IN THE NIGHT
The living-room in Ailsa Mowbray's home was full of that comfort which
makes life something more than a mere existence in places where the
elements are wholly antagonistic. The big square wood-stove was tinted
ruddily by the fierce heat of the blazing logs within. Carefully
trimmed oil lamps shed a mellow, but ample, light upon furnishings of
unusual quality. The polished red pine walls reflected the warmth of
atmosphere prevailing. And thick furs, spread over the well-laid green
block flooring, suggested a luxury hardly to be expected.
The furniture was stout, and heavy, and angular, possessing that air of
strength, as well as comfort, which the modern mission type always
presents. The ample central table, too, was significant of the open
hospitality the mistress of it all loved to extend to the whole post,
and even to those chance travelers who might be passing through on the
bitter northern trail.
Ailsa Mowbray had had her wish since the passing of the days when it
had been necessary to share in the labors of her husband. The simple
goal of her life had been a home of comfort for her growing children,
and a wealth of hospitality for those who cared to taste of it.
The long winter night had already set in, and she was seated before the
stove in a heavy rocking-chair. Her busy fingers were plying her
needle, a work she loved in spite of the hard training of her early
days in the north. At the other side of the glowing stove Jessie was
reading one of the books with which Father José kept her supplied. The
wind was moaning desolately about the house. The early snowfall was
being drifted into great banks in the hollows. Up on the hilltop,
where the stockade of the Fort frowned out upon the world, the moaning
was probably translated into a tense, steady howl.
The mother glanced at the clock which stood on the bureau near by. It
was nearly seven. Alec would be in soon from his work up at the store,
that hour of work which he faced so reluctantly after the evening meal
had been disposed of. In half an hour, too, Father José would be
coming up from the Mission. She was glad. It would help to keep her
from thinking.
She sighed and glanced quickly over at her daughter. Jessie was poring
over her book. The sight of such absorption raised a certain feeling
of irritation in the mother. It seemed to her that Jessie could too
easily throw off the trouble besetting them all. She did not know that
the girl was fighting her own battle in her own way. She did not know
that her interest in her book was partly feigned. Nor was she aware
that the girl's effort was not only for herself, but to help the mother
she was unconsciously offending.
The anxious waiting for Murray's return had been well-nigh unbearable.
These people, all the folk on Snake River, knew the dangers and chances
of the expedition. Confidence in Murray was absolute, but still it
left a wide margin for disaster. They had calculated to the finest
fraction the time that must elapse before his return. Three weeks was
the minimum, and the three weeks had already terminated three nights
ago. It was this which had set the mother's nerves on edge. It was
this knowledge which kept Jessie's eyes glued to the pages of her book.
It was this which made the contemplation of the later gathering of the
men in that living-room a matter for comparative satisfaction to Ailsa
Mowbray.
Her needle passed to and fro under her skilful hands. There was almost
feverish haste in its movements. So, too, the pages of Jessie's book
seemed to be turned all too frequently.
At last the mother's voice broke the silence.
"It's storming," she said.
"Yes, mother." Jessie had glanced up. But her eyes fell to her book
at once.
"But it--won't stop them any." The mother's words lacked conviction.
Then, as if she realized that this was so, she went on more firmly.
"But Murray drives hard on the trail. And Allan--it would need a
bigger storm than this to stop him. If the river had kept open they'd
have made better time." She sighed her regret for the ice.
"Yes, mother." Jessie again glanced up. This time her pretty eyes
observed her mother more closely. She noted the drawn lines about the
soft mouth, the deep indentation between the usually serene brows. She
sighed, and the pain at her own heart grew sharper.
Quite suddenly the mother raised her head and dropped her sewing in her
lap.
"Oh, child, child, I--I could cry at this--waiting," she cried in
desperate distress. "I'm scared! Oh, I'm scared to death. Scared as
I've never been before. But things--things can't have happened. I
tell you I won't believe that way. No--no! I won't. I won't. Oh,
why don't they get around? Why doesn't he come?"
The girl laid her book aside. Her movement was markedly calm. Then
she steadily regarded her troubled mother.
"Don't, mother, dear," she cried. "You mustn't. 'Deed you mustn't."
Her tone was a gentle but decided reproof. "We've figured it clear
out. All of us together. Father José and Alec, too. They're men, and
cleverer at that sort of thing than we are. Father José reckons the
least time Murray needs to get back in is three weeks. It's only three
days over. There's no sort of need to get scared for a week yet."
The reproof was well calculated. It was needed. So Jessie understood.
Jessie possessed all her mother's strength of character, and had in
addition the advantage of her youth.
Her mother was abashed at her own display of weakness. She was abashed
that it should be necessary for her own child to reprove her. She
hastily picked up her work again.
But Jessie had abandoned her reading for good. She leaned forward in
her chair, gazing meditatively at a glowing, red-hot spot on the side
of the stove.
