THE RENUNCIATION
Jan was glad when the evening came, and was gone. Not until Jean and
Iowaka had said good night with Croisset and his wife, and both Cummins
and Mélisse had gone to their rooms, did he find himself relieved of
the tension under which he had struggled during all of that night's
merry-making in the cabin.
From the first he knew that his nerves were strung by some strange and
indefinable sensation that was growing within him--something which he
could hardly have explained at first, but which swiftly took form and
meaning, and oppressed him more as the hours flew by. Almost fiercely
he strove to fight back the signs of it from his face and voice. Never
had he played as on this night. His violin leaped with life, his voice
rose high in the wild forest songs of Jean de Gravois and Croisset, he
sprang aloft in the caribou dance until the tips of his fingers touched
the log beams overhead; and yet there was none of the flush of
excitement in his face, no joyous fire flashing from his eyes upon
Mélisse.
She saw this, and wondered. A dozen times her eyes encountered his,
straight and questioning, when the others were not looking. She saw in
response only a dull, lusterless glow that was not like the Jan who had
pursued her that day on the mountain-top.
Jan was unaware of what was lacking in him. He smiled when she gave him
these glances; deep down in him his heart trembled at the beauty of her
flushed cheeks, the luster of her coiled hair, the swimming depths of
her clear eyes; but the mask of the thing at which she wondered still
remained.
After the others had gone, Cummins sat up to smoke a pipe. When he had
finished, he went to his room. Jan was now sleeping in a room at the
company's store, and after a time he rose silently to take down his cap
and coat. He opened the outer door quietly, so as not to arouse
Mélisse, who had gone to bed half an hour before.
As he was about to go out, there came a sound--a low, gentle, whispered
word.
"Jan!"
He turned. Mélisse stood in her door. She had not undressed, and her
hair was still done up in its soft coils, with the crimson bakneesh
shining in it. She came to him hesitatingly, until she stood with her
two hands upon his arm, gazing into his tense face with that same
question in her eyes.
"Jan, you were not pleased with me to-night," she whispered. "Tell me,
why?"
"I was pleased with you, Mélisse," he replied.
He took one of the hands that was clinging to his arm, and turned his
face to the open night. Countless stars gleamed in the sky, as they had
shone on another night fifteen years ago. From where they stood they
saw the pale flicker of the aurora, sending its shivering arrows out
over the dome of the earth, with the same lonely song that it had
played when the woman died. Gaunt and solitary, the tall spruce loomed
up against the silver glow, its thick head sighing faintly in the night
wind, as if in wailing answer to that far-away music in the skies.
Suddenly there leaped up from Jan Thoreau's breast a breath that burst
from his lips in a low cry.
"Mélisse, Mélisse, it was just fifteen years ago that I came in through
that forest out there, starved and dying, and played my violin when
your mother died. You were a little baby then, and since that night you
have never pleased me more than now!"
He dropped her hand and turned squarely to the door, to hide what he
knew had come into his face. He heard a soft, heart-broken little sob
behind him, and something fell rustling upon his arm.
"Jan, dear Jan!"
Mélisse crowded herself into his arms, her hair torn down and tumbling
about her shoulders. In her eyes there were the old pride and the old
love, the love and pride of what seemed to Jan to be, years ago, the
old, childish pleading for his comradeship, for the fun of his strong
arms, the frolic of his laugh. Irresistibly they called to him, and in
the old glad way he tightened his arms about her shoulders, his eyes
glowing, and life leaping back, flushed and full, into his face.
She laughed, happy and trembling, her lips held up to him.
"I didn't please you to-day," she whispered. "I will never do up my
hair again!"
He kissed her, and his arms dropped from her shoulders.
"Never, never again--until you have forgotten to love me," she
repeated. "Good night, Brother Jan!"
Across the open, through the thinned edge of the black spruce, deeper
and deeper into the cold, unquivering lifelessness of the forest, Jan
went from the door that closed between him and Mélisse, her last words
still whispering in his ears, the warm touch of her hair on his
cheeks--and the knowledge of what this day had meant for him swiftly
surging upon him, bringing with it a torment which racked him to the
soul.
Fifteen years ago! He stopped and looked up, the starlight whitening
his face. There was no change in this night from that other one of ages
and ages ago. There were the same stars, like fierce eyes of pale fire,
robbed of softness by the polar cold; there were the same cloudless
blue space, the same hissing flashes of the aurora leaping through its
infinity, the same trees that had listened to his moaning prayers on
that night when he had staggered into Lac Bain.
He went on until he came to where the beaten trail swept up and away
from a swamp. As vividly as if it had happened but yesterday, he
remembered how he had dragged himself through this swamp, bleeding and
starving, his violin clutched to his breast, guided by the barking of
dogs, which seemed to come from a million miles away. He plunged into
it now, picking his tangled way until he stood upon a giant ridge, from
which he looked out through the white night into the limitless barrens
to the north.
Along the edge of those barrens he had come, daring the hundred deaths
between hunter's cabin and Indian wigwam, starving at times, almost
dying of cold, building fires to keep the wolves back, and
playing--always playing to keep up his courage, until he found Mélisse.
Fifteen years had passed since then, and the cumulative force of the
things that had grown out of those years had fallen upon him this day.
