HER PROMISE
Gravois did not stay to see the effect of his last words. Only he knew,
as he went through the door, that her eyes were following him, and that
if he looked at her she would call him back. So he shut the door
quickly behind him, fearing that he had already said too much.
Cummins and Jan came in together at suppertime. The factor was in high
humor. An Indian from the Porcupine had brought in two silver fox that
morning, and he was immensely pleased at Jan's return--a combination of
incidents which put him in the best of moods.
Mélisse sat opposite Jan at the table. She had twisted a sprig of red
bakneesh into her glossy braid, and a cluster of it nestled at her
throat, but Jan gave no sign that he had noticed this little favor,
which was meant entirely for him. He smiled at her, but there was a
clear coolness in the depths of his dark eyes which checked any of the
old familiarity on her part.
"Has MacVeigh put in his new trap-line?" Cummins inquired, after asking
Jan many questions about his trip.
"I don't know," replied Jan. "I didn't go to MacVeighs'."
Purposely he held his eyes from Mélisse. She understood his effort, and
a quick flush gathered in her cheeks.
"It was MacVeigh who brought in word of you," persisted the factor,
oblivious of the effect of his questions.
"I met him in the Cree Lake country, but he said nothing of his
trap-lines."
He rose from the table with Cummins, and started to follow him from the
cabin. Mélisse came between. For a moment her hand rested upon his arm.
"You are going to stay with me, Jan," she smiled. "I want your help
with the dishes, and then we're going to play on the violin."
She pulled him into a chair as Cummins left, and tied an apron about
his shoulders.
"Close your eyes--and don't move!" she commanded, laughing into his
surprised face as she ran into her room.
A moment later she returned with one hand held behind her back. The hot
blood surged through Jan's veins when he felt her fingers running
gently through his long hair. There came the snip of scissors, a little
nervous laugh close to his head, and then again the snip, snip, snip of
the scissors.
"It's terribly long, Jan!" Her soft hand brushed his bearded cheek.
"Ugh!" she shuddered. "You must take that off your face. If you don't--"
"Why?" he asked, through lack of anything else to say.
She lowered her head until her cheek pressed against his own.
"Because it feels like bristles," she whispered.
She reddened fiercely when he remained silent, and the scissors snipped
more rapidly between her fingers.
"I'm going to prospect the big swamp along the edge of the Barrens this
summer," he explained soon, laughing to relieve the tension. "A beard
will protect me from the black flies."
"You can grow another."
She took the apron from about his shoulders, and held it so that he
could see the result of her work. He looked up, smiling.
"Thank you, Mélisse. Do you remember when you last cut my hair?"
"Yes--it was over on the mountain. We had taken the scissors along for
cutting bakneesh, and you looked so like a wild Indian that I made you
sit on a rock and let me trim it."
"And you cut my ear," he reminded.
"For which you made me pay," she retorted quickly, almost under her
breath.
She went to the cupboard behind the stove, and brought out her father's
shaving-mug and razor.
"I insist that you shall use them," she said, stirring the soap into a
lather, and noting the indecision in his face. "I am afraid of you!"
"Afraid of me?"
He stood for a moment in front of the little mirror, turning his face
from side to side. Mélisse handed him the razor and cup.
"You don't seem like the Jan that I used to know once upon a time.
There has been a great change in you since--since--"
She hesitated.
"Since when, Mélisse?"
"Since the day we came in from the mountain and I put up my hair." With
timid sweetness she added: "I haven't had it up again, Jan."
She caught a glimpse of his lathered face in the glass, staring at her
with big, seeking eyes. He turned them quickly away when he saw that
she was looking, and Mélisse set to work at the dishes. She had washed
them before he finished shaving. Then she took down the old violin from
the wall and began to play, her low, sweet voice accompanying the
instrument in a Cree melody which Iowaka had taught her during Jan's
absence at Nelson House and the Wholdaia.
Surprised, he faced her, his eyes glowing as there fell from her lips
the gentle love-song of a heart-broken Indian maiden, filled with its
infinite sadness and despair. He knew the song. It was a lyric of the
Crees. He had heard it before, but never as it came to him now, sobbing
its grief in the low notes of the violin, speaking to him with
immeasurable pathos from the trembling throat of Mélisse.
He stood silent until she had finished, staring down upon her bowed
head. When she lifted her eyes to him, he saw that her long lashes were
wet and glistening in the lamp-glow.
"It is wonderful, Mélisse! You have made beautiful music for it."
"Thank you, Jan."
She played again, her voice humming with exquisite sweetness the
wordless music which he had taught her. At last she gave him the violin.
"Now you must play for me."
"I have forgotten a great deal, Mélisse."
She was astonished to see how clumsily his brown fingers traveled over
the strings. As she watched him, her heart thrilled uneasily. It was
not the old Jan who was playing for her now, but a new Jan, whose eyes
shone dull and passionless, in whom there was no stir of the old spirit
of the violin. He wandered listlessly from one thing to another, and
after a few minutes gave her the instrument again.
