When Blakeman opened the steel grille for his master at an early hour
the day following, the thought uppermost in his mind was the change in
Thayor's appearance. He saw at a glance that the wilderness had put
a firmness into his step and a heartiness in his voice, as well as
a healthy colour in his cheeks, such as he had not seen in him for
years. He would gladly have sacrificed his month's salary to have been
with him, and more than once during his absence had he gone to his
room, finding a certain consolation even in looking for rust spots on
his favourite gun.
With the casting off of his heavy travelling coat and hat, Thayor's
first words were of his daughter.
"And how is Miss Margaret?" he asked, as Blakeman followed him
upstairs with his gun and great-coat.
Dr. Sperry's villainous verdict still rankled in the butler's mind,
and at first he had half decided to tell Thayor all he had overheard
in the teakwood room. Then the pain it would give his master
restrained him.
"Miss Margaret is quite well, sir," he returned in the unctious, calm
voice he assumed in service.
"Ah, that's good. She's asleep, I suppose, at this hour."
"I presume so, sir, as she was out rather late last night. I beg
pardon, sir, but might I ask if you have had good luck?"
"Well, I managed to kill a fine buck, Blakeman," returned his master,
as he continued up the stairs.
"Did you, indeed, sir!" exclaimed Blakeman, his face lighting up.
"Well, I'm happy to hear it, sir--I am, indeed. A full blue-coat, sir,
I dare say."
"Yes, and a splendid set of horns."
They had reached the broad corridor leading to his wife's bedroom,
Blakeman continuing up to Thayor's room with his traps.
Thayor stepped briskly to Alice's door and knocked, then stood there
waiting for her response, keyed up for the scene he knew would ensue
the moment he crossed the threshold. The next instant, in response
to her voice, he opened the door and entered. To his amazement Alice
raised her eyes to his and smiled.
"So you're back," she laughed, re-tying a ribbon at her throat.
"Yes," he replied, closing the door and drawing a chair mechanically
to her bedside. "Yes, I'm back and I've had a good time, dear."
In spite of her disarming welcome he could not dispel a lingering
distrust of her sincerity. "How do I look?" he added.
She leaned toward him, her head pillowed on her hand, and regarded
him intently, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Again he
searched for the truth in her eyes, and again he was baffled.
"Splendid, Sam--like a man who had never been ill."
Instantly the doubt faded. A sense of mingled relief and of intense
happiness stole through him. If she would only believe in him now, he
thought, and understand him, and be a help and a comfort to him.
"I was ill when I left," he continued in a softened tone. "You would
not believe it, dear, but I was. I should have been ill in bed if I
had stayed a day longer."
"Yes," she answered carelessly, "you must have been, otherwise I doubt
if you would have had pluck enough to leave me as you did. It was
quite dramatic, that little exit of yours, Sam."
"And so you got my note?" he inquired, stiffening up, yet determined
to ignore her touch of sarcasm, and so preserve the peace.
"Oh, yes; Blakeman did not forget. He never forgets anything you tell
him. I must say it was very thoughtful of you after our interview a
night or two before." This came with a shrug of her shoulders, the
smile still flickering about her mouth. "Of course you had a good
time?"
"Yes, and I feel twenty years younger," he ventured; "couldn't help
it, the way those men took care of me."
"Who?" she asked, still gazing at him curiously.
"Young Holcomb and--"
"Ah, yes, I remember," she mused, while she played with the lace on
the sleeve of her gown.
"And there was Freme Skinner and a grizzled, kindly old trapper,
named Hite Holt," he added. "I have never met with such sincere
hospitality."
"What deliciously amusing names," she sighed, changing her position
beneath the lace with the swift suppleness of a kitten. "And what luck
hunting?" she asked, as she loosened the ribbon at her throat.
"I killed a smashing big buck," he declared with boyish enthusiasm.
She buried her head once more among the lace pillows and ran one hand
through her wealth of hair.
"So you intend to stay up there all summer?" in the same half playful,
half sneering tone.
"No, dear; I intend to buy a tract of land and build a house, or camp,
that will house you properly."
This last came as a distinct shock, but she did not waver.
"And your decision is final, I suppose," she returned, as she
readjusted her rings. "And when will this be?" she added.
"As soon as I can get the title deeds--not later than a month at the
outside. Would you like me to tell you about the country?"
She shrugged her shoulders, raising herself among the pillows.
"No, I shouldn't know anything more about it."
"But you haven't the slightest idea what Big Shanty Brook is like,"
he said with conviction--"a superb wilderness, an unbroken forest.
Imagine a--"
She raised her hand with a bored little laugh.
"Now, Sam, dear, don't," she protested. "I hate long descriptions of
places; besides, I can imagine it perfectly--a muddy old stream with
a lot of sad looking trees sticking about in a wilderness miles away
from any human being anyone in his or her right mind would ever care
to see. As for your Holcomb and the other two tramps, they would
simply bore me to death."
The assumed tenderness in her voice had vanished now. After all
she had not changed. What he had supposed was a return of the old
cameraderie was but another of her covert sneers.
She drew her knees up under the embroidered coverlid, resting her
chin firmly upon them, and for some moments gazed in dogged silence in
front of her, with half-closed eyes.
"Then you have settled the matter," she said at length, without
looking up.
