MORE ABOUT CLARE
Determined to make the most of their rare feminine visitation at Fort
Enterprise, on the following day the fellows got up a chicken hunt on
the river bottom east of the post, to be followed by an _al fresco_
supper at which broiled chicken was to be the _piece de resistance_. The
ladies didn't shoot any prairie chicken, but they stimulated the hunters
with their presence, and afterwards condescended to partake of the
delicate flesh.
Stonor, though he was largely instrumental in getting the thing up, and
though he worked like a Trojan to make the affair go, still kept himself
personally in the background. He consorted with Captain Stinson and
Mathews, middle-aged individuals who were considered out of the running.
It was not so much shyness now, as an instinct of self-preservation.
"She'll be gone in a week," he told himself. "You mustn't let this thing
get too strong a hold on you, or life here after she has gone will be
hellish. You've got to put her out of your mind, my son--or just keep
her as a lovely dream not to be taken in earnest. Hardly likely, after
seeing the world, that she'd look twice at a sergeant of police!"
In his innocence Stonor adopted the best possible way of attracting her
attention to himself. More than once, when he was not looking, her eyes
sought him out curiously. In answer to her questions of the other men it
appeared that it was Stonor who had sent the natives out in advance to
drive the game past them: it was Stonor who surprised them with a cloth
already spread under a poplar tree: it was Stonor who cooked the birds
so deliciously. She was neither vain nor silly, but at the same time in
a company where every man lay down at her feet, so to speak, and begged
her to tread on him, it could not but seem peculiar to her that the
best-looking man of them all should so studiously avoid her.
Next day they all crossed the river and rode up to Simon Grampierre's
place, where the half-breeds repeated the Victoria Day games for the
amusement of the visitors. (These days are still talked of at Fort
Enterprise.) Stonor was finally induced to give an exhibition of
high-school riding as taught to the police recruits, and thereby threw
all the other events in the shade. But their plaudits overwhelmed him.
He disappeared and was seen no more that day.
Sunday followed. Mr. Pringle and his sister had got the little church in
order, and services were held there for the first time in many months.
The mission was half a mile east of the Company buildings, and after
church they walked home beside the fields of sprouting grain, in a
comfortable Sabbath peace that was much the same at Enterprise as
elsewhere in the world.
The procession travelled in the following order: First, four surveyors
marching with their heads over their shoulders, at imminent risk of an
undignified stumble in the trail; next, Clare Starling, flanked on one
side by Gaviller, on the other by Doc Giddings, with two more surveyors
on the outlying wings, peering forward to get a glimpse of her; then
Captain Stinson, Mathews, and Sergeant Stonor in a line, talking about
the state of the crops, and making believe to pay no attention to what
was going on ahead; lastly, Mr. Pringle and his sister hurrying to catch
up.
Half-way home Miss Starling, _a propos_ of nothing, suddenly stopped and
turned her head. "Sergeant Stonor," she said. He stepped to her side.
Since she clearly showed in her manner that she intended holding
converse with the policeman, there was nothing for Gaviller _et al._ to
do but proceed, which they did with none too good a grace. This left
Stonor and the girl walking together in the middle of the procession.
Stinson and Mathews, who were supposed to be out of it anyway, winked at
each other portentously.
"I wanted to ask you about that horse you rode yesterday, a beautiful
animal. What do you call him?"
"Miles Aroon," said Stonor, like a wooden man. He dreaded that she meant
to go on and enlarge on his riding tricks. In his modesty he now
regarded that he had made an awful ass of himself the day before. But
she stuck to horse-flesh.
"He's a beauty! Would he let me ride him?"
"Oh, yes! He has no bad tricks. I broke him myself. But of course he
knows nothing of side-saddles."
"I ride astride."
"I believe we're all going for a twilight ride to-night. I'll bring him
for you."
