For a space he stood where she had left him, staring at the door
through which she had gone. The nearness of her in those last few
seconds of her presence, the caressing touch of her hands, what he had
seen in her eyes, her promise to kiss him if he did not reveal
himself--these things, and the thought of the splendid courage that
must be inspiring her to face Kedsty now, made him blind even to the
door and the wall at which he was apparently looking. He saw only her
face, as he had seen it in that last moment--her eyes, the tremble of
her lips, and the fear which she had not quite hidden from him. She was
afraid of Kedsty. He was sure of it. For she had not smiled; there was
no flicker of humor in her eyes, when she called him Jeems, an intimate
use of the names Jim and James in the far North. It was not facetiously
that she had promised to kiss him. An almost tragic seriousness had
possessed her. And it was that seriousness that thrilled him--that, and
the amazing frankness with which she had coupled the name Jeems with
the promise of her lips. Once before she had called him Jeems. But it
was M'sieu Jeems then, and there had been a bit of taunting laughter in
her voice. Jim or James meant nothing, but Jeems--He had heard mothers
call little children that, in moments of endearment. He knew that wives
and sweethearts used it in that same way. For Jim and James were not
uncommon names up and down the Three Rivers, even among the half-breeds
and French, and Jeems was the closer and more intimate thing bred of it.
His heart was thumping riotously as he went to the door and listened. A
little while ago, when she faced him with flashing eyes, commanding him
not to question her, he had felt an abyss under his feet. Now he was on
a mountain. And he knew that no matter what he heard, unless it was her
cry for help, he would not go down.
After a little he opened the door a mere crack so that sound might come
to him. She had not forbidden that. Through the crack he could see a
dim glow of light in the lower hall. But he heard no sound, and it
occurred to him that old Mooie could still run swiftly, and that it
might be some time before Kedsty would arrive.
As he waited, he looked about the room. His first impression was that
Marette must have lived in it for a long time. It was a woman's room,
without the newness of sudden and unpremeditated occupancy. He knew
that formerly it had been Kedsty's room, but nothing of Kedsty remained
in it now. And then, as his wondering eyes beheld the miracle, a number
of things struck him with amazing significance. He no longer doubted
that Marette Radisson was of the far Northland. His faith in that was
absolute. If there had been a last question in his mind, it was wiped
away because she called him Jeems. Yet this room seemed to give the lie
to his faith. Fascinated by his discovery of things, he drew away from
the door and stood over the dressing-table in front of the mirror.
Marette had not prepared the room for him, and her possessions were
there. It did not strike him as sacrilege to look at them, the many
intimate little things that are mysteriously used in the process of a
lady's toilette. It was their number and variety that astounded him. He
might have expected them in the boudoir of the Governor General's
daughter at Ottawa, but not here--and much less farther north. What he
saw was of exquisite material and workmanship. And then, as if
attracted by a magnet, his eyes were drawn to something else. It was a
row of shoes neatly and carefully arranged on the floor at one side of
the dressing-table.
He stared at them, astounded. Never had he seen such an array of
feminine footwear intended for the same pair of feet. And it was not
Northern footwear. Every individual little beauty in that amazing row
stood on a high heel! Their variety was something to which he had long
been a stranger. There were buttoned boots, laced boots, brown boots,
black boots, and white boots, with dangerously high and fragile looking
heels; there were dainty little white kid slippers, slippers with bows,
slippers with cut steel buckles, and slippers with dainty ribbon ties;
there were high-heeled oxfords and high-heeled patent leather pumps! He
gasped. He reached over, moved by an automatic sort of impulse, and
took a satiny little pump in his hand.
The size of it gave him a decidedly pleasant mental shock, and,
beginning to feel like one prying into a sleeper's secrets, he looked
inside it. The size was there--number three. And it had come from
Favre's in Montreal! One after another he looked inside half a dozen
others. And all of them had come from Favre's in Montreal. The little
shoes, more than all else that he had seen or that had happened, sent a
question pounding through his brain. Who was Marette Radisson?
And that question was followed by other questions, until they tumbled
over one another in his head. If she was from Montreal, why was she
going north? If she belonged in the North, if she was a part of it, why
was she taking all of this apparently worthless footwear with her? Why
had she come to Athabasca Landing? What was she to Kedsty? Why was she
hiding under his roof? Why--
He stopped himself, trying to find some one answer in all that chaos of
questions. It was impossible for him to take his eyes from the shoes. A
thought seized him. Ludicrously he dropped upon his knees in front of
the row and with a face growing hotter each moment examined them all.
But he wanted to know. And the discovery he made was that most of the
footwear had been worn, some of it so slightly, however, that the
impression of the foot was barely visible.
