Courthope had struck across to the main road at right angles to the
poplar avenue. The poplars stood slim, upright, more like a stiff and
regular formation of feathery seaweed growing out of a frozen ocean than
like trees upon a plain. He was nearing a grove of elm and birch which
he had not seen the evening before; by the almost hidden rails of the
fence there were half-buried shrubs. So dry, so hard, so absolutely
without bud or sere leaf was the interlacing outline of the trees and
shrubs, that they too seemed to be some strange product of this new sort
of ocean; they did not remind him of verdant glades. Not that beauty was
absent, nor charm, but the scene was strange, very strange; the domain
of the laughing princess, on whom he had turned his back, was, in the
daylight, more than ever an enchanted land which he could fancy to be
unknown in story and until now unexplored by man. Such ideas only came
to him by snatches; the rest of him, mind and body, was summed up in a
fierce determination to catch the thief and bring back his spoils.
Whether by this he would prove himself honest or guilty, he neither knew
nor felt that he cared.
Gradually, as he thought less about his snow-shoes, he found that the
wide lateral swing which he had been giving to his leg was unneeded.
Strange as it seemed, the large rackets did not interfere when he took
an ordinary step. Having made this pleasant discovery he quickened
speed. He did not know whether the girl had stopped laughing and had
gone into the house again, but he knew that the falling snow and the
branches of the trees must now hinder her from seeing him distinctly.
In a moment he was glad of this, for, becoming incautious, he fell.
Both arms, put out to save himself, were embedded to the very shoulder
straight down in snow that offered no bottom to his touch; when his next
impulse was to move knees and feet he found that the points of his
snow-shoes were dug deep, and his toes, tied to them, held the soles of
his feet in the same position.
What cursed temerity had made him confess to a criminal act in order to
be allowed to come on this fool's errand? Fool, indeed, had he been to
suppose that he could walk upon a frozen cloud without falling through!
Such were Courthope's reflections.
By degrees he got himself up, but only by curling himself round and
taking off his snow-shoes. By degrees he got the snow-shoes put on
again, and mounted out of the hole which he had made, with snow
adhering to all his garments and snow melting adown his neck and wrists.
He now realised that he had spent nearly half an hour in walking not a
quarter of a mile. With this cheerless reflection as a companion he went
doggedly on, choosing now the drifted main road for a path.
Having left behind him the skeleton forms of the trees, he was trudging
across an open plain, flat almost as the surface of the lake which he
had traversed yesterday. Sometimes the fences at the side of the road
were wholly hidden, more often they showed the top of their posts or
upper bar; sometimes he could see cross-fences, as if outlining fields,
so that he supposed he still walked through lands farmed from the lonely
stone house, that he was still upon his lady's domain. He meditated upon
her, judging that she was sweet beyond compare, although why he thought
so, after her mistrust and derision, was one of those secrets which the
dimpled Cupid only could explain. He was forced to acknowledge the fact
that thus he did think, because here he was walking, whither he hardly
knew, how he hardly knew, battling with the gale, hustled roughly by its
white wings, in danger at every turn of falling off the two small moving
rafts of his shoes into a sea in which no man could swim very long. He
wondered, should his snow-shoes break, if he would be able to flounder
to the rim of the fence? How long could he sit there? Certainly it would
seem, looking north and south and east and west, that he would need to
sit as long as the life in him might endure the frost.
At length a shed or small barn met his eye. His own approach seemed to
have been heard and answered from within; the neigh of a horse greeted
him. At first he supposed that some horses belonging to the house were
stabled here, and neglected because the roads were impassable; then he
judged that so slight a shed could not be intended for a stable.
He answered the animal's cry by seeking the door. Against it the drift
was not deep, for, as it opened on the sheltered side, he had only the
snowfall to scrape away. The door, which had very recently been freed
from its crust of frost, yielded easily. He found a brown shaggy horse
tied within, and beside it a sleigh, such as he had frequently seen, a
mere platform of wood upon runners. Otherwise the shed was empty.
Courthope was quickly struck by the recognition of something which set
his memory working. The old buffalo-skin on the sleigh was such as was
common, but the way it was stretched upon a heap of sacks made him
remember the sleigh that he had yesterday passed upon the river, and the
keen sinister face of the driver, which had ill contrasted with his
apparent sleep and stupidity.
Courthope tossed aside the skin with a jerk. A rum bottle, a small hoard
of frozen bread and bacon, a heavy blanket folded beneath, all seemed to
prove that the driver had made provision for a longer journey. The horse
had no food before it; no blanket was upon its back. Probably its driver
had not intended to leave it here so long. Where was the driver? This
quickly became in Courthope's mind the all-important question. Why had
he been skulking on the most lonely part of the lake? And now, recalling
again the man's face, he believed that he had had an evil design.