As a result of this Stonor's praiseworthy resolutions to keep out of
harm's way were much weakened. Indeed, late that night in his little
room in quarters he gave himself up to the most outrageous dreams of a
possible future happiness. Stonor was quite unversed in the ways of
modern ladies; all his information on the subject had been gleaned from
romances, which, as everybody knows, are always behind the times in such
matters, and it is possible that he banked too much on the simple fact
of her singling him out on the walk home.
There was a great obstacle in his way; the force sets its face against
matrimony during the term of service. Stonor in his single-mindedness
never thought that there were other careers. "I shall have to get a
commission," he thought. "An inspectorship is little enough to offer
her. But what an ornament she'd be to a post! And she'd love the life;
she loves horses. But Lord! it's difficult nowadays, with nothing going
on. If an Indian war would only break out!"--He was quite ready to
sacrifice the unfortunate red race.
On Monday night he was again bidden to dine at Enterprise House. As
Gaviller since the day before had been no more than decently polite,
Stonor ventured to hope that the invitation might have been instigated
by her. At any rate he was placed by her side this time, where he sat a
little dizzy with happiness, and totally oblivious to food. At the same
time it should be understood that the young lady had no veiled glances
or hidden meanings for him alone; she treated him, as she did all the
others, to perfect candour.
After dinner they had music in the drawing-room. The piano was
grotesquely out of tune, but what cared they for that? She touched it
and their souls were drawn out of their bodies. Probably the performer
suffered, but she played on with a smile. They listened entranced until
darkness fell, and when it is dark at Enterprise in June it is high time
to go to bed.
They all accompanied Stonor to the door. The long-drawn summer dusk of
the North is an ever fresh wonder to newcomers. At sight of the
exquisite half-light and the stars an exclamation of pleasure broke from
Clare.
"Much too fine a night to go to bed!" she cried. "Sergeant Stonor, take
me out to the bench beside the flagstaff for a few minutes."
As they sat down she said: "Don't you want to smoke?"
"Don't feel the need of it," he said. His voice was husky with feeling.
Would a man want to smoke in Paradise?
By glancing down and sideways he could take her in as far up as her neck
without appearing to stare rudely. She was sitting with her feet crossed
and her hands in her lap like a well-bred little girl. When he dared
glance at her eyes he saw that there was no consciousness of him there.
They were regarding something very far away. In the dusk the wistfulness
which hid behind a smile in daylight looked forth fully and broodingly.
Yet when she spoke the matter was ordinary enough. "All the men here
tell me about the mysterious stranger who lives on the Swan River. They
can't keep away from the subject. And the funny part of it is, they all
seem to be angry at him. Yet they know nothing of him. Why is that?"
"It means nothing," said Stonor, smiling. "You see, all the men pride
themselves on knowing every little thing that happens in the country.
It's all they have to talk about. In a way the whole country is like a
village. Well, it's only because this man has succeeded in defying their
curiosity that they're sore. It's a joke!"
"They tell me that you stand up for him," she said, with a peculiar
warmth in her voice.
"Oh, just to make the argument interesting," said Stonor lightly.
"Is that all?" she said, chilled.
"No, to tell the truth, I was attracted to the man from the first," he
said more honestly. "By what the Indians said about his healing the sick
and so on. And they said he was young. I have no friend of my own age up
here--I mean no real friend. So I thought--well, I would like to know
him."
"I like that," she said simply.
There was a silence.
"Why don't you--sometime--go to him?" she said, with what seemed almost
like a breathless air.
"I am going," said Stonor simply. "I received permission in the last
mail. The government wants me to look over the Kakisa Indians to see if
they are ready for a treaty. The policy is to leave the Indians alone as
long as they are able to maintain themselves under natural conditions.
But as soon as they need help the government takes charge; limits them
to a reservation; pays an annuity, furnishes medical attention, and so
on. This is called taking treaty. The Kakisas are one of the last wild
tribes left."
She seemed scarcely to hear him. "When are you going?" she asked with
the same air of breathlessness.
"As soon as the steamboat goes back."
"How far is it to Swan River?"
"Something under a hundred and fifty miles. Three days' hard riding or
four days' easy."
"And how far down to the great falls?"
