_BROOM HAS CONSCIENTIOUS SCRUPLES AND A SORE TEMPTATION._
“_I see the right, and I approve it, too;_
_Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue._”
—_Tate._
Left to his own devices, Broom sat at his lonely breakfast on the
morning of Roy’s departure, racking his brains for a means of diverting
himself. The big loneliness of the place had been penetrating his soul
for some time, and now that he was deprived of Roy’s society there was
nothing to relieve the death-like monotony of the life. To find
something sufficiently interesting to make the time pass quickly seemed
to him a necessity, for the man’s mentality was as weak in this respect
as that of a boy or a frisky animal. But a new divertisement was
difficult to devise. Sleep? He was tired of sleeping. It seemed to him
that he did nothing else. Books? He was satiated with reading. The gun?
He was no shot, and the weather was intensely cold. Conversation?
Nothing would delight him more, but there was no one but Sahanderry and
Kasba to speak to. Sahanderry was unfriendly, and Kasba—the forbidden
fruit. The whiskey? Ha! This indeed offered great possibilities, it
tempted him almost beyond his powers of resistance, but his promise to
Roy, though given in a facetious manner, was as binding to him as
anything could well be, and drink, as an entertainment, was excluded
thereby. Traps? Should he attend his traps? It was a clear morning, with
no wind; cold? yes, but he could guard against that. Yes, he would visit
his traps. It would please Roy, he knew, therefore he would go.
It was with feelings of righteous self-abnegation—an odd sensation and
entirely new to this hardened sinner—that he proceeded to his traps.
In his magnanimity he went so far as to invite Sahanderry to take a
drink with him before starting, but the Indian, hugging his animosity
closely, refused. Broom’s unprecedented cordiality, however, was not
entirely wasted. It had a mollifying effect upon the Indian, for he
fixed the netting of the sailor’s snowshoes with greater care than he
would otherwise have done, and even departed from his customary morose
manner toward him to wish him “good luck” when he started on his quest.
Broom went on his way strangely thoughtful. There was a new-found joy in
the thought that he had denied himself the drink. He was even conscious
of feeling virtuous—a sensation quite foreign to him of late—and under
the influence of this new experience life seemed to take on a new
aspect. He was not given to conscientious scruples, and the sensation
was not altogether pleasant, for, stripped of his habitual indifference,
he stood revealed in a new guise, and found the picture not good to look
upon. Everything around him was of unsullied whiteness; the very
stillness and profound solitude cried loudly to him of the Creator. He
felt out of harmony with his surroundings, knew that he was the one
black spot in a region clothed with a mantle of purity, and, like the
progenitor of the human race, he was ashamed.
Rime fell lightly in prismatic crystals, scintillating and glistening in
the bright sunshine all about him, and in the heavens there was a
magnificent spectacle, a beautiful celestial phenomenon: the sun shining
through the falling rime took the shape of a fiery cross, and on each
side of this sublime luminary, at some little distance, shone a luminous
ball, and, attached to each of these, on the side farthest from the sun,
and rising perpendicularly, was a little rainbow which extended in
glowing bands of deep red, orange, and light blue.
Stretching out from these were bars of silver reaching across the
heavens on each side like gigantic arms and ending in indistinct
vaporous clouds like huge hands which appeared about to clutch the earth
in their embrace. Higher in the heavens, and exactly above the sun, a
crescent, its colors corresponding with the beautiful sections of the
rainbow, shone out brightly, and at different points around the horizon
indistinct rainbow hues were visible.
Broom was by now well accustomed to the many splendid phenomena of the
Far North, but the present magnificent spectacle—catching him at a time
when he stood disarmed, when for the moment his mantle of indifference
and cynicism had fallen from him—influenced him strangely. However, a
mind perturbed with religious feelings was unusual to Broom, and like
the now fast-disappearing phenomenon, this unusual experience was soon
gone. With the arrogance natural to mankind he stifled this slight
inclination, this prompting toward reform, and lapsed into the hardened,
cynical reprobate he naturally was, at least to outward seeming. Alas!
what a number of Mr. Brooms there are in the world!
Fate, luck, or Providence, call it which you will, reciprocated Broom’s
magnanimous feelings by smiling on him. His hunting-bag by the time he
had visited all his traps was swollen to undue proportions and bore
significant signs of good luck. He was greatly elated at this success.
Scorning his customary long, slouching stride as a mode of locomotion
too slow to keep pace with his excited feelings, he covered the ground
at a quick trot and arrived at the Fort in a thoroughly exhausted
condition.
“Phew! That’s warm work,” he cried as he entered the door and found
Sahanderry standing before him with the vestige of a smile on his dark
face.
“How many?” inquired Sahanderry shortly.
