THE PASSION OF ERNESTINE DUMONT
A man's life may pass for him like a slow winding stream through open
meadows in gentle valley lands, its waters clear and untroubled by
rapids, falls and eddies. Even a man with such a life has his vital
story. But it is pastoral, idyllic, like a quiet painting done in a
soft monochrome. Or a man's life may shake him with a series of shocks
which, to the soul, are cataclysmic. And then the man, be his strength
what it may, since he is human and it is not infinite, is caught like a
dry leaf in the maelstrom of life about him and within him, and is
sucked down into depths where the light does not penetrate or is flung
from the mad current into a quiet cove where he may rest with the din
of the angry waters in his ears.
Drennen had been over the falls; he now rested in such a cove. He had
battled furiously with fury itself; now he was soothingly touched by
the tide of gentler emotions. He did not think; rather he dreamed. He
had looked for the light the other day and had found it everywhere.
Now, most of all did it seem to be within himself. We see the outside
world as we carry it within us; the eyes, rather mirrors than
telescopes, reflect what is intimate rather than that which lies beyond.
To-day, riding back along the trail, Drennen saw how golden were the
fresh tips of the firs; how each young tree was crowned with a star;
how each budding pine lifted skyward what resembled a little cluster of
wax candles. Stars and candles, celestial light and light man-kindled,
glory of God and glory of man.
With a rebound, it seemed, the young soul of the David Drennen of
twenty had again entered his breast. There had been a time when he had
loved life, the world, the men about him; when he had looked pleasantly
into the faces of friends and strangers; when he had been ready to form
a new tie of comradeship and had no thought of hatred; when he had
credited other men with kindly feelings and honest hearts. That time
had come again.
Somewhere ahead of him Marc Lemarc was riding. Drennen did not think
unkindly of him. He realised that the hatred he had felt a few days
ago had been born of delirium and madness and jealousy. Ygerne sought
to retrieve the long lost Bellaire fortune; Lemarc's interests jumped
with hers in the matter. One had the map, the other the key; they must
work together. Lemarc was riding with the jingle of Drennen's money in
his pocket and Drennen was glad to think of it. He was helping Ygerne,
he was not sorry to help Lemarc at the same time. This morning he had
had one hundred thousand dollars! He smiled, then laughed aloud. One
hundred thousand dollars! Now he had fifty thousand; already he had
opened his hand and poured out fifty thousand dollars! That was the
old Drennen, the headlong, generous Drennen, the Drennen who took more
delight in giving than in spending, and no delight in selfishness. He
had done all that he could do to help wipe the stain from his father's
name; he had lifted a burden from his father's shoulders. While he
could not understand everything he knew that. And he had staked Lemarc.
Another man would have called for Lemarc's bills, have gone over them,
have moved slowly and with caution. That would not have been Drennen.
He gave forty thousand for his father's name; he placed ten thousand
where Ygerne could use it through Lemarc. He had fifty thousand left
and he felt that he had not done enough, that he had kept back too
much. True, the thought had flickered through his brain: "And suppose
that Lemarc should take the cash and let the credit go? Suppose that
he should be contented with the ten thousand dollar bird in his hand
and never mind the hypothetical Bellaire treasure bird in the bush?"
Well, then, it would be worth it to Ygerne; just for her to know what
sort Lemarc was. Drennen had more money than he needed; he had an
assured income from the newly rediscovered Golden Girl; there were
still other mines in the world for the man who could find them; and he
had merely done for Ygerne Bellaire the first thing she had asked of
him. In Drennen's eyes, in this intoxicated mood, it seemed a very
little thing.
He had bought a horse in Lebarge, the finest animal to be had in the
week's search. He had supplied himself with new clothes, feeling in
himself, reborn, the desire for the old garb of a gentleman. He had
telegraphed two hundred miles for a great box of chocolates for Ygerne;
he had sent a message twice that distance for his first bejewelled
present for her. Nothing in Lebarge was to be considered; the golden
bauble which came in answer to his message, a delicate necklace pendant
glorious with pearls, cost him three hundred dollars and contented him.
