A WOMAN'S WAY
They had not been forgotten while they journeyed through the wilds.
Frobisher thought of them now and then, and his daughter more often;
indeed, her mind dwelt a good deal on Andrew after he left and she
found herself looking forward eagerly to his return. She spent some
weeks in an American city with her father, but its gaieties had less
attraction for her than usual, and she was glad when they went back
for a time to the Lake of Shadows. On the day after her arrival she
drove across the ice to the Landing and inquired at a store where news
circulated whether anything had been heard of the Allinson expedition.
The proprietor had nothing to tell her, but while she spoke to him a
man crossed the floor, and she saw with annoyance that it was Mappin.
She left while he made his purchases, but he joined her when she was
putting some parcels into the sleigh, and did not seem daunted by the
coldness of her manner.
"I didn't know you were coming back so soon," he greeted her.
"Didn't you?" she asked indifferently. "When my father had finished
his business we suddenly made up our minds to leave, without
consulting Mrs. Denton. I suppose that explains your ignorance."
"You're smart," he said. "As soon as you're ready to receive people I
must make my call."
It was getting dark, but the lights from the store window fell on his
face, and Geraldine saw a glitter in his eyes. She thought he meant to
defy her.
"You are excused, so far as I am concerned," she replied
uncompromisingly.
Mappin stood silent a moment or two, looking at her hard, and she felt
half afraid of him.
"You would rather see Allinson! But that's a pleasure you may find
deferred. You didn't get much news of him just now!"
"I don't doubt that you heard me ask for it, though there were two
teamsters waiting to buy things, who had the good manners to keep
away."
"Certainly I heard," he answered coolly; "that's the kind of man I am.
I don't let chances pass."
Geraldine knew that he would make unscrupulous use of those he seized,
but his candor had its effect on her. He was overbearing, but there
was force in the man, and she grew uneasy. Though she shrank from him,
she admitted his power; unless she roused herself to fight, he might
break her will.
"One could hardly consider it an admirable type," she said, getting
into the sleigh. "However, it's too cold to stand talking."
Mappin was obliged to step back when she started the team, and she
drove off in some confusion, glad to escape, but feeling that she had
run away. It had seemed the safest course, though she did not think
she was a coward. Then as the team trotted across the frozen lake she
remembered Mappin's curious tone when he had spoken of Andrew
Allinson. He had suggested with an unpleasant hint of satisfaction
that Andrew's return might be delayed, and she grew troubled as she
thought of it. Still, she reasoned, as no news had reached the
Landing, Mappin could know nothing about the matter, and the men
Andrew had with him were accustomed to the bush. Dismissing the
subject, she urged the horses and drew the thick driving-robe close
about her. It was very cold and she shivered as she wondered how
Andrew and his comrades were faring in the North.
Some days later she met Mrs. Graham at the post-office and inquired
about her husband. Geraldine thought she looked anxious.
"He's a little behind time; but soft snow or storms might delay the
party."
"Then he mentioned a time when you could expect him?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Graham. "He warned me that he might be a week late;
but they thought out the journey very carefully, because it was a
question of carrying enough food."
"You mean that helped to fix the time of their return?"
"Of course! They couldn't get food anywhere except at a Hudson Bay
factory, and they couldn't take a large quantity. That means they knew
within a week or so when they must reach the provision caches that
were to be made for them north of the mine."
"I understand," said Geraldine. "They wouldn't delay when they came to
the caches, except, perhaps, for a day's rest. I suppose the food was
taken up?"
"Oh, yes! I saw the packers leave and come down. They were good
bushmen and one of them knew the country. He made the caches at the
places decided on."
"Then the expedition should be quite safe," said Geraldine cheerfully;
but when she left Mrs. Graham she grew thoughtful.
Andrew was late and Geraldine saw that delay might be dangerous. The
men would lose no time in coming south, because, considering the
difficulty of transport, the margin of provisions would not be large.