Courthope pursued his way; for, whether the thief had gone farther or
remained in this vicinity, it was evidently desirable to have help from
the nearest neighbours to seek and capture him. Courthope soon reached
what seemed to be a dip or hollow in the plain; in this the wind had
been very busy levelling the surface with the higher ground. At first he
supposed that, for some reason, road and fences had come to an abrupt
ending; then he discovered that he merely walked higher above the
natural level. The thought came to him that if here he should break his
snow-shoes there would not even be the neighbouring fence-top on which
to perch and freeze.
Suddenly all his attention was concentrated upon a dark something, like
a bit of cloth fallen in the snow. As he came close and touched the
cloth he found it to be the covering of a basket almost buried; pushing
away the snow-crusted covering and feeling with eager fingers among the
icy contents, he quickly knew that this was no other than the stolen
silver of which he was in quest. A thrill of gratitude to Fortune for so
kindly a freak had hardly passed through his mind before his eye sought
a depression in the snow just beyond. He saw now that a man was lying
there. The head resting upon an arm was but slightly covered with snow;
the whole form had sunk by its own heat into a cavity like a grave.
Courthope lifted the head; the face was that of the man whom he had seen
yesterday upon the river. The arms, when he raised them, fell again to
the snow like lead, yet he perceived that life was not extinct. Even in
the frost the odour of rum was to be perceived, and breath, although so
feeble as to be unseen, still passed in and out of the tightly-drawn
nostrils. The touch, that would have been reverent to a corpse, was now
rough. He shook the fallen man and shouted. He raised him to a sitting
posture, but finding that, standing as he did upon soft snow, to lift
him was impossible, he laid him again in the self-made grave. That
posture at least would be most conducive to the continued motion of the
heart.
Standing upon the other side of the body, Courthope's shoe struck upon
another hard object which he found to be a case, stolen locked as it
was, which contained, no doubt, the other valuables whose loss Madge had
first discovered. The wretch, weighted by a burden in each hand, had
apparently missed his way when endeavouring to return to the shed in
which he had left his horse, and wandering in circles, perhaps for
hours, had evidently succumbed to drink and to cold, caught as in a trap
by the unusual violence of the storm.
There was nothing to be done but return to the house for Morin's aid,
and, lifting the handles of basket and case in either hand, Courthope
doubled back upon his own track, thankful that he had already attained
to some skill in snow-shoeing. As he neared the house his heart beat
high at the excitement of seeing Madge's delight. He closely scanned the
windows, even the tiny windows in the pointed tin roof, but no eager
eyes were on the look-out.
Loudly he thumped upon the heavy front door. There was somewhat of a
bustle inside at the knock. The snow-bound household collected quickly
at the welcome thought of a message from the outside world. When the
door was opened Madge and the Morins were there to behold Courthope
carrying the plunder. He perceived at once that his guilt, if doubted
before, was now proved beyond all doubt. There was a distinct measure of
reserve in the satisfaction they expressed. Madge especially was very
grave, with a strong flavour of moral severity in her words and
demeanour.
Courthope explained to her that the other man was dying in the snow,
that if his life was to be saved no time must be lost. She repeated the
story in French to Morin, and thereupon arose high words from the
Frenchman. Madge looked doubtfully at Courthope, and then she
interpreted.
It seemed that the Frenchman's desire was to put him out again and lock
up the house, leaving the two accomplices to shift for themselves as
best they might. Courthope urged motives of humanity. He described the
man and his condition.
At length he prevailed. Madge insisted that if Morin did not go she
would. In a few moments both she and Morin were preparing to set out.
It seemed useless for Courthope to precede them; he went into the
dining-room, demanding food of Madam Morin.
He found that Eliz had been carried down and placed in her chair in the
midst of domestic activities.
As soon as she spied him, being in a nervous, hysterical state, she
opened her mouth and shrieked sharply; the shriek at this time had more
the tone of a child's anger than of a woman's fear. With a strong sense
of humour he sat down at the table, and she, realising that he was not
immediately dangerous, railed upon him.
'Viper in the bosom!' said Eliz.
Courthope, almost famished, ate fast.
'Daughter of the horse-leech crying "give," and sucking blood from the
hand it gives!' she continued.
'Sir Charles Grandison would never have kicked a man when he was down,'
he said. 'He would have tried to do good even to the viper he had
nourished.'
The memory of Sir Charles's well-known method even with the most
villainous, appeared to distract her attention for a moment.
'And then they all sent for him and confessed and made amends, just as I
have done,' Courthope went on; but the fact that a laugh was gleaming in
his eyes enraged the little cripple.
'How dare you talk to me, sitting there pretending to be a gentleman!'
