THE INTRUDER
Madeline's joy at beholding the child lying on the couch soon gave place
to surprise. In her first intense delight at seeing the little one with
the white face and curly hair, she had thought of nothing else. The
child was enough, and she had rushed forward and bent over the frail
form. That sight was sufficient to stir within her memories which she
believed had long since been dead. Gradually wonder took possession of
her. Where had the boy come from? What was he doing in such a place as
Hishu, and especially at this house above all others? Then she thought
of the tall silent form she had noticed standing in the centre of the
room. She had given but one fleeting glance, and yet how that figure
stood out in her mind clear and distinct. There was something familiar
about those broad shoulders and the poise of that head which set her
heart beating fast and brought the blood surging to her cheeks. Could it
be possible that it was--? She caught her breath at the mere thought.
No, such an idea was ridiculous. And yet something seemed to whisper it
to her, and tell her that there was no mistake, that it was Norman and
none other. A peace such as she had not known for years filled her
heart. A subtle influence seemed to surround her and pervade the room.
For a brief space of time she kept her face close to the child. How
could she look upon him? What would he say? How would he greet her? She
felt that his eyes were fixed upon her. Were they filled with sorrow or
reproach? Would he scorn her? At length she raised her head and looked
around for one quick glance, but he was gone. Then a sharp revulsion of
feeling swept over her. The crimson left her cheeks, leaving them as
pallid as death. Her bloodless lips were compressed. He was gone, and
she knew why! He had recognised her, had understood, and had fled!
Madeline rose to her feet, and stared straight before her toward the
door, and out into the yard beyond. She saw no one; she heard nothing
but the beating of her own tumultuous heart. She presented a beautiful
pathetic scene standing there. But the woman watching her thought
nothing of this. Her cynical eyes were fixed upon Madeline's face, and
her lips parted in a cold smile.
"Don't worry. He'll come back."
Madeline started at these words.
"Who is he?" and her voice was hoarse as she whispered the question.
"You'll learn in time, so don't be uneasy," replied the woman. "But,
come, you had better look after that brat. I don't want to be bothered
with it, and as you think so much of it you'd better tend to it at once.
You must get the thing fixed up as soon as possible, for I don't want it
kicking about here when the men come back from the hills. You won't
have any time to look after it then, mark my words."
Madeline turned from the cruel creature toward the child. A great weight
pressed upon her heart, and she felt she must cry out. Had Old Meg
spoken such words that morning or the day before she would have thought
little of them. Was she not accustomed to the life--hideous though it
was--and this woman's sharp, pitiless tongue? Madeline imagined that
she, too, was hardened and indifferent herself. But now she realised
that a change had taken place. That subtle influence which surrounded
her and the presence of that sweet-faced boy sleeping there on the couch
made a great difference. The men would come from the hills, they would
crowd into the house, and then hell would be let loose. She shuddered as
she thought of it.
A cough from Donnie brought Madeline quickly to his side. He opened his
eyes, and looked up into her face.
"Mother. I wants my mother," he wailed. "Why don't she tum to her 'ittle
boy-boy?"
Madeline was all alert now. Soothing the child and winning his
confidence she carried him off to her own small room at the side of the
house, and laid him upon her rude cot. Quickly and deftly she undressed
him and tucked the blanket carefully about his little body. Donnie was
restless and feverish, and the rasping cough still shook the delicate
frame. For a while Madeline stood in doubt. She hardly knew what course
to pursue to relieve the suffering. At length a simple remedy came to
her mind. Crossing the room she drew back a curtain and brought down
from a nail a much worn flannel skirt. Only for a moment did she
hesitate as she looked upon it. Then seizing a pair of scissors lying on
a table near by she cut off a large portion from the bottom of the
garment. Telling Donnie not to be afraid, that she would return soon,
she went at once to a small cooking stove at the back of the building,
lighted a fire, and placed the flannel near to warm. Then going to a
corner of the room she poured some coal oil from a tin can into a saucer
and placed it on the stove to heat. When this had been accomplished to
her satisfaction she carried Donnie to the kitchen, placed him on her
lap near the fire, and thoroughly rubbed his little chest with the oil,
and then applied the warm flannel. It was only a simple remedy, she was
well aware, but it was all she knew, and she was willing to do what she
could. This she kept up for some time, and then once more placed the
little fellow back into bed. Soon she had the satisfaction of seeing his
eyes close in a peaceful sleep. But not for a moment did Madeline relax
her watchfulness.
Hour after hour she remained faithfully on guard, keeping the fire in
the stove and the flannels warm upon the chest. How thankful Madeline
was for the presence of the child! Sleep fled her eyes as she sat there
watching. No sound broke the intense stillness which reigned. The house
was unusually quiet, for often sounds of revelry continued throughout
the night. Her mind was greatly agitated. Where had this child come
from, and why was such a delicate lad so far in the wilderness away
from civilisation? Carefully she examined his clothes, studying well
each little garment, the fine quality of the material of which it was
made, and the signs of a loving hand in each tiny stitch. And why should
_he_ have the boy? No longer did she doubt that the man was Norman. But
what was he doing there? Then a question stinging in its intensity
pierced her heart. Was this his child? Had he a wife living somewhere in
the North? Was she beautiful? Did her hands fashion the little garments
lying before her? Was this the reason why Norman had fled so hurriedly
from the house? Had he recognised her, and did not want to speak to her
because he was married? She could not rid her mind of the thought.