He was happy. He opened his mind to the joy of life calling to him; he
closed his thoughts to all that was not bright. Ygerne was waiting for
him; John Harper Drennen was not dead, but alive and near at hand. The
man who had judged hard and bitterly before, now suspended judgment.
It was not his place to condemn his fellow man; certainly he was not to
sit in trial on his own father and the woman who would one day be his
wife! The lone wolf had come back to the pack. He wanted
companionship, friendship, love.
It had been close to eleven o'clock when he rode out of Lebarge. He
counted upon his horse's strength and a moonlit night to bring him back
to the Settlement in time for a dawn tryst down the river at a certain
fallen log. He pushed on steadily until four o'clock in the afternoon;
then he stopped, resting his horse and himself, tarrying for a little
food and tobacco. At five o'clock he again swung into the saddle and
pushed on.
He knew that Lemarc was ahead of him. Here, where tracks were few,
were those of Lemarc's horse. Drennen had not loitered and he knew
that Lemarc was riding hard. Well, Lemarc, too, rode with gold in his
pockets and in his heart further hope of gold. If he were running way
with the money Drennen had advanced he was running the wrong way.
Drennen did not break off in the little song upon his lips at the
thought. . . . More than once that day he found himself humming
snatches of Ramon Garcia's refrain.
"_Dios_! It is sweet to be young and to love!"
Fragrant dusk crept down about him, warm, sweet-scented night floated
out from the dusk, a few stars shone, the moon passed up above the
ridge at his right and made of the Little MacLeod's racing water
alternate lustrous ebony and glistening silver, a liquid mosaic.
Drennen fell silent, a deep content upon him.
Scarcely two miles from MacLeod's Settlement, and an episode offered
itself which in the end seemed to have no deeper purpose than to show
to the man himself how wonderful was the change wrought within him. He
had crested a gentle rise, had had for a moment the glint of a light in
his eyes and had wondered at it idly, knowing that not yet could he see
the Settlement and that this was no hour, long after midnight, for
folks to be abroad there. Then, dropping down into the copse which
made black the hollow, he remembered the old, ruined cabin which had
stood here so long tenantless and rotting, realising that the light he
had seen came from it. Lemarc? That was his first thought as again he
caught the uncertain flicker through the low branches. The man might
have been thrown in the darkness, his horse could easily have caught a
sprain from the uneven trail, slippery and treacherous.
"Poor devil," reflected Drennen. "To get laid up this near the end of
his ride."
His trail led close to the tumbled down cabin. Once in the little
clearing he made out quickly that a fire was burning fitfully upon the
old rock hearth. He could see its flames and smoke clearly through the
wall itself which was no longer a wall but the debris of rotted logs
with here and there a timber still sound and hanging insecurely. He
saw no one. Coming closer, still making out no human form in the
circle of light or in the gloom about it, he heard a low moaning, as
fitful as the uncertain firelight. And then, as he drew his horse to a
standstill, he made out upon the floor near the fire and in the shadow
of one of the hanging timbers, an indistinct form. For an instant the
low moaning was quieted; then again it came to his ears, seeming to
speak of suffering unutterable.
Dismounted, Drennen came swiftly through the yawning door to stand at
the side of the prone figure. A great, unreasonable and still a
natural fear sprang up in his heart; he went down upon his knees with a
half sob gripping at his throat. It was a woman, her body twisting
before him, and he was afraid that it was Ygerne and that she was
dying. Her face was hidden, an arm was flung up, her loosened hair
fell wildly about her temples and cheeks. Again the moaning ceased;
the woman turned so that her cheek lay upon the loose dirt of the
broken floor, her eyes wide upon him. A sigh inflated his chest and
fell away like a whisper of thanks. The woman was not Ygerne, thank
God!
"Go away!" She panted the words at him, venom in her glance. Then
abruptly she turned her face from him.