Nothing but a serious accident would detain them, which was
disconcerting to reflect upon. Then she reasoned that their provisions
would be nearly exhausted when they reached the caches, and her mind
dwelt on the point, because it was essential that they should obtain
fresh supplies. She felt uneasy as she remembered a remark of
Mappin's, which she did not think he had made casually. There had been
a significant grimness in his manner when he had spoken of Allinson.
After all, however, it was possible that there was no ground for
anxiety: the prospectors might turn up in the next few days.
As there was no news of them, however, Geraldine drove to the
settlement one evening and called on Mrs. Graham. She found her
seriously disturbed.
"A man came down from the mine this morning, and my husband hadn't
arrived," she said. "I'm afraid something has gone wrong!"
"What can have gone wrong?"
"I don't know; I've been thinking about it all the last few days and
trying not to be afraid. Of course, they would be safe if they reached
the food caches."
"Yes," said Geraldine; "those caches are important. But as nobody has
turned up I don't think you need be alarmed. The worst would be if one
came back alone."
Mrs. Graham did not seem much comforted when Geraldine left her; and
the girl, driving home in the moonlight, tried to face the situation
calmly. She admitted, without reserve for the first time, that she
loved Andrew Allinson; and he was in danger. Something must be done
to extricate him, and while she wondered how she ought to set about it
her thoughts turned to Mappin. It dawned on her that he knew what
peril threatened the party, and this suggested that he had either
allowed the men to involve themselves in unsuspected difficulties, or
had brought the difficulties about. They had depended on him in some
way and he had betrayed them. Geraldine shuddered at the thought, but
she roused herself, for it was obvious that if her suspicions were
correct, the man's designs must be combated. Mappin was strong and
cunning; but she had ready wits and her lover's safety was at stake.
The next evening Mappin came to the house, and Geraldine carefully
made some changes in her dress before she entered the drawing-room,
where he was talking with Mrs. Denton. He rose with a challenging
smile as she came in, and Geraldine was glad to feel that she was
looking her best. It was humiliating to dress to please this man, but
there was a struggle before her and she must use such weapons as she
had.
"You're surprised to see me?" he said.
"Oh, no! I didn't doubt your boldness."
Mappin glanced at her sharply, for there was nothing ungracious in her
tone. Her manner hinted at a change of mood; but he understood that
women were variable.
"Then I have your permission to remain?"
"I'm not sure that you need it, and it would be inhospitable to refuse
it," Geraldine replied, as if amused.
Mrs. Denton looked from one to the other in a puzzled way, but she
said nothing, and Mappin began to talk, relating scraps of news picked
up at the Landing. Geraldine showed some interest, and after a while
Mrs. Denton, seeing them apparently on good terms, judiciously left
them. Then the girl ceased to respond to her companion's remarks, and
Mappin, never a brilliant conversationalist, found it hard to go on.
He began to show impatience, and Geraldine enjoyed his embarrassment.
At last he glanced toward the piano.
"I wish you would play or sing something," he begged.
Geraldine rose good-humoredly and opened the piano.
"I didn't know you cared for music."
"I don't, as a rule."
"That sounds like a compliment," she answered, smiling. "It's a pity I
haven't any jingling rag-time tunes."
"They're what I like--my taste isn't classical; but I don't mind your
taking a shot at me. One doesn't want music to make one serious."
"You think one should be serious only where money is concerned?"
"Well," he said grimly, "I haven't found trying to get it very
amusing; but I can be in earnest in other matters."
"So I suppose," responded Geraldine, turning over the music. "Here's
something that might please you. Will you light the candles?"
Her amiability had cost her an effort, and it grew harder as she
opened the song. It was pointed with witty coquetry, and she hesitated
for a moment with a feeling of humiliation, though she meant to play
out her part. Andrew and his friends were in peril in the icy wilds;
somehow they were at the mercy of this cruel, gross-natured man; and,
hateful as her task was, she must not shrink. She thought he could be
led on to betray himself. Tingling with shame, she sang with all the
fire and art she could command, and Mappin was swept off his feet.