Suddenly she voiced the train of thought which had held her occupied so
long.
"Why does our daddy make Bell River, mother?" she demanded. "It's a
question I'm always asking myself. He's told me it's not a place for
man, devil, or trader. Yet he goes there. Say, he makes Bell River
every year. Why? He doesn't get pelts there. He once said he'd hate
to send his worst enemy up there. Yet he goes. Why? That's how I'm
always asking. Say, mother, you ran this trade with our daddy before
Murray came. You know why he goes there. You never say. Nor does
daddy. Nor Murray. Is--it a secret?"
Ailsa replied without raising her eyes.
"It's not for you to ask me," she said almost coldly.
But Jessie was in no mood to be easily put off.
"Maybe not, mother," she replied readily. "But you know, I guess. I
wonder. Well, I'm not going to ask for daddy's secrets. I just know
there is a secret to Bell River. And that secret is between you, and
him, and Murray. That's why Alec had to stop right here at the Fort.
Maybe it's a dangerous secret, since you keep it so close. But it
doesn't matter. All I know our daddy is risking his life every time he
hits the Bell River trail, and, secret or no secret, I ask is it right?
Is it worth while? If anything happened to our daddy you'd never,
never forgive yourself letting him risk his life where he wouldn't send
his worst enemy.'"
The mother laid her work aside. Nor did she speak while she folded the
material deliberately, carefully.
When at last she turned her eyes in her daughter's direction Jessie was
horrified at the change in them. They were haggard, hopeless, with a
misery of suspense and conviction of disaster.
"It's no use, child," she said decidedly. "Don't ask me a thing. If
you guess there's a secret to Bell River--forget it. Anyway, it's not
my secret. Say, you think I can influence our daddy. You think I can
persuade him to quit getting around Bell River." She shook her head.
"I can't. No, child. I can't, nor could you, nor could anybody. Your
father's the best husband in the world. And I needn't tell you his
kindness and generosity. He's all you've ever believed him, and
more--much more. He's a big man, so big, you and I'll never even
guess. But just as he's all we'd have him in our lives, so he's all he
needs to be on the bitter northern trail. The secrets of that trail
are his. Nothing'll drag them out of him. Whatever I know, child,
I've had to pay for the knowing. Bell River's been my nightmare years
and years. I've feared it as I've feared nothing else. And now--oh,
it's dreadful. Say, child, for your father's sake leave Bell River out
of your thoughts, out of your talk. Never mention that you think of
any secret. As I said, 'forget it.'"
Her mother's distress, and obvious dread impressed the girl seriously.
She nodded her head.
"I'll never speak of it, mother," she assured her. "I'll try to forget
it. But why--oh, why should he make you endure these years of
nightmare? I----"
Her mother abruptly held up a finger.
"Hush! There's Father José."
There was the sharp rattle of a lifted latch, and the slam-to of the
outer storm door. They heard the stamping of feet as the priest freed
his overshoes of snow. A moment later the inner door was pushed open.
Father José greeted them out of the depths of his fur coat collar.
"A bad night, ma'am," he said gravely. "The folks on the trail will
feel it--cruel."
The little man divested himself of his coat.
"The folk on the trail? Is there any news?" Ailsa Mowbray's tone said
far more than her mere words.
Jessie had risen from her chair and crossed to her mother's side. She
stood now with a hand resting on the elder woman's shoulder. And the
priest, observing them as he advanced to the stove, and held his hands
to the comforting warmth, was struck by the twin-like resemblance
between them.
Their beauty was remarkable. The girl's oval cheeks were no more
perfect in general outline than her mother's. Her sweet gray eyes were
no softer, warmer. The youthful lips, so ripe and rich, only possessed
the advantage of her years. The priest remembered Allan Mowbray's wife
at her daughter's age, and so he saw even less difference between them
than time had imposed.
"That's what I've been along up to see Alec at the store for. Alec's
gone out with a dog team to bear a hand--if need be."
The white-haired man turned his back on the stove and faced the
spacious room. He withdrew a snuffbox from his semi-clerical vest
pocket, and thoughtfully tapped it with a forefinger. Then he helped
himself to a large pinch of snuff. As far as the folks on Snake River
knew this was the little priest's nearest approach to vice.
"Alec gone out? You never told us?" Ailsa Mowbray's eyes searched the
sharp profile of the man, whose face was deliberately averted. "Tell
me," she demanded. "You've had news. Bad? Is it bad? Tell me! Tell
me quickly!"
The man fumbled in an inner pocket and produced a folded paper. He
opened it, and gazed at it silently. Then he passed it to the wife,
whose hands were held out and trembling.
"I've had this. It came in by runner. The poor wretch was badly
frost-bitten. It's surely a cruel country."