A swift revulsion of feeling swept through him. Just now he had
thanked God that this was not Ygerne; just now he had been so glad in
his relief that there was no room for pity in his gladness. Now, as
involuntarily his old joy surged back upon him, he felt a quick sting
of shame. He had no right to be so utterly happy when there was
suffering and sorrow such as this. As he had not yet fully understood,
now did he grasp in a second that change which had come about within
himself. There was tenderness in his eyes, there were pity and
sympathy as he stooped still lower.
"Ernestine," he said softly. "What is it, Ernestine? I want to help
you if I can. What is the matter, Ernestine?"
Her body, stilled while he spoke, writhed again passionately.
"Go away!" she panted out at him as she had done before, save that now
she did not turn her face to look at him. "Of all men, Dave Drennen, I
hate you most. Good God, how I hate you! Go away!"
There came a sob into her voice, a shudder shaking the prone body.
Drennen, knowing little of the ways of women, wanting only to help her,
uncertain and hesitant, knelt motionless, staring at her with troubled
eyes. Over and over the questions pricked his brain: "What was she
doing out here alone at this time of night? What had happened to her?"
He thought for a moment of springing to his feet, of hastening down the
two miles of trail to the Settlement, of rushing aid to the stricken
woman. Then another thought: "She may die while I am gone! It will
take an hour to get help to her."
"Ernestine," he said again, gently, laying his hand upon her shaking
shoulder. "I know you don't like me. But at times like this that
doesn't matter. Tell me what has happened . . . let me help you. I
want to help you if I can, Ernestine."
He was sincere in that; he wanted to help her. It didn't matter who it
was suffering; he wanted to see no more suffering in his world. He
wanted every one to be as happy as he was going to be. There was a new
yearning upon him, that yearning which is the true first born of a
man's love, a yearning to do some little good in the world that he may
have this to think upon and not just the bad which he has done.
She lay very still, making him no answer. He could not guess if she
were suffering from physical injury or from the other hurt which is
harder to bear. He could not guess if she were growing calm or if she
were losing consciousness. He could only plead with her, his voice
softer than Ernestine Dumont had ever heard the voice of David Drennen,
begging her to let him do something for her.
With a sudden, swift movement, she turned about, sitting up, her arms
about her knees, her head with its loosened hair thrown back. For the
first time he saw her face clearly. There was dirt upon it as though
she had fallen upon the trail, face down. There was a smear of blood
across her mouth. There was a scratch upon her forehead, and a trickle
of blood had run down across her soiled brow. He saw that, while she
had sobbed, no tears had come to make their glistening furrows through
the dust upon her cheeks. He thought that in his time he, too, had
known such tearless agony.
"Your help!" She flung the words at him passionately. "I'd die before
I'd take your help, Dave Drennen. What do you care for me?"
"I'm sorry for you, Ernestine," he said gently.
She laughed at him bitterly, her body rocking back and forth.
"Why don't you go?" she cried hotly. "Go on to MacLeod's. Your little
fool is waiting for you, I suppose," she sneered at him.
Dropping her head to her upgathered knees, her body rocking stormily,
moaning a little, she broke off. Drennen rose to his feet.
"I'll go," he said. "Shall I send some one to you?"
When she didn't answer he turned away from her. He had done all that
he could do. And, besides, he thought that the woman's physical
injuries were superficial and that her distress was doubtless that of
mere violent hysteria.
"Come back!" she called sharply.
He turned and again came to her side, standing over her, his hat in his
hand, his face showing only the old pity for her. Once more she had
flung up her head. In the eyes staring up at him was a hunger which
even David Drennen could not misread.
"Tell me," she said after a little, her voice more quiet than it had
been. "Do you love Ygerne Bellaire, Dave?"
"Yes," he answered quietly.
"You fool!" she cried at him. "Why is a man always blind to what
another woman can see so plainly? Don't you know what she is?"
"Let's not talk of her, Ernestine," he said a little sharply.
"She's too holy for a woman like me to talk about, is she? She's a
little cat, Dave Drennen! Can't you see that? Don't you know what she
is after . . ."
