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.