He had felt it first when Mélisse turned upon him at the foot of the
mountain; and after that in the cabin, in every breath he drew, in
every look that he gave her. For him she had changed for all time. She
was no longer the little Mélisse, his sister. And yet--
He was almost saying her last words aloud:
"Good night, Brother Jan!"
She had come to him that day to let him kiss her, as she had come to
him a thousand times before; but he had not kissed her in the old way.
It was a different love that his lips had given, and even now the hot
blood surged again into his face as he thought of what he had done. His
was a different idea of honor from that held by men born to the ways of
passion.
In that which had stirred his blood, thrilling him with strange joy as
he held her in his arms, he saw more than the shadow of sin--sacrilege
against a thing which was more precious to him than life. Mélisse came
to him still as his sister, abiding in her glorious faith in him,
unaware of his temptation; while he, Jan Thoreau--
He thrust a hand inside his coat and clutched at the papers that Jean
de Gravois had read. Then he drew them forth, slowly, and held them
crumpled in his fingers, while for many minutes he stared straight out
into the gray gloom of the treeless plain.
His eyes shifted. Searchingly they traveled up the face of the crags
behind him. They hunted where the starlight made deep pits of gloom in
the twisting edge of the mountains. They went from rock to rock and
from tree to tree until at last they rested upon a giant spruce which
hung out over the precipitous wall of the ridge, its thick top
beckoning and sighing to the black rocks that shot up out of the snow
five hundred feet below.
It was a strange tree, weird and black, free of stub or bough for a
hundred feet, and from far out on the barrens those who traveled their
solitary ways east and west knew that it was a monument shaped by men.
Mukee had told Jan its story. In the first autumn of the woman's life
at Lac Bain, he and Per-ee had climbed the old spruce, lopping off its
branches until only the black cap remained; and after that it was known
far and wide as the "lobstick" of Cummins' wife. It was a voiceless
cenotaph which signified that all the honor and love known to the
wilderness people had been given to her.
To it went Jan, the papers still held in his hand. He had seen a pair
of whisky-jacks storing food in the butt of the tree, two or three
summers before, and now his fingers groped for the hole. When he found
it, he thrust in the papers, crowded them down, and filled the hole
with chunks of bark.
"Always my sister--and never anything more to Jan Thoreau," he said
gently in French, as if he were speaking to a spirit in the old tree.
"That is the honor of these snows; it is what the great God means us to
be." The strife had gone from his voice; it rose strong and clear as he
stretched his arms high up along the shorn side of the spruce, his eyes
upon the silent plume that heard his oath. "I swear that Jan Thoreau
will never do wrong to the little Mélisse!"
With a face white and set in its determination, he turned slowly away
from the tree. Far away, from the lonely depths of the swamp, there
came the wailing howl of a wolf--a cry of hungerful savageness that
died away in echoes of infinite sadness. It was like the howling of a
dog at the door of a cabin in which his master lay dead, and the sound
of it swept a flood of loneliness into Jan's heart. It was the
death-wail of his own last hope, which had gone out of him for ever
that night.
He listened, and it came again; but in the middle of it, when the long,
moaning grief of the voice was rising to its full despair, there broke
in a sharp interruption--a shrieking, yelping cry, such as a dog makes
when it is suddenly struck. In another moment the forest thrilled with
the deep-throated pack-call of the wolf who has started a fresh kill.
Hardly had its echoes died away when, from deeper in the swamp, there
came another cry, and still another from the mountain; and up and out
of the desolation rose the calls of others of the scattered pack, in
quick response to the comrade who had first found meat.
All the cries were alike, filled with that first wailing grief, except
that of the swelling throat which was sending forth the call to food. A
few minutes, and another of the mournful howls changed into the fierce
hunt-cry; then a second, a third, and a fourth, and the sound of the
chase swept swiftly from the swamp to the mountain, up the mountain and
down into the barrens.
"A caribou!" cried Jan softly. "A caribou, and he is going into the
barrens. There is no water, and he is lost!"
He ran and leaned over beside the old tree, so that the great plain
stretched out below him. Into the west turned the pack, the hunt-cry
growing fainter until it almost died away. Then, slowly, it grew again
in volume, swinging into the north, then to the east--approaching
nearer and nearer until Jan saw a dark, swiftly moving blot in the
white gloom.
The caribou passed by within half a rifle-shot of him; another half
rifle-shot behind followed the wolves, flung out fan-shape, their gray
bodies moving like specters in a half-moon cordon, and their leaders
almost abreast the caribou a dozen rods to each side.
There was no sound now. Below him, Jan could see the pale glimmer of
ice and snow, where in summer there was a small lake. Desperately the
caribou made an effort to reach this lake. The wolves drew in. The
moon-shape of their bodies shrunk until it was nearer a circle. From
the plain side the leading wolf closed until he was running at the
caribou's forelegs. The mountain wolf responded on the opposite side.
Then came the end, quick, decisive, and without sound.
After a few moments there came faintly the snapping of jaws and the
crunching of bones. Torn and bleeding, and yet quivering with life, the
caribou was given up to the feast.
Jan turned away from the scene. Torn and bleeding at his own heart, he
went back to Lac Bain.