“Five, my boy!” Broom dropped the bag of foxes to the floor with a long
sigh of relief. His face was scarlet. He was “blowing like a grampus,”
and now that he was in the house he perspired freely. “Guess I’ve earned
a drink,” he said, and passing into the inner room, quickly produced the
bottle and mug.
After taking a goodly modicum of whiskey he eyed the bottle dubiously.
The liquor had shrunk in an incredible manner: a few more such potations
and he would arrive at the bottom of the bottle. To guard against the
calamity of running out of liquor altogether the tippler made a mental
reservation to drink only one-third of his stock of whiskey on each of
the following days, thereby securing an allowance for each day of Roy’s
absence.
In theory the scheme was undoubtedly good, and well worthy of the
versatile sailor, but in practice it did not turn out as well as he
expected. For when he tumbled out of bed on the third morning, with an
exceedingly hazy idea of how he ever got into it, he discovered to his
chagrin that the whiskey was almost all gone. Evidently nothing but an
overpowering fit of slumber had prevented him from drinking the whole.
Sitting on the edge of the bunk, feeling dull and miserable, he was
conscious of a raging, overpowering thirst, and it was with the greatest
difficulty that he laid restraining hands on himself and drank only
enough of the already greatly depleted liquor to discover, as he told
himself, if what remained was the real stuff. But this potation not only
proved its genuineness, but also greatly revived him, or, in his own
expressive language, “it made him feel a bit more perky.”
After putting the bottle aside with the scrupulous carefulness of a
miser secreting gold, he sank into a chair and sat in drowsy
contemplation for a few minutes. Then, casting a disconsolate eye around
him, his gaze encountered Roy’s liquor chest with its neat fastenings
and lock. Immediately a fancied procession of the black bottles danced
before his burning eyes. The thought that most likely a considerable
quantity of whiskey lay in the snug-looking box and within easy reach
brought him upright in his chair with a jerk and he sat gazing at it as
if fascinated. Then, withdrawing his eyes with an effort, he sprang
suddenly to his feet and, catching up his coat and hat, rushed from the
room, clutching his snowshoes as he ran.
Once outside and away from the dangerous fascinations of the locked
chest Broom paused and wiped the perspiration from his brow. He stood
irresolute for a moment, then, with an air of grim determination, turned
in the direction of his traps, plodding onwards with leaden footsteps,
weary and breakfastless.
Like one in a dream he stumbled on his way. A burning fire seemed to be
consuming his vitals; flashes of heat and cold passed over him; his
hands became moist, and he felt utterly fatigued. He was walking
mechanically now and his nether limbs seemed to move like pendulums,
forcing him to continue the function of walking, to drag his weary body
along without any effort of will or possibility of staying their
movements.
On his return he could discover no sign of Sahanderry’s presence and for
this he was devoutly thankful; for he felt too jaded, too dejected, to
encounter the gaze of his watchful enemy. On nearing the Fort, he had
endeavored to recover his old careless “bon-aire” expression, but he was
conscious that the effort had been a miserable failure, and, therefore,
the Indian’s absence proved both a relief and a boon.
Throwing aside his outdoor apparel he sank into a chair where he sat
profusely perspiring like a man prostrated by weakness. He braced
himself in his seat to resist the temptation that he knew would come.
Sinking back, he gripped the sides of his chair with the tenacity of one
in a delirium and forced his gaze into a far corner of the room.
Finding it impossible to keep his eyes fixed on any one spot, he cast
about him for something to occupy his mind. He could not go outside, for
the weather was too intensely cold to allow anyone to sit down, and he
felt too ill and weary to walk about any more. His breakfast stood upon
the table, where it had been placed by Sahanderry many hours before, but
it remained untasted, for he could not eat. He had no desire for food,
but the appetite for strong liquor was almost mastering him. He knew the
feeling and dreaded it. In his desperation he reached for a book that
protruded from under the pillow in his bunk, then again sinking back in
his chair, he endeavored to read. But the print danced before his eyes,
the large capital letters grouped themselves together and stood leering
at him. Suddenly in place of the dancing printed type he saw a smooth
wooden box, the lid fastened with a strong lock; for unconsciously the
book had dropped from his hands and he was again staring at Roy’s spirit
chest. After this he seemed to lose all consciousness of things around
him, his whole attention was riveted on the object of his gaze.
