Winter came late, but with a fury which appalled the strong hearts of
the settlers. Most of them were from the wooded lands of the East, and
the sweep of the wind across this level sod had a terror which made them
quake and cower. The month of December was incredibly severe.
Day after day the thermometer fell so far below zero that no living
thing moved on the wide, white waste. The snows seemed never at rest.
One storm followed another, till the drifting, icy sands were worn as
fine as flour. The house was like a cave. Its windows, thick with frost,
let in only a pallid light at midday. There was little for Blanche to
do, and there was nothing for her to say to Willard, who came and went
aimlessly between the barn and house. His poor old team could no longer
face the cold wind without danger of freezing, and so he walked to the
store for the mail and the groceries. They lived on boiled potatoes and
bacon, suffering like prisoners--jailed innocently. He hovered about the
stove, feeding it twisted bundles of hay till he grew yellow with the
tanning effect of the smoke, while Blanche cowered in her chair,
petulant and ungenerous.
The winter deepened. There were many days when the sun shone, but the
snow slid across the plain with a menacing, hissing sound, and the sky
was milky with flying frost, and the horizon looked cold and wild; but
these were merely the pauses between storms. The utter dryness of the
flakes and the never-resting progress of the winds kept the drifts
shifting, shifting.
"This is what you've dragged me into!" Blanche burst out, one desolate
day after a week's confinement to the house. "This is your fine
home--this dug-out! This is the climate you bragged about. I can't stay
here any longer. Oh, my God, if I was only back home again!" She rose,
and walked back and forth, her shawl trailing after her. "If I'd had any
word to say about it, we never'd 'a' been out in this God-forsaken
country."
He bowed his head to her passion and sat in silence, while she raged on.
"Do you know we haven't got ten pounds of flour in the house? And
another blizzard likely? And no butter, either? What y' goin' to do? Let
me starve?"
"I _did_ intend to go over to Bussy's and get back the flour they
borrowed of us, but I'm a little afraid to go out to-day; it looks like
another norther. The wind's rising, and old Tom--"
"But that's just the reason why you've got to go. We can't run such
risks. We've got to eat or die--you ought to know that."
Burke rose, and began putting on his wraps. "I'll go over and see what I
can squeeze out of old lady Bussy."
"Oh, this wind will drive me crazy!" she cried out. "Oh, I wish somebody
would come!" She dropped upon the bed, sobbing with a hysterical
catching of the breath. The wind was piping a high-keyed, mourning note
on the chimney-top, a sound that rang echoing down through every hidden
recess of her brain, shaking her, weakening her, till at last she turned
upon her husband with wild eyes.
"Take me with you! I can't stay here any longer--I shall go crazy!" She
turned her head to listen. "Isn't some one coming? Look out and see! I
hear bells!"
Burke tried to soothe her in his timid, clumsy fashion.
"There, there, now--sit down. You ain't well, Blanche. I'll ask Mrs.
Bussy to come--"
She suddenly seemed to remember something. "Don't talk to her. Go to
Craig's. Don't go to Bussy's--please don't! I hate her. I won't be in
her debt."
This pleading tone puzzled him, but he promised; and, hitching up his
thin, old horses, drove around to the door of the shanty. Blanche came
out, dressed to go with him, but when she felt the edge of the wind she
shrank. Her lips turned blue and she cowered back against the side of
the cabin, holding her shawl like a shield before her bosom. "I can't do
it! It's too cold! I'd freeze to death. You'll have to go alone."
Burke was relieved. "Yes, you'd better stay," he said, and drove off.
Blanche crept back into the shanty and bent above the stove, shivering
violently. She drew a long breath now and then like a grieving child.
Life was over for her. She had reached the point where nothing mattered.
She sat there until the sound of bells aroused her. "It's Jim!" she
called, and rose to her feet, her face radiant with relief. Rivers came
rushing up to the door in a two-horse sleigh and leaped out with a shout
of greeting, though he could not see her at the frosted window.
A moment later he burst in, vigorous, smiling, defiant of the cold.
"Hello! All alone? How are you?"
A quick warmth ran through her chilled limbs, and she lifted her hands
to him.
"Oh, Jim, I'm so glad you came!"
"Keep away--I'm all snow," he warningly called, as he threw off his cap
and buffalo coat. "Now come to me," he said, and took her in his arms.
"How are you, sweetheart? I can't kiss you--my mustache is all ice.
Where's Burke?"
"Gone to Craig's."
He winked jovially while pulling the icicles from his long mustache.
"I thought I saw him driving across the ridge. I was on my way to the
store, but when I saw his old rack-a-bone team I turned off to see you.
How are you?" he asked, tenderly, and his voice swept away all her
reserve.
"Oh, Jim, I'm not well. You must take me away, _right off_. I can't stay
here another day--_not a day_."
He looked at her keenly.
"Why? What's the matter?"
She evaded his eyes.
"It's so lonesome here--" Then she dropped all evasion: "You know
why--Jim, take me away. I can't live without you _now_. I'm going to be
sick."
He understood her very well. His eyes fell and his face knotted in
sudden gravity. "I was afraid of that--that's why I came. Yes, you must
get out of here at once."