Almost immediately the door opened again,
"You, Miss Albret!" cried Crane.
"What does this mean?" demanded Virginia, imperiously. "Who is
that man? In what danger does he stand? What does he want a rifle
for? I insist on knowing."
She stood straight and tall in the low room, her eyes flashing, her
head thrown back in the assured power of command.
The Reverend Crane tried to temporize, hesitating over his words.
She cut him short.
"That is nonsense. Everybody seems to know but myself. I am no
child. I came to consult you--my spiritual adviser--in regard to
this very case. Accidentally I overheard enough to justify me in
knowing more."
The clergyman murmured something about the Company's secrets.
Again she cut him short.
"Company's secrets! Since when has the Company confided in Andrew
Laviolette, in Wishkobun, in _you_?"
"Possibly you would better ask your father," said Crane, with some
return of dignity.
"It does not suit me to do so," replied she. "I insist that you
answer my questions. Who is this man?"
"Ned Trent, he says."
"I will not be put off in this way. _Who_ is he? _What_ is he?"
"He is a Free Trader," replied the Reverend Crane with the air of a
man who throws down a bomb and is afraid of the consequences. To
his astonishment the bomb did not explode.
"What is that?" she asked, simply.
The man's jaw dropped and his eyes opened in astonishment. Here
was a density of ignorance in regard to the ordinary affairs of the
Post which could by no stretch of the imagination be ascribed to
chance. If Virginia Albret did not know the meaning of the term,
and all the tragic consequences it entailed, there could be but one
conclusion: Galen Albret had not intended that she should know.
She had purposely been left in ignorance, and a politic man would
hesitate long before daring to enlighten her. The Reverend Crane,
in sheer terror, became sullen.
"A Free Trader is a man who trades in opposition to the Company,"
said he, cautiously.
"What great danger is he in?" the girl persisted with her catechism.
"None that I am aware of," replied Crane, suavely. "He is a very
ill-balanced and excitable young man."
Virginia's quick instincts recognized again the same barrier which,
with the people, with Wishkobun, with her father, had shut her so
effectively from the truth. Her power of femininity and position
had to give way before the man's fear for himself and of Galen
Albret's unexpressed wish. She asked a few more questions,
received a few more evasive replies, and left the little clergyman
to recover as best he might from a very trying evening.
Out in the night the girl hesitated in two minds as to what to do
next. She was excited, and resolved to finish the affair, but she
could not bring her courage to the point of questioning her father.
That the stranger was in antagonism to the Company, that he
believed himself to be in danger on that account, that he wanted
succor, she saw clearly enough. But the whole affair was vague,
disquieting. She wanted to see it plainly, know its reasons. And
beneath her excitement she recognized, with a catch of the breath,
that she was afraid for him. She had not time now to ask herself
what it might mean; she only realized the presence of the fact.
She turned instinctively in the direction of Doctor Cockburn's
house. Mrs. Cockburn was a plain little middle-aged woman with
parted gray hair and sweet, faded eyes. In the life of the place
she was a nonentity, and her tastes were homely and commonplace,
but Virginia liked her.
She proved to be at home, the Doctor still at his dispensary, which
was well. Virginia entered a small log room, passed through it
immediately to a larger papered room, and sat down in a musty red
armchair. The building was one of the old regime, which meant that
its floor was of wide and rather uneven painted boards, its ceiling
low, its windows small, and its general lines of an irregular and
sagging rule-of-thumb tendency. The white wall-paper evidently
concealed squared logs. The present inhabitants, being possessed
at once of rather homely tastes and limited facilities, had
over-furnished the place with an infinitude of little
things--little rugs, little tables, little knit doilies, little
racks of photographs, little china ornaments, little spidery
what-nots, and shelves for books.
Virginia seated herself, and went directly to the topic.
"Mrs. Cockburn," she said, "you have always been very good to me,
always, ever since I came here as a little girl. I have not always
appreciated it, I am afraid, but I am in great trouble, and I want
your help."
"What is it, dearie," asked the older woman, softly. "Of course I
will do anything I can."