Presently he stiffened himself as to resist some powerful shock;
probably the last spark of manhood was making vigorous struggles to
extricate him from so pitiful a position. Beads of perspiration stood on
his brow, and he fell to trembling like a man with the palsy. To his
heated imagination the lid of the box slid slightly back and a long thin
hand protruded itself and was beckoning him on. Then, as the hand still
beckoned, several black bottles slipped out also and began a grotesque
dance upon the lid, while others thrust forth their heads to laugh,
grimly, and make horrible grimaces at him. Suddenly Broom started to his
feet. He passed a trembling hand across his eyes and then, with a sigh
of abject helplessness, staggered forward to fall on his knees before
the fascinating chest which he now eagerly scanned. With a cry more
animal than human, he began to take off its hinges with his pocket
knife, for apart from the strong lock, Roy had attempted no precautions
to make the box secure.
A slight snapping of the fire caused Broom to stop in his frenzied
labors and to glare around the room like a hunted animal. But,
apparently satisfied that no one was there, he returned to his task,
working at the hinges with the cunning of a man bordering on delirium
tremens. In a few moments the screws were out and the lid thrown back
from the rear, the hasp and staple acting as a hinge. Then with a snarl
of disappointment the wretched man sprang to his feet, for with the
exception of one bottle the box was empty. In his heated imagination he
had pictured it filled to the top with rows of shining bottles and now
he stood for a moment glaring around him like a wild beast defrauded of
its prey, and well was it for Sahanderry that he did not appear upon the
scene at that moment. Then uttering a little chuckle Broom dropped on
his knees and clutched ravenously at the one bottle, which he fondled
and caressed with a foolish cooing noise horrible to hear; while the
hands of the bewildered wretch were now shaking so as to threaten
destruction to the bottle’s contents. With the cunning of a madman Broom
perceived this, and rising to his feet, and mastering his agitation with
a strong effort, he began to draw the cork with the aid of two
pocket-knives. “Experience makes perfect,” and Broom had become
dexterous in the art of cork drawing. So this cork was soon extracted
and the neck of the bottle hastily glued to his trembling lips. He took
several long pulls before placing it upon the table, then, in a dazed
and mechanical way, he replaced the hinges upon the box by returning the
screws to their places. He now stood slowly swaying from side to side,
his face wearing a curious expression like one slowly returning to
consciousness. Grasping the bottle with both hands, he took another deep
draught, then fell upon his bed panting and exhausted, as if from some
supreme exertion. After a few minutes of restlessness he fell asleep.
When Sahanderry peeped into the room a little later, he found Broom
sleeping tranquilly. The Indian glanced from the sailor to the bottle on
the table, and believing it to be one of those given him by Roy, smiled
contemptuously, while his idea of the sailor’s drinking capabilities
underwent a quick change.
Next morning Sahanderry was vastly surprised to find the sailor in the
same position. He was sleeping heavily, as his deep breathing and nasal
accompaniment testified, and his prolonged slumber aroused the Indian’s
suspicion. Stepping lightly across to the chest he carefully scrutinized
the lock, but found no evidence of its having been tampered with. What
then had produced Broom’s long sleep? Sahanderry lifted the bottle from
the table and held it up to the light. It was still a quarter full. This
was astounding. Despite the Indian’s obtuseness he was sharp enough to
perceive that Broom must have procured other liquor. But from where? And
how? Sahanderry shrugged his shoulders, and spreading out his hands in a
deprecating gesture he washed them of the whole business.
It was late in the day when Broom awoke from his long season of
unconsciousness, for slumber it could hardly be called. Rising from his
elbow, he gazed about him. His head ached excruciatingly. His brain
seemed on fire. His tongue felt tough and dry so that he found it hard
to articulate. With a moan he fell back upon the pillow to collect his
scattered senses and as he slowly awoke to the full consciousness of
what he had done, a sentiment of bitterness rose in his mind against
himself.
Presently he dropped over the side of the bunk and reached for the
bottle with an unsteady hand. As he put it to his trembling lips a
little of the liquor trickled down his chin, and a sudden revulsion of
feeling came over him. Pushing the bottle away with a look of malignant
hate he paced the floor with short unsteady steps, and with his long
hair and whiskers matted and disheveled, his face swollen and flushed,
his eyes intensely blood-shot and whole frame trembling violently, he
was indeed a pitiable sight.
Presently the distracted man took his resolution. He caught up his coat
and struggled into it, but when it came to securing the buttons his
unsteady hands fumbled and refused their office. With an exclamation of
impatience he again reached for the bottle, and this time he drained it
to the dregs. Then, pulling on his cap savagely, he rushed from the
house.
But his perambulations were soon cut short and he discovered himself
stuck in the deep snow, for he had left his snow-shoes behind. However,
he did not return for them; instead he took a circuitous path made hard
by constant usage and leading toward the open, quite unaware that Kasba,
ardently persuaded by David, who wished to shoot some birds, had also
taken this easy route and was coming towards him.
The boy and girl had gone but a short distance when a flock of
partridges rose with a whir-r-r and flew to the rocks above them, and
David with boyish enthusiasm scrambled up the heights after the birds,
saying he would rejoin the girl farther down the track.
