THE IMPERATIVE URGE
The reason why Tom did not go to see Jessie was that he longed to do
so in every fiber of his being. His mind was never freed for a moment
from the routine of the day's work that it did not automatically turn
toward her. If he saw a woman coming down the street with the free
light step only one person in Faraway possessed, his heart would begin
to beat faster. In short, he suffered that torment known as being in
love.
He dared not go to see her for fear she might discover it. She was the
sweetheart of his friend. It was as natural as the light of day that
she turn to Win Beresford with the gift of her love. Nobody like him
had ever come into her life. His gay courage, his debonair grace,
the good manners of that outer world such a girl must crave, the
affectionate touch of friendliness in his smile: how could any woman
on this forsaken edge of the Arctic resist them?
She could not, of course, let alone one so full of the passionate
longing for life as Jessie McRae.
If Tom could have looked on her unmoved, if he could have subdued
or concealed the ardent fire inside him, he would have gone to call
occasionally as though casually. But he could not trust himself. He
was like a volcano ready for eruption. Already he was arranging with
his uncle to put a subordinate here and let him return to Benton.
Until that could be accomplished, he tried to see her as little as
possible.
But Jessie was a child of the imperative urge. She told herself fifty
times that it was none of her business if he did accept the offer of a
place in the North-West Mounted. He could do as he pleased. Why should
she interfere? And yet--and yet--
She found a shadow of excuse for herself in the fact that it had been
through her that he had offered himself as a special constable. He
might think she wanted him to enlist permanently. So many girls were
foolish about the red coats of soldiers. She had noticed that among
her school-girl friends at Winnipeg. If she had any influence with him
at all, she did not want it thrown on that side of the scale.
But of course he probably did not care what she thought. Very likely
it was her vanity that whispered to her he had gone North with Win
Beresford partly to please her. Still, since she was his friend, ought
she not to just drop an offhand hint that he was a more useful citizen
where he was than in the Mounted? He couldn't very well resent that,
could he? Or think her officious? Or forward?
She contrived little plans to meet him when he would be alone and she
could talk with him, but she rejected these because she was afraid he
would see through them. It had become of first importance to her that
Tom Morse should not think she had any but a superficial interest in
him.
When at last she did meet him, it was by pure chance. Dusk was
falling. She was passing the yard where his storehouse was. He wheeled
out and came on her plumply face to face. Both were taken by surprise
completely. Out of it neither could emerge instantly with casual words
of greeting.
Jessie felt her pulses throb. A queer consternation paralyzed the
faculties that ought to have come alertly to her rescue. She stood,
awkwardly silent, in a shy panic to her pulsing finger-tips. Later she
would flog herself scornfully for her folly, but this did not help in
the least now.
"I--I was just going to Mr. Whaley's with a little dress Mother made
for the baby," she said at last.
"It's a nice baby," was the best he could do.
"Yes. It's funny. You know Mr. Whaley didn't care anything about it
before--while it was very little. But now he thinks it's wonderful.
I'm so glad he does."
She was beginning to get hold of herself, to emerge from the emotional
crisis into which this meeting had plunged her. It had come to her
consciousness that he was as perturbed as she, and a discovery of this
nature always brings a woman composure.
"He treats his wife a lot better too."
"There was room for it," he said dryly.
"She's a nice little thing."
"Yes."
Conversation, which had been momentarily brisk, threatened to die out
for lack of fuel. Anything was better than significant silences in
which she could almost hear the hammering of her heart.
"Win Beresford told me about the offer you had to go into the
Mounted," she said, plunging.
"Yes?"
"Will you accept?"
He looked at her, surprised. "Didn't Win tell you? I said right away I
couldn't accept. He knew that."
"Oh! I don't believe he did tell me. Perhaps you hadn't decided
then." Privately she was determining to settle some day with Winthrop
Beresford for leading her into this. He had purposely kept silent, she
knew now, in the hope that she would talk to Tom Morse about it. "But
I'm glad you've decided against going in."
"Why?"
"It's dangerous, and I don't think it has much future."
"Win likes it."
"Yes, Win does. He'll get a commission one of these days."
"He deserves one. I--I hope you'll both be very happy."
He was walking beside her. Quickly her glance flashed up at him. Was
that the reason he had held himself so aloof from her?
"I think we shall, very likely, if you mean Win and I. He's always
happy, isn't he? And I try to be. I'm sorry he's leaving this part of
the country. Writing-on-Stone is a long way from here. He may never
get back. I'll miss him a good deal. Of course you will too."
This was plain enough, but Tom could not accept it at face value.
Perhaps she meant that she would miss him until Win got ready to send
for her. An idea lodged firmly in the mind cannot be ejected at an
instant's notice.
"Yes, I'll miss him. He's a splendid fellow. I've never met one like
him, so staunch and cheerful and game. Sometime I'd like to tell you
about that trip we took. You'd be proud of him."
"I'm sure all his friends are," she said, smiling a queer little smile
that was lost in the darkness.
"He was a very sick man, in a great deal of pain, and we had a rather
dreadful time of it. Of course it hit him far harder than it did
either West or me. But never a whimper out of him from first to last.
Always cheerful, always hopeful, with a little joke or a snatch of a
song, even when it looked as though we couldn't go on another day.
He's one out of ten thousand."
"I heard him say that about another man--only I think he said one in
fifty thousand," she made comment, almost in a murmur.
"Any girl would be lucky to have such a man for a husband," he added
fatuously.
"Yes. I hope he'll find some nice one who will appreciate him."
This left no room for misunderstanding. Tom's brain whirled. "You--you
and he haven't had any--quarrel?"
"No. What made you think so?"
"I don't know. I suppose I'm an idiot. But I thought--"
He stopped. She took up his unfinished sentence.
"You thought wrong."