"I want you to tell me what all this mystery is--about the man who
to-day arrived from Kettle Portage, I mean. I have asked
everybody: I have tried by all means in my power to get somebody
somewhere to tell me. It is maddening--and I have a special reason
for wanting to know."
The older woman was already gazing at her through troubled eyes.
"It is a shame and a mistake to keep you so in ignorance!" she
broke out, "and I have said so always. There are many things you
have the right to know, although some of them would make you very
unhappy--as they do all of us poor women who have to live in this
land of dread. But in this I cannot, dearie."
Virginia felt again the impalpable shadow of truth escaping her.
Baffled, confused, she began to lose her self-control. A dozen
times to-day she had reached after this thing, and always her
fingers had closed on empty air. She felt that she could not stand
the suspense of bewilderment a single instant longer. The tears
overflowed and rolled down her cheeks unheeded.
"Oh, Mrs. Cockburn!" she cried. "Please! You do not know how
dreadful this thing has come to be to me just because it is made so
mysterious. Why has it been kept from me alone? It must have
something to do with me, and I can't stand this mystery, this
double-dealing, another minute. If you won't tell me, nobody will,
and I shall go on imagining--Oh, please have pity on me! I feel
the shadow of a tragedy. It comes out in everything, in everybody
to whom I turn. I see it in Wishkobun's avoidance of me, in my
father's silence, in Mr. Crane's confusion, in your
reluctance--yes, in the very reckless insolence of Mr. Trent
himself!"--her voice broke slightly. "If you will not tell me, I
shall go direct to my father," she ended, with more firmness.
Mrs. Cockburn examined the girl's flushed face through kindly but
shrewd and experienced eyes. Then, with a caressing little murmur
of pity, she arose and seated herself on the arm of the red chair,
taking the girl's hand in hers.
"I believe you mean it," she said, "and I am going to tell you
myself. There is much sorrow in it for you; but if you go to your
father it will only make it worse. I am doing what I should not.
It is shameful that such things happen in this nineteenth century,
but happen they do. The long and short of it is that the Factors
of this Post tolerate no competition in the country, and when a man
enters it for the purpose of trading with the Indians, he is
stopped and sent out."
"There is nothing very bad about that." said Virginia, relieved.
"No, my dear, not in that. But they say his arms and supplies are
taken from him, and he is given a bare handful of provisions. He
has to make a quick journey, and to starve at that. Once when I
was visiting out at the front, not many years ago, I saw one of
those men--they called him Jo Bagneau--and his condition was
pitiable--pitiable!"
"But hardships can be endured. A man can escape."
"Yes," almost whispered Mrs. Cockburn, looking about her
apprehensively, "but the story goes that there are some cases--when
the man is an old offender, or especially determined, or so
prominent as to be able to interest the law--no one breathes of
these cases here--but--_he never gets out_!"
"What do you mean?" cried Virginia, harshly.
"One dares not mean such things; but they are so. The hardships of
the wilderness are many, the dangers terrible--what more natural
than that a man should die of them in the forest? It is no one's
fault."
"What do you mean?" repeated Virginia; "for God's sake speak
plainly!"
"I dare not speak plainer than I know; and no one ever really
_knows_ anything about it--excepting the Indian who fires the shot,
or who watches the man until he dies of starvation." whispered Mrs.
Cockburn.
"But--but!" cried the girl, grasping her companion's arm. "My
father! Does _he_ give such orders? _He_?"
"No orders are given. The thing is understood. Certain runners,
whose turn it is, shadow the Free Trader. Your father is not
responsible; no one is responsible. It is the policy."
"And this man----"
"It has gone about that he is to take _la Longue Traverse_. He
knows it himself."
"It is barbaric, horrible; it is murder."
"My dear, it is all that; but this is the country of dread. You
have known the soft, bright side always--the picturesque men, the
laugh, the song. If you had seen as much of the harshness of
wilderness life as a doctor's wife must you would know that when
the storms of their great passions rage it is well to sit quiet at
your prayers."
The girl's eyes were wide-fixed, staring at this first reality of
life. A thousand new thoughts jostled for recognition. Suddenly
her world had been swept from beneath her. The ancient
patriarchal, kindly rule had passed away, and in its place she was
forced to see a grim iron bond of death laid over her domain. And
her father--no longer the grave, kindly old man--had become the
ruthless tyrant. All these bright, laughing _voyageurs_, playmates
of her childhood, were in reality executioners of a savage
blood-law. She could not adjust herself to it.