He rose to his feet and continued his inquiry. Of course she had
expected him to look about. One couldn't help seeing, unless one were
blind. He would have cut off a hand before opening one of the
dressing-table drawers. But Marette herself had told him to hide behind
the curtains if it became necessary, and it was an excusable caution
for him to look behind those curtains now, to see what sort of
hiding-place he had. He returned to the door first and listened. There
was still no sound from below. Then he drew the curtains apart, as
Marette had drawn them. Only he looked longer. He would tell her about
it when she returned, if the act needed an apology.
His impression was a man's impression. What he saw was a billowing,
filmy mass of soft stuff, and out of it there greeted him the faintest
possible scent of lilac sachet powder. He closed the curtains with a
deep breath of utter joy and of consternation. The two emotions were a
jumble to him. The shoes, all that mass of soft stuff behind the
curtains, were exquisitely feminine. The breath of perfume had come to
him straight out of a woman's soul. There were seduction and witchery
to it. He saw Marette, an enrapturing vision of loveliness, floating
before his eyes in that sacred and mysterious vestment of which he had
stolen a half-frightened glimpse. In white--the white, cobwebby thing
of laces and embroidery that had hung straight before his eyes--in
white--with her glorious black hair, her violet eyes, her--
And then it was that the incongruity of the thing, the almost sheer
impossibility of it, clashed in upon his vision. Yet his faith was not
shaken. Marette Radisson was of the North. He could not disbelieve
that, even in the face of these amazing things that confronted him.
Suddenly he heard a sound that was like the explosion of a gun under
his feet. It was the opening and closing of the hall door--but mostly
the closing. The slam of it shook the house and rattled the glass in
the windows. Kedsty had returned, and he was in a rage. Kent
extinguished the light so that the room was in darkness. Then he went
to the door. He could hear the quick, heavy tread of Kedsty's feet
After that came the closing of a second door, followed by the rumble of
Kedsty's voice. Kent was disappointed.
The Inspector of Police and Marette were in a room too far distant for
him to distinguish what was said. But he knew that Kedsty had returned
to barracks and had discovered what had happened there. After an
interval his voice was a steady rumble. It rose higher. He heard the
crash of a chair. Then the voice ceased, and after it came the tramping
of Kedsty's feet. Not once did he catch the sound of Marette's voice,
but he was sure that in the interval of silence she was talking. Then
Kedsty's voice broke forth more furiously than before. Kent's fingers
dug into the sill of the door. Each moment added to his conviction that
Marette was in danger. It was not physical violence he feared. He did
not believe Kedsty capable of perpetrating that upon a woman. It was
fear that he would take her to barracks. The fact that Marette had told
him there was a powerful reason why Kedsty would not do this failed to
assure him. For she had also told him that Kedsty would kill her, if he
dared. He held himself in readiness. At a cry from her, or the first
move on Kedsty's part to take her from the bungalow, he would give
battle in spite of Marette's warning.
He almost hoped one of these two things would happen. As he stood
there, listening, waiting, the thought became almost a prayer. He had
Pelly's revolver. Within twenty seconds he could have Kedsty looking
down the barrel of it. The night was ideal for escape. Within half an
hour they would be on the river. They could even load up with
provisions from Kedsty's place. He opened the door a little more,
scarcely making an effort to combat the impulse that dragged him out.
Marette must be in danger, or she would not have confessed to him that
she was in the house of a man who would like to see her dead. Why she
was there did not interest him deeply now. It was the fact of the
moment that was moving him swiftly toward action.
The door below opened again, and Kent's body grew rigid. He heard
Kedsty charging through the lower hall like a mad bull. The outer door
opened, slammed shut, and he was gone.
Kent drew back into the darkness of his room. It was some moments
before he heard Marette coming slowly up the stairs. She seemed to be
groping her way, though there was a dim illumination out there. Then
she came through the door into the blackness of her room.
"Jeems," she whispered.
He went to her. Her hands reached out, and again they rested on his
arms.
"You--you didn't come down the stair?"
"No."
"You--didn't hear?"
"I heard no words. Only Kedsty's voice."
It seemed to him that her voice, when she spoke again, trembled with an
immeasurable relief. "You were good, Jeems. I am glad."
In that darkness he could not see. Yet something reached into him,
thrilling him, quickening his pulse with a thing to which his eyes were
blind. He bent down. He found her lips upturned, offering him the
sweetness of the kiss which was to be his reward; and as he felt their
warmth upon his own, he felt also the slightest pressure of her hands
upon his arms.
"He is gone. We will light the lamp again," she said then.