Music had no great charm for him, but the ballad was one he could
appreciate, and the girl's beauty had a stronger effect. The light of
the shaded candles fell on her face, which was slightly flushed, and
forced up gleams in her hair. She looked inexpressibly alluring; her
fine voice and arch smile well brought out the half-tender mockery of
the song. He noticed the supple shapeliness of her figure and the
polished whiteness of her skin, and his heart began to throb fast and
his eyes to glisten. Turning over a leaf, he came near shaking down
the music, and he drew back thrilled when she made a gesture of amused
rebuke. There was, he felt, something very friendly in it.
When she stopped he leaned on the piano looking down at her, and
Geraldine knew that she had gone far enough. After having treated him
with cold indifference, she must not be too gracious, lest his
suspicions be aroused. The man was in her hands, but he was not a
fool. She hated him as she saw the crude desire in his face.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely, and picked out another song at random.
"Won't you try this? I've never heard it."
"No," she answered firmly; "not that one."
It was the ballad which Andrew had told her helped to send him up into
the wilds where his duty lay. Henceforward it was sacred--not to be
sung to such a man as Mappin.
"Why?" he demanded.
"I sing that only to people who I know will appreciate it."
"And you don't think I would?"
"It strikes me as very doubtful," she said with a smile in which there
was a touch of scorn.
His color deepened. She had shown signs of yielding, and how he
wondered whether she had after all been amusing herself with him.
Stirred as he was by passion he was in no reasoning mood; savage
jealousy filled his heart.
"It's the kind of thing you keep for sentimental fools like Allinson!"
he exclaimed.
Geraldine had expected some such outbreak. Indeed it was what she
desired.
"Well," she said with a tenderness which was meant to disturb her
companion, "I sang it to him once."
"It will be a long while before you sing it to him again!"
The voice rang harsh with exultant fierceness and Geraldine knew that
she had gained her object in rousing the brute in him. She had learned
the truth--for whatever danger threatened her lover this man was
responsible. But there was more she must know.
"As he's a friend of ours, you're not very considerate," she said.
"What makes you speak with so much certainty?"
Mappin saw that he had been rash, and he was instantly on his guard.
"It was a fool thing to go North in winter. It's no country for a raw
tenderfoot, and Allinson should have taken a stronger party. I know
something about transport work in the bush."
"I suppose food would be their greatest difficulty," Geraldine
remarked with a thoughtful air.
"No. Fresh snow and blizzards would trouble them worse."
"Still, food would be a consideration," Geraldine persisted. "I know
they thought a good deal about the matter and had some caches made. If
they couldn't find them coming back, it would be serious, wouldn't
it?"
Mappin's jealousy was heightened by her interest, but he regretted his
haste and meant to be cautious. Unfortunately for him, the charm
Geraldine had exercised had carried him away. He could not think as
clearly as usual.
"The provisions were carefully packed and sent up in charge of good
men," he declared hotly. "They were properly cached; every precaution
was taken."
"Were they your men?"
Mappin glanced at her sharply, but read nothing in her face. He could
not evade the question without rousing suspicion.
"Yes," he said; "that's why I know they could be relied on to do their
work."
Geraldine sat silent a moment, struggling to preserve her calm. She
had found out what she wished to know. She understood now why Mappin
had insisted on the dangers of the journey and made light of the
question of food. He had, with scarcely conceivable cruelty, cut off
the party's supplies. Still, he must not suspect that she knew this.
With an effort she took up another piece of music.
"We are anxious for news of the expedition, and it's comforting to
remember that they had an excellent guide," she said. "But I'll play
you something."
Before the piece was finished, her father came in and she left him to
entertain their guest. Seeking her room she sat down, feeling suddenly
limp from strain. That she was humbled and ashamed did not matter; she
was filled, on the one hand, with hatred and loathing for the man she
had led on, and, on the other, with anxiety for Andrew.