"Accounts differ. From the known features of the map I should say about
two hundred miles. They say the river's as crooked as a ram's horn."
There was another silence. She was busy with her own thoughts, and
Stonor was content not to talk if he might look at her.
With her next speech she seemed to strike off at a tangent. She spoke
with a lightness that appeared to conceal a hint of pain. "They say the
mounted police are the guides, philosophers and friends of the people up
North. They say you have to do everything, from feeding babies to
reading the burial service."
"I'm afraid there's a good bit of romancing about the police," said
Stonor modestly.
"But they do make good friends, don't they?" she insisted.
"I hope so."
She gave him the full of her deep, starry eyes. It was not an
intoxicating glance, but one that moved him to the depths. "Will you be
my friend?" she asked simply.
Poor Stonor! With too great a need for speech, speech itself was
foundered. No words ever coined seemed strong enough to carry the weight
of his desire to assure her. He could only look at her, imploring her to
believe in him. In the end only two little words came; to him
wretchedly inadequate; but it is doubtful if they could have been
bettered.
"Try me!"
His look satisfied her. She lowered her eyes. The height of emotion was
too great to be maintained. She cast round in her mind for something to
let them down. "How far to the north the sunset glow is now."
Stonor understood. He answered in the same tone: "At this season it
doesn't fade out all night. The sun is such a little way below the rim
there, that the light just travels around the northern horizon, and
becomes the dawn in a little while."
For a while they talked of indifferent matters.
By and by she said casually: "When you go out to Swan River, take me
with you."
He thought she was joking. "I say, that would be a lark!"
She laughed a little nervously.
He tried to keep it up, though his heart set up a furious beating at the
bare idea of such a trip. "Can you bake bannock?"
"I can make good biscuits."
"What would we do for a chaperon?"
"Nobody has chaperons nowadays."
"You don't know what a moral community this is!"
"I meant it," she said suddenly, in a tone there was no mistaking.
All his jokes deserted him, and left him trembling a little. Indeed he
was scandalized, too, being less advanced, probably, in his ideas than
she. "It's--it's impossible!" he stammered at last.
"Why?" she asked calmly.
He could not give the real reason, of course. "To take the trail, you!
To ride all day and sleep on the hard ground! And the river trip, an
unknown river with Heaven knows what rapids and other difficulties! A
fragile little thing like you!"
Opposition stimulated her. "What you call my fragility is more apparent
than real," she said with spirit. "As a matter of fact I have more
endurance than most big women. I have less to carry. I am accustomed to
living and travelling in the open. I can ride all day--or walk if need
be."
"It's impossible!" he repeated. It was the policeman who spoke. The
man's blood was leaping, and his imagination painting the most alluring
pictures. How often on his lonely journeys had he not dreamed of the
wild delights of such companionship!
"What is your real reason?" she asked.
"Well, how could you go--with me, you know?" he said, blushing into the
dusk.
"I'm not afraid," she answered instantly. "Anyway, that's my look-out,
isn't it?"
"No," he said, "I have to think of it. The responsibility would be
mine." Here the man broke through--"Oh, I talk like a prig!" he cried.
"But don't you see, I'm not up here on my own. I can't do what I would
like. A policeman has got to be proper, hasn't he?"
She smiled at his _naivete_. "But if I have business out there?"
This sounded heartless to Stonor. It was the first and last time that he
ventured to criticize her. "Oh," he objected, "I don't know what reasons
the poor fellow has for burying himself--they must be good reasons, for
it's no joke to live alone! It doesn't seem quite fair, does it, to dig
him out and write him up in the papers?"
"Oh, what must you think of me!" she murmured in a quick, hurt tone.
He saw that he had made a mistake. "I--I beg your pardon," he stammered
contritely. "I thought that was what you meant by business."
"I'm not a reporter," she said.
"But they told me----"
"Yes, I know, I lied. I'm not apologizing for that. It was necessary to
lie to protect myself from vulgar curiosity."
He looked his question.
