Henri says I'm growing thin.
Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie,
the Montagnais cook at the Gillies'."
The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding
eyes softened as they followed the trim figure in the simple muslin
gown. It was a rare picture indeed for a man who had but just finished
seven months in the "bush," half the time with the spectre of starvation
haunting his heels--this girl with the dusky eyes and hair, the vivid
memory of whose face he had carried with him into the nameless barrens.
But she belonged to another and he, Jean Marcel, was branded as a
murderer at Whale River, even if he escaped the law.
Presently, when Pere Breton was called from the room to minister to a
Cree convert, Julie became serious.
"Jean Marcel, I have much to say to you; but it is hard--to begin."
"I should think you would have little to say to Jean Marcel."
"Why, because some half-breeds have brought a story to Whale River which
was not true?"
"Well, enough of it is true, Julie, to make the Indians believe, when
they hear it, that Jean Marcel killed his partners to save himself from
starvation."
"Not if Pere Breton and Monsieur Gillies have any influence with the
Crees. They will not allow them to believe such a cruel falsehood,"
protested Julie, vehemently.
Marcel smiled indulgently at the girl's ignorance of Cree psychology.
"The harm is already done," he said. "One man is found stabbed; also the
outfit of another gone. The third man comes back. No matter what M'sieu
Gillies and Pere Henri tell them they will believe the man guilty who
got out alive."
"They will not believe these Lelacs, when they are shown to be liars,"
she insisted, stamping her foot impatiently.
"They have lied about the rifle and fur only, Julie. They are telling
the truth when they say they found Antoine and some of Piquet's outfit.
The rest does not matter except to make me a thief as well as murderer."
"Oh, but it is all so unjust, so terrible to be accused like this when
because of your good heart you wished to bury Antoine decently in the
spring instead of leaving him in the snow where they would never have
found him. It is too----" Julie Breton's voice broke with emotion.
Through tears her dark eyes flashed in protest at the pass to which a
blind fate had brought an innocent man.
Marcel was deeply touched by this revelation of the girl's loyalty; but
her tears roused his heart to a wild beating. Unable to speak, he faced
her, his dark features illumined with the gratitude and love he could
not voice. For a space he sat fighting for the mastery of his emotions.
Then he said huskily:
"Julie Breton, you give me great happiness--when you say you believe
me--are still my friend."
"Oh, la, la! Nonsense!" she cried, dabbing with, a handkerchief at her
wet eyes as she recovered her poise, "you are a boy, so foolish, Jean.
Do you think that we, your friends who know you, will permit this thing?
It is impossible!" And changed the subject, nor did she allow him to
return to it.