But Ailsa Mowbray was not heeding him. Nor was Jessie. Both women
were examining the paper, and its contents. The mother read it aloud.
"DEAR FATHER JOSE:
"We'll make the Fort to-morrow night if the weather holds. Can you
send out dogs and a sled? Have things ready for us.
"MURRAY."
During the reading the priest helped himself to another liberal pinch
of snuff. Then he produced a great colored handkerchief, and trumpeted
violently into it. But he was watching the women closely out of the
corners of his hawk-like eyes.
Ailsa read the brief note a second time, but to herself. Then, with
hands which had become curiously steady, she refolded it, retaining it
in her possession with a strangely detached air. It was almost as if
she had forgotten it, and that her thoughts had flown in a direction
which had nothing to do with the letter, or the Padre, or----
But Jessie came at the man in a tone sharpened by the intensity of her
feelings.
"Say, Father, there's no more than that note? The runner? Did he tell
you--anything? You--you questioned him?"
"Yes."
Suddenly the mother took a step forward. One of her hands closed upon
the old priest's arm with a grip that made him wince.
"The truth, Father," she demanded, in a tone that would not be denied.
Her eyes were wide and full of a desperate conviction. "Quick, the
truth! What was there that Murray didn't write in that note? Allan?
What of Allan? Did he reach him? Is--is he dead? Why did he want
that sled? Tell me. Tell it all, quick!"
She was breathing hard. Her desperate fear was heart-breaking. Jessie
remained silent, but her eyes were lit by a sudden terror no less than
her mother's.
Suddenly the priest faced the stove again. He gazed down at it for a
fraction of time. Then he turned to the woman he had known in her
girlhood, and his eyes were lit with infinite kindness, infinite grief
and sympathy.
"Yes," he said in a low voice. "There was a verbal message for my ears
alone. Murray feared for you. The shock. So he told me. Allan----"
"Is dead!" Ailsa Mowbray whispered the words, as one who knows but
cannot believe.
"Is dead." The priest was gazing down at the stove once more.
No word broke the silence of the room. The fire continued to roar up
the stovepipe. The moaning of the wind outside deplorably emphasized
the desolation of the home. For once it harmonized with the note of
despair which flooded the hearts of these people.
It was Jessie who first broke down under the cruel lash of Fate. She
uttered a faint cry. Then a desperate sob choked her.
"Oh, daddy, daddy!" she cried, like some grief-stricken child.
In a moment she was clasped to the warm bosom of the woman who had been
robbed of a husband.
Not a tear fell from the eyes of the mother. She stood still, silent,
exerting her last atom of moral strength in support of her child.
Father José stirred. His eyes rested for a moment upon the two women.
A wonderfully tender, misty light shone in their keen depths. No word
of his could help them now, he knew. So with soundless movement he
resumed his furs and overshoes, and, in silence, passed out into the
night.
The wind howled against the ramparts of the Fort. It swept in through
the open gates, whistling its fierce glee as it buffeted the staunch
buildings thus uncovered to its merciless blast. The black night air
was alive with a fog of snow, swept up in a sort of stinging, frozen
dust. The lights of Nature had been extinguished, blotted out by the
banking storm-clouds above. It seemed as though this devil's
playground had been cleared of every intrusion so that the riot of the
northern demons might be left complete.
A fur-clad figure stood within the great gateway. The pitiful glimmer
of a lantern swung from his mitted hand. His eyes, keen, penetrating,
in spite of the blinding snow, searched the direction where the trail
flowed down from the Fort. He was waiting, still, silent, in the howl
of the storm.
A sound came up the hill. It was a sound which had nothing to do with
the storm. It was the voices of men, urgent, strident. A tiny spark
suddenly grew out of the blackness. It was moving, swinging
rhythmically. A moment later shadowy figures moved in the darkness.
They were vague, uncertain. But they came, following closely upon the
spark of light, which was borne in the hand of a man on snowshoes.
The fur-clad figure swung his lantern to and fro. He moved himself
from post to post of the great gateway. Then he stood in his original
position.
The spark of light came on. It was another lantern, borne in the hand
of another fur-clad figure. It passed through the gateway. A string
of panting dogs followed close behind, clawing at the ground for
foothold, bellies low to the ground as they hauled at the rawhide tugs
which harnessed them to their burden behind. One by one they passed
the waiting figure. One by one they were swallowed up by the blackness
within the Fort. Five in all were counted. Then came a long dark
shape, which glided over the snow with a soft, hissing sound.
The waiting man made a sign with his mitted hand as the shape passed
him. His lips moved in silent prayer. Then he turned to the gates.
They swung to. The heavy bars lumbered into their places under his
guidance. Then, as though in the bitterness of disappointment, the
howling gale flung itself with redoubled fury against them, till the
stout timbers creaked and groaned under the wanton attack.