"Yes," he replied. "You have known for years that I have longed for
just such a place; now I'm going to have it."
She raised herself on her elbow and looked straight at him.
"Then you'll have it to yourself," she burst out, "and you'll live in
it without me; do you understand? You and Margaret can have whatever
you want up there together, but you'll count me out. Oh, you need not
go out of your head," she cried, noticing his sudden anger.
Thayor sprang from his chair, all his anger in his face.
"You'll do as I say!" he exclaimed, "and when my camp up at Big Shanty
Brook is built you will come to it--come to it as any self-respecting
wife should--out of your duty to me and to your daughter."
"I will not!" she retorted, her breast heaving.
"You will do as I say, madam," he returned, lowering his voice. "This
luxury--this nonsensical life you crave is at an end. From this day
forth I intend to be master of my own house and all that it contains.
Do you understand?"
She stared at him fixedly, her hand on her throat. A certain flash of
pride in the man before her welled up in her heart. She hadn't thought
it was in him.
"Yes--and master of you," he went on, pacing before her. "I'll sell
this house if need be!" he cried with a gesture of disgust. "I don't
want it--I never did; it was your making, not mine. Tell me what life
I have had in it? There has not been a day since it was built that
I would not have given twice its cost to be out of it. From this day
forth my time is my own," and with a blow he brought his fist down
on the back of the chair. Then squaring his shoulders he looked
fearlessly into her eyes. Something of the roar of the torrent of
Big Shanty Brook was in his voice as he spoke--something, too, of the
indomitable grit and courage of the old dog.
For some seconds she did not answer. The outburst had given her time
to think, but what move should she make next? Up to now she had lived
as she pleased and had managed to be selfishly happy. She knew he
could force her into a life she loathed, and she realized, too,
that, shrewd and resourceful as her friend the doctor was, there were
obstacles that neither he nor she could overcome. Instantly her course
was determined upon.
"Sam," she began, a forced sob rising in her throat, "I want you to
listen to me." Her voice had changed to one of infinite tenderness;
now it was the voice of a penitent child, asking a favour.
Thayor looked at her in astonishment.
"Well," he said after a moment, strangely moved by the appeal in her
eyes and the sudden pathos in her tones.
"Since you intend to force me into exile, I'm going to make the best
of it. I won't promise you I'll be happy there; I'll simply tell you
I'll make the best of it." He started to speak, but she stopped him.
"I know what my life there will mean; I know how unhappy I shall
be, but I'll go because you want me to--but Sam, dear, I want you to
promise me that for one month in the year I shall be free to go where
I please--alone if I choose. Won't you, Sam?"
Thayor started, but he did not interrupt.
"What I ask is only fair. Everyone needs to be alone--to be free, I
mean, at times--away from everything. You, yourself needed it, and you
went--and how much good it has done you!"
"Yes," he said after a moment's hesitation--"I understand. Yes--that
is fair."
"Is it a bargain?" she asked.
"Yes, it is a bargain," he answered simply. "I accept your condition."
"And you will give me your word of honour not to interfere during all
that month?"
He put out his hand.
"Yes, you shall have your month. And now, Alice, can't we be friends
once more? I've been brutal to you, I know," he said, bending over
her. "I am sorry I lost my temper; try to understand me better. I am
so tired of these old quarrels of ours. Won't you kiss me, Alice? It's
so long since you kissed me, dear."
"Don't!" she murmured; "not now--I can't stand it. Let me thank you
for your promise--won't that do?"
He turned from her with set lips and began to pace the floor.
Again her mood changed.
"I wish you'd sit down, Sam," she said. Her helpless tone had gone
now. "You make me nervous walking up and down like a caged lion. Sit
down--won't you, please?"
"I was thinking," he said.
"Well, think over in that chair. I have something to say to you which
is important--something about Margaret's health."
He stopped abruptly.
"What do you mean? Is she ill?"
"No, not now, but she may be."
Thayor strode rapidly to the door.
"Come back here--don't be a fool. She is asleep after the Trevis
dance. The child did not get home till after three."
"And you let her get ill?" he cried.
"Sit down, will you--and listen. Dr. Sperry came here the day you
left, and he told me he had not liked the child's appearance for a
long time, and that she ought to have the air of the mountains at
once."
"And you called that charlatan in to see my daughter!" he cried
indignantly. All his anger was aroused now. When any wall was raised
in his path, this man Sperry was always behind it.
"I did not," she retorted savagely, "and Dr. Sperry is not a
charlatan, and you know it. It was owing to his good heart that he
came of his own accord and told me."
Thayor gripped the arm of his chair.
"Why didn't you call Leveridge?" he cried.
"There was no necessity. Dr. Sperry merely told me that Margaret was
not over strong, and that she needed a change of air, and where she
could be kept out of doors. He said there was no immediate danger,"
she went on steadily, "because the child's lungs are still untouched."
"Does Margaret know?" he asked between his teeth. Sperry and Margaret
were the two poles of a battery to Thayor.
"Does she know? Of course not! Do you consider Dr. Sperry a fool?"
"Do I think him a fool? Yes, and sometimes I think he's worse," and
he looked at her meaningly. "I'll see Leveridge at once--now--before
I change my clothes. He's seen Margaret almost every day since she
was born and this silk-stocking exquisite of yours hasn't seen her ten
times in his life!" And he strode from the room.