Harold Lounsbury found to his surprise that they were not to start at
once. It soon became evident that Bill had certain other matters on his
mind.
"Build a fire and put on some water to heat--fill up every pan you
have," he instructed Sindy. He himself began to cram their little stove
with wood. Harold watched with ill-concealed anxiety.
"What's that for?" he asked at last.
Bill straightened up and faced him. "You didn't think I was going to
take you looking like you do, do you--into Virginia's presence? The
first thing on the program is--a bath."
Harold flushed: the red glow was evident even through the sooty
accumulation on his face. "It seems to me you're going a little outside
your authority as Miss Tremont's representative. I don't know that I
need to have any hillbilly tell me when I need a bath."
"Yes?" Bill's eyes twinkled--for the first time during their talk.
"Hillbilly is right--in contrast to a cultured gentleman of cities.
But let me correct you. You may not know it, but I do. And you need
one now." He turned once more to Sindy. "And see what you can do about
this gentleman's clothes, too; if he's got any clean underwear or any
other togs, load 'em out."
"Anything else?" Harold asked sarcastically.
"Several things. Have you got any kind of a razor?"
"No. I don't want one either."
"Better look around and find one. If you don't, I'll be obliged to
shave you with my jackknife--and it will be inclined to pull. It's
sharp enough for skinning grizzlies but not for that growth of yours.
And I'll try to trim your hair up for you a little, too. When you
bathe, bathe all over--don't spare your face or your hair. Water may
seem strange at first, but you'll get used to it. And I'll go over and
sit with Joe Robinson and his friend until you are ready. The
surroundings are more appetizing. If you can polish yourself well in an
hour, we'll make it through to-night."
Harold's heart burned, but he acquiesced. Then Bill turned and left him
to his ablutions.
Less than an hour later Harold came mushing up the lean-to where Bill
waited. And the hour had wrought a profound and amazing change in the
man's appearance. He had conscientiously gone to work to cleanse
himself, and he had succeeded. His hair, dull before, was a glossy
dark-brown now; he had shaved off the matted growth about his lips,
leaving only a small, neat mustache; his hair was trimmed and carefully
parted. The man's skin had also resumed its natural shade.
For the first time Bill realized that Harold was really a rather
handsome man. His features were much more regular than Bill's own. The
lips were fine,--just a little too fine, in fact, giving an intangible
but unmistakable hint of cruelty. The only thing that had not changed
was his eyes. They were as smoldering and wolfish as ever.
By Bill's instructions he had loaded his back with blankets, his pistol
was at his belt, and he carried a thirty-five rifle in the hollow of his
arm.
"I'm ready," he said gruffly.
"I'm glad to hear it." Bill glanced at his watch. "It's late, but by
mushing fast we can make it in by dark. I told Virginia that I'd likely
need an extra day at least--she'll think I've worked fast. She'd know
it--if she had seen how you looked an hour ago. I was counting on
finding you somewhere along the Yuga."
"We moved up--a few weeks ago."
"There's one other thing, before we start. I want you to tell these
understrappers of yours to take that squaw and clear out of Clearwater.
Tell 'em to take her back where she belongs--to Buckshot Dan. He'll
take her in, all right. I've been working in Miss Tremont's interests
until now--now I'm working in my own. This happens to be my trapping
country. If I come back in a few weeks and find them still here there's
apt to be some considerable shedding of a bad mixture of bad blood. In
other words--skin out while you yet can."
The half-breeds, understanding perfectly, looked to Harold for
confirmation. The latter had already learned several lessons of
importance this day, and he didn't really care to learn any more. His
answer was swift.
"Go, as he says," Harold directed.
Their dark faces grew sullen. The idea was evidently not to their
favor. Then one asked a question in the Indian vernacular.
Bill was alert at once. Here was a situation that he couldn't handle.
Harold glanced once at his face, saw by his expression that he was
baffled, and answered in the same language. From the tone of his voice
Bill would have said that he uttered a promise.
Once more the Indian questioned, and Harold hesitated an instant, as if
seeking an answer. It seemed to the other white man that his eye fell
to the rifle that Bill carried. Then he spoke again, gesturing. The
gesture that he made was four fingers, as if in an instinctive motion,
held before the Indian's eyes. Then he announced that he was ready to
go.
The afternoon was almost done when they started out. The distant trees
were already dim; phantoms were gathered in the spaces between the
trunks. The two mushed swiftly through the snow.
Bill had enough memory of that glance to his rifle to prefer to walk
behind, keeping a close eye on Harold. Yet he could see no reason on
earth why the man should make any attempt upon his life. The trip was
to Harold's own advantage.
He had plenty of time to think in the long walk to his cabin. Only the
snowy forest lay about him: the only sound was the crunch of their shoes
in the snow, and there was nothing to distract him. Now that it was
evident that Harold had no designs upon his life, he walked with bowed
head, a dark luster in his eyes.
He had fulfilled his contract and found the missing man. Even now he
was showing him the way to Virginia. He wondered if he had been a fool
to have sacrificed his own happiness for an unworthy rival. The world
grew dreary and dark about him.