Without speaking, she rose from her chair and hung the violin upon the
wall.
"You must practise a great deal," she said quietly.
At her movement he, too, rose from his seat; and when she turned to him
again he had his cap in his hand. A flash of surprise shot into her
eyes.
"Are you going so soon, Jan?"
"I am tired," he said in excuse. "It has been two days since I have
slept, Mélisse. Good night!"
He smiled at her from the door, but the "Good night" which fell from
her lips was lifeless and unmeaning. Jan shivered when he went out.
Under the cold stars he clenched his hands, knowing that he had come
from the cabin none too soon.
Choking back the grief of this last meeting with Mélisse, he crossed to
the company store.
It was late when Cummins returned home. Mélisse was still up. He looked
at her sharply over his shoulder as he hung up his coat and hat.
"Has anything come between you and Jan?" he asked suddenly. "Why have
you been crying?"
"Sometimes the tears come when I am playing the violin, father. I know
of nothing that has come between Jan and me, only I--I don't
understand--"
She stopped, struggling hard to keep back the sobs that were trembling
in her throat.
"Neither do I understand," exclaimed the factor, going to the stove to
light his pipe. "He gave me his resignation as a paid servant of the
company tonight!"
"He is not going--to leave--the post?" breathed Mélisse.
"He is leaving the service," reiterated her father. "That means he can
not long live at Lac Bain. He says he is going into the woods, perhaps
into Jean's country of the Athabasca. Has he told you more?"
"Nothing," said Mélisse.
She was upon her knees in front of the little bookcase. A blinding film
burned in her eyes. She caught her breath, struggling hard to master
herself before she faced her father again. For a moment the factor went
into his room, and she took this opportunity of slipping into her own,
calling "Good night" to him from the partly closed door.
The next day it was Croisset who went along the edge of the Barrens for
meat. Gravois found Jan filling a new shoulder-pack with supplies. It
was their first encounter since he had learned that Jan had given up
the service.
"Diable!" he fairly hissed, standing over him as he packed his flour
and salt in a rubber bag. "Diable, I say, M. Jan Thoreau!"
Jan looked up, smiling, to see the little Frenchman fairly quivering
with rage.
"Bon jour, M. Jean de Gravois!" he laughed back. "You see I am going
out among the foxes."
"The devils!" snapped Jean.
"No, the foxes, my dear Jean. I am tired of the post. I can make better
wage for my time in the swamps to the west. Think of it, Jean! It has
been many years since you have trapped there, and the foxes must be
eating up the country!"
Jean's thin lips were almost snarling. "Blessed saints, and it was I
who--"
He spun upon his heels without another word, and went straight to
Mélisse.
"Jan Thoreau is going to leave the post," he announced fiercely,
throwing out his chest and glaring at her accusingly.
"So father has told me," said Mélisse.
Her cheeks were colorless, and there were purplish lines under her
eyes, but she spoke with exceeding calmness.
"Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Jean, whirling again, "you take it coolly!"
A little later Mélisse saw Jan coming from the store. When he entered
the cabin his dark face betrayed the strain under which he was
laboring, but his voice was unnaturally calm.
"I have come to say good-by, Mélisse," he said. "I am going to prospect
for a good trap-line among the Barrens."
"I hope you will have good luck, Jan."
In her voice, too, was a firmness almost metallic.
For the first time in his life Jan held out his hand to her. She
started, and for an instant the blood surged from her heart to her
face. Then she gave him her own and looked him squarely and
unflinchingly in the eyes.
"Will you wait a moment?" she asked.
She hurried into her room, and scarcely had she gone before she
reappeared again, this time with a flush burning in her cheeks and her
eyes shining brightly. She had unbraided her hair, and it lay coiled
upon the crown of her head, glistening with crimson sprigs of bakneesh.
She came to him a second time, and once more gave him her hand.
"I don't suppose you care now," she said coldly, and yet laughing in
his face. "I have not broken my promise. It was silly, wasn't it?"
He felt as if his blood had been suddenly chilled to water, and he
fought to choke back the thick throbbing in his throat.
"You promised--" He could not go further.
"I promised that I would not do up my hair again until you had
forgotten to love me," she finished for him. "I will do it up now."
He bowed his head, and she could see his shoulders quiver under their
thick caribou coat. Her tense lips parted, and she raised her arms as
if on the point of stretching them out to him; but his voice came
evenly, without a quiver, yet filled with the dispassionate truth of
what he spoke.
"I have not forgotten to love you, Mélisse. I shall never cease to love
my little sister. But you are older now, and it is time for you to do
up your hair."
He turned, without looking at her again, leaving her standing with her
arms still half stretched out to him, and went from the cabin.
"Good-by, Jan!"
The words fell in a sobbing whisper from her, but he had gone too far
to hear. Through the window she saw him shake hands with Cummins in
front of the company's store. She watched him as he went to the cabin
of Iowaka and Jean. Then she saw him shoulder his pack, and, with bowed
head, disappear slowly into the depths of the black spruce forest.