"Ernestine!" he commanded harshly. "If I can help you, let me do it.
If I can't, I'll go. In either case we'll not talk of Miss Bellaire."
She looked at him curiously, studying him, seeming for an instant to
have grown quiet in mind as in body.
"She doesn't love you," she said calmly. "Not as I love you, Dave. If
she did . . . nothing would matter. She's got baby eyes and a baby
face . . . and she runs with men like Sefton and Lemarc!"
"I tell you," he cried sternly, "I'll not listen to you talk of her.
If I can't help you . . ."
Her eyes shone hard upon his. Then her head dropped again and once
more she was moaning as when he had first heard her, moaning and
weeping, her body twisting. Again the man was all uncertainty.
"You would do anything for her!" she cried brokenly. "You would do
nothing for me."
"I would do anything for you that you would let me and that I could do,
Ernestine," he said gently.
"And," she went on, unheeding, "it is because of you that I am like
this to-night!"
"Because of me?" wonderingly.
"Yes," with a fierce sob. "Because he knew I loved you. . . . I would
not have shot you that night at Père Marquette's if I hadn't loved you!
. . . Do you think a woman is made like a man? . . . George has done
this! If he laid hands upon her, upon your holy lady I'm not to talk
about . . ."
"Tell me about it," he commanded. "Has Kootanie George done this to
you?"
"Dave!" Suddenly she had flung up her arms, staring at him strangely.
"Do you think I am dying? He hurt me here . . . and here . . . and
here." Her hands fluttered about her body, touching her throat, her
breast, her side. The hands, lowered a moment were again lifted,
stretched upward toward him, her eyes pleading with him. Slowly she
was sinking back; he thought that in truth the woman was dying or at
the least losing consciousness.
"Can't you help me?" she moaned. "Won't you hold me . . . I am
falling. . . ."
Upon his knees he slipped his arms about her. He felt a hard
stiffening of the muscles of her body, then a slow relaxing. He was
laying her back gently, when she shook her head.
"Hold me up," she whispered, the words faint though her lips were close
to his ear. "I'd smother if I lay down. . . ."
So he held her for a long time, fearing for her, at loss for a thing to
do. The flickering firelight showed his face troubled and solicitous,
hers half smiling now as though she were content to suffer so long as
he held her. Presently she put her head back a little further, her
eyes meeting his.
"You are good, Dave," she whispered. "Good to me. I have not been
good to you, have I? Would you be a little sorry for me if I died?"
"Don't talk that way, Ernestine," he besought her. "You are not going
to die."
She put up one hand and pushed the hair back from his brow. He
flinched a little at the intimacy of the touch but she did not seem to
notice. She was smiling at him now, all hint of pain gone from her
eyes for the moment.
"If you had loved me," she said gently, "we both would have been happy.
Now I'll never be happy, Dave, and you'll never be happy. She won't
make you happy. She'll make a fool of you and then . . ."
Again she grew silent, her lids lowered. Drennen thought that she was
sinking into a quiet sleep. He did not stir as the moments slipped by.
A stick on the old hearth snapping and falling drew to it Ernestine's
eyes. Then they came again to Drennen. While she looked at him she
seemed not to be seeing him or thinking of him. She seemed, rather, to
be listening for some sound she expected to hear. Again she was very
still, the firelight finding an odd smile upon her face. She had wiped
much of the dust away and her pretty face, a little hard at most time,
was softened by the half light. After a little she sighed. Then,
swiftly, she slipped from Drennen's arms.
"I suppose you think I am a fool," she laughed strangely. "Well, I
know that you are, Dave Drennen! Now, go away, will you? Or do I have
to crawl away from here to get away from you? My God!" a sudden
passion again breaking through the ice of her tone, "I wish I had
killed you the other night. Before . . . _she_ came!"
No other word did Drennen draw from her. She sat as she had sat a
little while ago, her arms flung about her knees, her face hidden in
her arms. And so, at last, he left her.