He had tried to hide his own tragedy by a mask of brusqueness, even a
grim humor when he had given his orders to Harold. But he hadn't
deceived himself. His heart had been leading within him. Now he even
felt the beginnings of bitterness, but he crushed them down with all the
power of his will. He mustn't let himself grow bitter, at least,--black
and hating and jealous. Rather he must follow his star, believe yet
in its beauty and its fidelity, and never look at it through glasses
darkly. He must take what fate had given him and be content,--a few
wonderful weeks that could never come again. He had had his fling of
happiness; the day was at an end.
It was true. As if by a grim symbolism, darkness fell over Clearwater.
The form in front of him grew dim, ghostly, yet well he knew its
reality. The distant trunks blurred, faded, and were obliterated; the
trees, swept and hidden by the snow, were like silent ghosts that faded;
the whole vista was like a scene in a strange and tragic dream.
The silence seemed to press him down like a malignant weight. The
mysterious and eerie sorrow of the northern night went home to him as
never before.
He knew all too well the outcome of this day's work. There would be a
few little moments of gratitude from Virginia; perhaps in the joy of the
reunion she would even forget to give him this. He would try to smile
at her, to wish her happiness; he would fight to make his voice sound
like his own. She would take Harold to her heart the same as ever. He
had not the least hope of any other consummation. Now that Harold was
shaved and clean he was a handsome youth, and all the full sweep of her
old love would go to him in an instant. In fact, her love had already
gone to him--across thousands of miles of weary wasteland--and
through that love she had come clear up to these terrible wilds to find
him.
His speech, his bearing seemed already changed. He was remembering that
he was a gentleman, one of Virginia's own kind. He already looked the
part. Perhaps he was already on the way toward true regeneration.
It was better that he should be, for Virginia's happiness. Her
happiness--this had been the motive and the theme of Bill's work clear
through: it was his one consolation now. In a few days the snow crust
would be firm enough to trust, and hand in hand they would go down toward
Bradleyburg. He would see the joy in their faces, the old luster of
which he himself had dreamed in Virginia's eyes. But it would not flow
out to him. The holy miracle would not raise him from the dead. He
would serve her to the last, and when at length they saw the roofs and
tottering chimneys of Bradleyburg she would go out of his work and out
of his life, never to return. In their native city Harold Lounsbury
would take his old place. He's have his uncle's fortune to aid him in
is struggle for success. The test of existence was not so hard down
there; he might be wholly able to hold Virginia's respect and love, and
make her happy. Such was Bill's last prayer.
They were nearing the cabin now. They saw the candlelight, like a pale
ghost, in the window. Virginia was still up, reading, perhaps, before
the fire. She didn't guess what happiness Bill was bringing her across
the snow.
Bill could fancy her, bright eyes intent, face a little thoughtful,
perhaps, but tender as the eyes of angels. He could see her hair
burnished in the candlelight, the soft, gracious beauty of her face.
Her lips, too,--he couldn't forget those lips of hers. A shudder of
cold passed over his frame.
He strode forward and put his hand on Harold's arm. "Wait," he
commanded. "There's one thing more."
Harold paused, and the darkness was not so dense but that this face was
vaguely revealed, sullen and questioning.
"There's one thing more," Bill repeated again. "I've brought you here.
I've given you your chance--for redemption. God knows if I had my
choice I'd have killed you first. She's not going to know about the
squaw, unless you tell her. These matters are all for you to decide, I
won't interfere."
He paused, and Harold waited. And his eager ears caught the faint throb
of feeling in the low, almost muttered notes.
"But don't forget I'm there," he went on. "I work for her--until she
goes out of my charge and I'm her guide, her protector, the guardian of
her happiness. That's all I care about--her happiness. I don't know
whether or not I did wrong to bring a squaw man to her--but if you're
man enough to hold her love and make her happy, it doesn't matter. But
I give--one warning."
His voice changed. It took on a quality of infinite and immutable
prophecy In the darkness and the silence, the voice might have come
from some higher realm, speaking the irrevocable will of the forest
gods.
"She'll be more or less in your power at times, up here. I won't be
with you every minute. But if you take one jot of advantage of that
fact--either in word or deed--I'll break you and smash you and kill
you in my hands!"
He waited an instant for the words to go home. Harold shivered as if
with cold. And because in his mind already lay the vision of their
meeting, he uttered one more sentence of instructions. He was a strong
man, this son of the forest--and no man dared deny the trait--but he
could not steel himself to see that first kiss. The sight of the girl,
fluttering and enraptured in Harold's arms, the soft loveliness of her
lips on his, was more than he could bear.
"Go on in," he said. "She's waiting for you."
And she was. She had waited six years, dreaming all the while of his
return. Harold went in, and left his savior to the doubtful mercy of
the winter forest, the darkness that had crept into his heart, and the
hush that might have been the utter silence of death itself had it not
been for the image of a faint, enraptured cry, the utterance of dreams
come true, within the cabin door.