She got to her feet with an effort. "Thank you, Mrs. Cockburn,"
she said, in a low voice. "I--I do not quite understand. But I
must go now. I must--I must see that my father's room is ready for
him." she finished, with the proud defensive instinct of the woman
who has been deeply touched. "You know I always do that myself."
"Good-night, dearie," replied the older woman, understanding well
the girl's desire to shelter behind the commonplace. She leaned
forward and kissed her. "God keep and guide you. I hope I have
done right."
"Yes," cried Virginia, with unexpected fire. "Yes, you did just
right! I ought to have been told long ago! They've kept me a
perfect child to whom everything has been bright and care-free and
simple. I--I feel that until this moment I have lacked my real
womanhood!"
She bowed her head and passed through the log room into the outer
air.
Her father, _her_ father, had willed this man's death, and so he
was to die! That explained many things--the young fellow's
insolence, his care-free recklessness, his passionate denunciation
of the Reverend Crane and the Reverend Crane's religion. He wanted
one little thing--the gift of a rifle wherewith to assure his
subsistence should he escape into the forest--and of all those at
Conjuror's House to whom he might turn for help, some were too hard
to give it to him, and some too afraid! He should have it! She,
the daughter of her father, would see to it that in this one
instance her father's sin should fail! Suddenly, in the white heat
of her emotion, she realized why these matters stirred her so
profoundly, and she stopped short and gasped with the shock of it.
It did not matter that she thwarted her father's will; it would not
matter if she should be discovered and punished as only these harsh
characters could punish. For the brave bearing, the brave jest,
the jaunty facing of death, the tender, low voice, the gay song,
the aurora-lit moment of his summons--all these had at last their
triumph. She knew that she loved him; and that if he were to die,
she would surely die too.
And, oh, it must be that he loved her! Had she not heard it in the
music of his voice from the first?--the passion of his tones? the
dreamy, lyrical swing of his talk by the old bronze guns?
Then she staggered sharply, and choked back a cry. For out of her
recollections leaped two sentences of his--the first careless,
imprudent, unforgivable; the second pregnant with meaning. "_Ah, a
star shoots_!" he had said. "_That means a kiss_!" and again, to
the clergyman, "_I came here without the slightest expectation of
getting what I asked for. There is another way, but I hate to use
it_."
She was the other way! She saw it plainly. He did not love her,
but he saw that he could fascinate her, and he hoped to use her as
an aid to his escape. She threw her head up proudly.
Then a man swung into view across the Northern Lights. Virginia
pressed back against the palings among the bushes until he should
have passed. It was Ned Trent, returning from a walk to the end of
the island. He was alone and unfollowed, and the girl realized
with a sudden grip at the heart that the wilderness itself was
sufficient safeguard against a man unarmed and unequipped. It was
not considered worth while even to watch him. Should he escape,
unarmed as he was, sure death by starvation awaited him in the land
of dread.
As he entered the settlement he struck up an air.
"Le fils du roi s'en va chassant,
En roulant ma boule,
Avec son grand fusil d'argent,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."
Almost immediately a window slid back, and an exasperated voice
cried out:
"_Hola_ dere, w'at one time dam fool you for mak' de sing so late!"
The voice went on imperturbably:
"Avec son grand fusil d'argent,
En roulant ma boule,
Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."
"_Sacre_!" shrieked the habitant.
"Hello, Johnny Frenchman!" called Ned Trent, in his acid tones.
"That you? Be more polite, or I'll stand here and sing you the
whole of it."
The window slammed shut.
Ned Trent took up his walk again toward some designated
sleeping-place of his own, his song dying into the distance.
"Visa le noir, tua le blanc,
En roulant ma boule,
O fils du roi, tu es mechant!
Rouli roulant, ma boule roulant."
"And he can _sing_!" cried the girl bitterly to herself. "At such
a time! Oh, my dear God, help me, help me! I am the unhappiest
girl alive!"