She was not quite ready to answer it yet. "Suppose I had the best of
reasons for going," she said, hurriedly, "a reason that Mrs. Grundy
would approve of; it would be your duty as a policeman, wouldn't it, to
help me?"
"Yes--but----?"
She turned imploring eyes on him, and unconsciously clasped her hands.
"I'm sure you're generous and steadfast," she said quickly. "I can trust
you, can't I, not to give me away? The gossip, the curious stares--it
would be more than I could bear! Promise me, whatever you may think of
it all, to respect my secret."
"I promise," he said a little stiffly. It hurt him that he was required
to protest his good faith. "The first thing we learn in the force is to
keep our mouths shut."
"Ah, now you're offended with me because I made you promise!"
"It doesn't matter. It's over now. What is your reason for wanting to go
out to Swan River?"
She answered low: "I am Ernest Imbrie's wife."
"Oh!" said Stonor in a flat tone. A sick disappointment filled him--yet
in the back of his mind he had expected something of the kind. An inner
voice whispered to him: "Not for you! It was too much to hope for!"
Presently she went on: "I injured him cruelly. That's why he buried
himself so far away."
Stonor turned horror-stricken eyes on her.
"Oh, not that," she said proudly and indifferently. "The injury I did
him was to his spirit; that is worse." Stonor turned hot for his
momentary suspicion.
"I can repair it by going to him," she went on. "I _must_ go to him. I
can never know peace until I have tried to make up to him a little of
what I have made him suffer."
She paused to give Stonor a chance to speak--but he was dumb.
Naturally she misunderstood. "Isn't that enough?" she cried painfully.
"I have told you the essential truth. Must I go into particulars? I
can't bear to speak of these things!"
"No! No!" he said, horrified. "It's not that. I don't want to hear any
more."
"Then you'll help me?"
"I will take you to him."
She began to cry in a pitiful shaken way.
"Ah, don't!" murmured Stonor. "I can't stand seeing you."
"It's--just from relief," she whispered.... "I've been under a
strain.... I think I should have gone out of my mind--if I had been
prevented from expiating the wrong I did.... I wish I could tell
you--he's the bravest man in the world, I think--and the most
unhappy!... And I heaped unhappiness on his head!"
This was hard for Stonor to listen to, but it was so obviously a relief
to her to speak, that he made no attempt to stop her.
She soon quieted down. "I shan't try to thank you," she said. "I'll show
you."
Stonor foresaw that the proposed journey would be attended with
difficulties.
"Would it be possible," she asked meekly, "for you to plan to leave a
day in advance of the steamboat, and say nothing about taking me?"
"You mean for us to leave the post secretly?" he said, a little aghast.
"When the truth came out it would be all right," she urged. "And it
would save me from becoming the object of general talk and commiseration
here. Why, if Mr. Gaviller knew in advance, he'd probably insist on
sending a regular expedition."
"Perhaps he would."
"And they'd all try to dissuade me. I'd have to talk them over one by
one--I haven't the strength of mind left for that. They'd say I ought to
wait here and send for him----"
"Well, wouldn't that be better?"
"No! No! Not the same thing at all. I doubt if he'd come. And what would
I be doing here--waiting--without news. I couldn't endure it. I must go
to him."
Stonor thought hard. Youth was pulling him one way, and his sense of
responsibility the other. Moreover, this kind of case was not provided
for in regulations. Finally he said:
"Couldn't you announce your intention of remaining over for one trip of
the steamboat? Miss Pringle would be glad to have you, I'm sure."
"I could do that. But you're not going to delay the start?"
"We can leave the day after the boat goes, as planned. But if we were
missed before the boat left she'd carry out some great scandalous tale
that we might never be able to correct. For if scandal gets a big enough
start you can never overtake it."
"You are right, of course. I never thought of that."
"Then I see no objection to leaving the post secretly, provided you are
willing to tell one reliable person in advance--say Pringle or his
sister, of our intention. You see we must leave someone behind us to
still the storm of gossip that will be let loose."
"You think of everything!"