'I would rather be allowed to make a better toilet if my reputation were
to rest upon a pretence. I never heard of a gentlemanly villain who went
about without collar and cuffs, and had not been allowed access to his
hair-brush.'
'A striped jacket and shaved head is generally what he goes about in
after he's unmasked. If I had been Madge I would not have let you off.'
'Come, remember how sorry Elizabeth Bennett was when she found she had
given way to prejudice. If I remember right she lay awake many nights.'
'Are you adding insult to injury by insinuating that either of us might
bestow upon you----?'
'Oh! certainly not, I merely wish to suggest that a young lady
possessing lively talents and "remarkably fine eyes" might yet make
great mistakes in her estimate of the masculine character.'
The cripple, who perhaps had never before heard her one beautiful
feature praised by masculine lips, was obliged to harden herself.
'Accomplished wretch!' she cried, in accents worthy of an irate Pamela.
'Do you suppose it was the last time I was serving my term in gaol that
I read our favourite novels?' he asked.
By this time Morin had passed out of the door to put on his snow-shoes,
and Courthope, who had swallowed only as much food as was necessary to
keep him from starvation, turned out to repeat the process of putting on
his, this time more deftly.
Morin had a toboggan upon which were piled such necessaries as Madge had
collected. They began their march three abreast into the storm.
They went a long way without conversation, and yet Courthope found in
this march keen enjoyment. His heart was absurdly light. To have
performed so considerable a service for Madge, now to be walking beside
her on an errand of mercy, was as much joy as the present hour could
hold.
It was difficult for him to keep up with the others, yet in doing so
there was the pleasure of the athlete in having acquired a new mastery
over his muscles; and the fascination of being at home in the snow as a
sea-bird is at home in the surf, which is the chief element of delight
in all winter sports, was his for the first time. With the drunken
wretch who was almost frozen he felt small sympathy, but he had the
sense that all modern men have on such occasions, that he ought to be
concerned, which kept him grave.
The other two were not light-hearted. Morin, dragging the toboggan
behind him and walking with his grey head bent forward to the gale, was
sullen at being driven in the service of thieves; afraid lest some
sinister design was still intended, he cast constant glances of cunning
suspicion at Courthope. As for Madge, she appeared grave and
pre-occupied beyond all that was natural to her, suffering, he feared,
from the pain of her first disillusionment. This was a suffering that he
was hardly in a position to take seriously, and yet his heart yearned
over her. He thought also that she was pondering over the problem of
her next responsibility, and the evidence of this came sooner than he
had expected.
When they got to the place where his first track diverged straight to
the shed, she and Morin stopped to exchange remarks; they evidently
perceived in this the clearest evidence of all against him. Had he not
gone straight to the place where the accomplice had agreed to wait? Then
Madge fell back a little to where he was now plodding in the rear. She
accosted him in the soft tones that had from the first so charmed him,
contrasting with her sister's voice as the tones of a reed-pipe contrast
with those from metal, or as the full voice of the cuckoo with the
shrill chirp of the sparrow. The soft voice was very serious, the manner
more than sedate, the words studied.
'I am afraid that nothing that I can say will persuade you to alter a
way of life which you seem to have chosen, but it seems to me very sad
that one of your ability should so degrade himself.'
She stopped with a little gasp for breath, as if frightened at her own
audacity. Her manner and phrases were an evident imitation of the way in
which she had heard advice bestowed upon vagrant or criminal by the
benevolent judge whose memory she so tenderly cherished. It was second
nature to her to act as she fancied he would have acted. Courthope
composed himself to receive the judicial admonition with becoming
humility; his whole sympathy was with her, his mind was aglow with the
quaint humour of it.
'You must know,' rebuked Madge, 'how very wrong it is; and it is not
possible that you could have difficulty in getting some honest
employment.'
'It is very kind of you to interest yourself in me.' He kept his eyes
upon the ground.
'I do not know, of course, what led you to begin a life of crime, or in
what way you found out what houses in this country were worth robbing,
but I fear you must have led a wicked life for a long time' (she was
very severe now). 'You are young yet; why should you carry on your
nefarious schemes in a new country, where, if you would, you could
easily reform?' (Again a little gasp for breath.) 'I have promised to
let you go without giving you into the hands of the law. I am afraid I
did a selfish and weak thing, because others may suffer from your
crimes, and I wish you could take this opportunity, which my leniency
gives you, and try to reform before you have lost your reputation as
well as your character.'
'It is very kind of you,' he murmured again; and still as he walked he
looked upon his feet. He had no thought now of again denying his guilt;
having denied and, as she thought, confessed, he felt that to change
once more would only evoke her greater scorn. 'Let be,' his heart said.
'Let come what will, I will not confuse her further to-day.'