Dry-eyed and motionless she sat there, staring straight at the sleeping
lad. She did not blame Norman. How could she expect that he would wait
six long years for her, whom the world believed dead? How strange it was
that she should be watching by the side of his boy! What circumstance,
she wondered, had brought such a thing to pass? Though now a gulf yawned
between them his child was with her, and she could love it for his sake.
Bending suddenly forward she pressed her hot lips to Donnie's cheek. How
soft was the little face, and what a strange new thrill that simple
touch brought to her heart.
A knock upon the door at the side of the house startled her. She drew
back abashed. Was it Norman, and had he been watching her through the
window? It was but natural that he should come to see about his sick
boy. How could she meet him? Rising to her feet she stood irresolute by
the foot of the bed. What should she do? What could she say?
Again the knock sounded, louder than before. Madeline no longer
hesitated. She crossed the room, turned the wooden button, and
cautiously opened the door. As she did so she started back, and a slight
cry of fear escaped her lips. Standing on the step with his left hand
upon the side of the door was Siwash Bill. His swinish eyes leered in
upon her, and a frown wrinkled his brow as he noted how she recoiled
from his presence.
For some time past Madeline had noted how the squaw man had sought her
company. He had come to the house, and often met her as she took her
lonely walk along the trail leading to the river. He followed her like a
shadow, and lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself in her good
will. The more she repulsed him, the more determined he became. Rough,
uncouth men frequented the house when they were in Hishu. Them she could
tolerate, or had to tolerate. But this creature filled her heart with a
loathsome repugnance, like the presence of a slimy, crawling viper.
"Frightened are ye, miss?" Again Bill smiled--the smile of the evil one.
"Didn't know I was sich a monster."
"What do you want?" and Madeline spoke sharply. "Why do you disturb me
at this time of the night?"
"Saw a light in the window, an' thought mebbe ye'd like company," was
the reply.
"No, I prefer to be alone--with the child. So you might have spared
yourself the trouble."
"Now don't git heady, miss. It's partly on account of that little chap
that I've come here to-night. He means a pile of money to me. I've run a
big risk consarnin' him, an' I can't afford to take chances."
"Run a big risk? What do you mean?"
"Listen," and the squaw man moved closer and whispered something into
Madeline's ear, which caused her to start. "Thar now, ye needn't take
on," Bill continued. "All ye've got to do is to hand over that kid to me
when he gits better, an' part of the chink's yours."
"Never!" Madeline's determined negative rang out distinctly through the
night, and thrilled a silent listener concealed not far away. "I can't
do that, so God help me!"
"Can't? Think ag'in. Money's a god; it works miracles."
Madeline did not reply. How could she answer this villain? What was the
use of speech? She would leave him; close the door in his face. Siwash
Bill mistook her silence for acquiescence. He drew nearer, and she
shrank back.
"Yes," he continued, "money's a god; it'll do anything. An' look you;
there's money in it, twenty thousand dollars! A man with that kin leave
the North, go outside, an' be rich. Miss, I want that chink, an' you in
the bargain. D'ye suppose I've been watchin' ye all these weeks fer
nuthin'? D'ye suppose I'd a taken all yer rebuffs in silence if I
didn't love ye? Not a bit of it. Come, say ye'll have me, an' we'll cut
this d--place ferever. We'll cinch that twenty thousand dollars an' git
out."
Madeline, though pale before, was white as death now. She clutched at
the door post for support. She knew something of the determined nature
of the man standing before her.
"You scoundrel!" she cried. "How dare you say such words! Leave me, and
never show your face here again!"
"An' ye won't have me?"
"No; a thousand times no!"
"Then I won't ask ye. This is the land whar strength rules. If ye won't
be mine one way ye will another."
Saying which the brute took a quick step forward, and placed his arm
suddenly about her waist.
With a cry Madeline strove to wrench herself from his grip. But the more
she strove the firmer he held her fast, and drew her closer to his
breast. A faintness swept over her as she felt his hot breath upon her
face, and she gave one wild piercing cry for help.
And even as she ceased to struggle, and a fearful blackness blinded her
eyes, she heard the sound of rapid steps, and felt the squaw man's arms
suddenly relax. Grey had arrived none too soon, and words of explanation
were unnecessary. One long arm reached out, and tense knuckles caught
Siwash Bill full under the left ear. Unheeding the wretch sprawling on
the ground he caught Madeline in his arms and entered the building. It
took but a minute for him to cross the room and lay her upon the couch.
But in that brief space of time as he clasped her unconscious form to
his breast an overmastering yearning took possession of him. He looked
into that dear white face; his breath fanned her wavy hair, and with the
greatest effort he restrained himself from pressing his lips to those
slightly parted ones so close to his. But no, he must not allow his
feeling to get the better of him. It would be better to wait awhile. He
turned and saw Old Meg standing in the middle of the room, with a
questioning look upon her face.
"What's the matter with her?" she growled. "Why all such yelling and
fuss at this time of the night?"
Grey was about to express himself freely to this woman. With an effort,
however, he restrained himself, knowing that angry words would do no
good.
"Ask Siwash Bill," he replied. "Perhaps he'll tell you, for I don't
know. But look you well after her," and he pointed to Madeline. "She's
somewhat knocked out. Get a basin and some water, quick. You attend to
her; I must see to someone outside."
With one deep longing glance toward Madeline he turned and left the
building, leaving Old Meg staring in profound wonder after his tall
retreating form.