Walking slowly with drooping head, Kasba went thoughtfully along the
path before her. She knew every foot of the ground over which she went.
Suddenly she became aware of the close presence of another, and starting
she raised her frightened eyes. Before her, leaning against a boulder,
was Broom. He stood with his back toward her, and his face buried in his
hands. He was apparently feeling ill and dazed.
The girl shrank back as if she had been struck, then for some moments
she stood immovable, her startled gaze fixed upon the bowed figure.
Instinctively she felt her danger. A stifled gasp escaped her and
tremors shook her frame from head to foot. Yet she dare not turn back,
for David would be waiting. She must go on, or he would come to look for
her and discover Broom. She shuddered to think what might happen then,
for the impetuous boy violently disliked the fellow and would not miss
an opportunity of annoying him. Besides Broom had been drinking heavily.
Sahanderry had communicated his suspicions to her and from what she
could make out there seemed to be a great degree of truth in them.
Therefore she must not leave David. Broom would be in a black humor
after his drinking bout. She shuddered again. But this was no time for
weakness. She would go on, she _must_. Firmly bracing her nerves, Kasba
stepped lightly forward.
With bated breath she moved, step by step, toward the silent figure.
Very slowly and stealthily she approached him.
The man continued to stand perfectly still, but as she drew nearer his
motionless figure, she could scarcely restrain herself from crying
aloud, so acute was her terror.
With a last effort, a strong, determined effort, she was beside him. The
snow under her feet crunched to her imagination like the report of a
gun. Her heart stood still, she felt discovery inevitable. With a mighty
effort she strangled the cry in her throat.
The boulder against which Broom leaned was close beside the track, and
the attitude he had assumed caused him to occupy most of it. To pass him
so closely was to court certain discovery. Kasba resolved to make a
slight detour, but she had not brought her snowshoes. She had left the
house with the intention of taking only a short walk along the beaten
track and had thought them unnecessary. Off the track the snow was deep
and soft. What should she do?
On her left was a ridge of rocks presenting acclivities of every degree;
on her right was a strip of scrub almost covered by loose snow. The
track, beaten hard by Sahanderry on constant journeyings to his traps,
led straight before her, and, blocking this narrow path was the inert
figure of Broom. But between the track and the rocks was a narrow strip
that to all seeming was perfectly hard. This she carefully tried with
one foot. It bore her weight and with steady, cautious steps she passed
on for a short time in safety. Then, with a peculiar, dull report, the
crust gave way and the girl sank to her knees in soft snow.
Broom started nervously. Raising his head apprehensively he at once
discovered Kasba and her unfortunate position.
With Broom’s eye upon her the distracted girl ceased her ineffectual
struggles and stood staring at him wildly like one fascinated.
At first he believed her to be one of the multitudinous delusions of a
deranged mind. But presently he was convinced that it was no delirious
fantasy, but really Kasba’s self who was there, alone and in his power,
and he laughed the loud mirthless laugh of one gone mad.
The girl quailed before his gaze of malicious triumph, then turned and
made frantic efforts to release herself from the clogging snow and to
regain the hard track.
“Not so fast,” cried Broom, rushing in and grasping her by the waist.
“Not so fast, my little white partridge.”
In vain Kasba struggled while Broom rained hot kisses on her mouth. She
could not prevent him. She was in his power indeed.
But just when she had given up in despair Broom suddenly uttered a
terrific yell and loosened his grip. The girl stood bewildered. She was
dimly conscious that her captor had released her and was now scuffling
with something small and dark, and mechanically she drew herself out of
his reach. Then, floundering desperately out of the soft snow to the
beaten track, she fled along with a speed born of panic-stricken horror;
never pausing, never looking back, but rushing straight on and on—to
her father’s hut.
Broom, swearing like a madman, looked about him. A dark form had dropped
seemingly from the sky, to spring forward upon his right arm, where it
clung with the tenacious grip of a bulldog. He was taken completely by
surprise. In his nervously-excited condition the suddenness of the
attack had startled him. He imagined himself assailed by some uncanny
foe or some fierce wolf, and he had released the girl the better to
defend himself, and Kasba was beyond all possibility of recapture before
he discovered, to his chagrin, that his adversary was no ferocious
animal, but the boy David, who had discovered Kasba’s precarious
position and slid down the face of the almost perpendicular rocks to
launch himself upon her assailant. In an ungovernable paroxysm of
baffled fury he now rained blows upon the boy’s unprotected face. David
clung to his wrists for some moments longer, then sank on the snow with
a moan of pain, and lay there limp and lifeless.
Broom gazed stupidly at the still form for a moment, then with a cry
like that of a hunted animal he rushed from the scene.