"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 G.o.d"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. c.o.c.kburn.
"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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sed 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. c.o.c.kburn," 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. "G.o.d 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sionate denunciation of the Reverend Crane and the Reverend Crane"s religion. He wanted one little thing--the gift of a rifle wherewith to a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sed. 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 safe-guard 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 cha.s.sant, 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.
"h.e.l.lo, 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 G.o.d, help me, help me! I am the unhappiest girl alive!"
_Chapter Eleven_
Virginia did not sleep at all that night. She was reaching toward her new self. Heretofore she had ruled those about her proudly, secure in her power and influence. Now she saw that all along her influence had in not one jot exceeded that of the winsome girl. She had no real power at all. They went mercilessly on in the grim way of their fathers, dealing justice even-handed according to their own crude conceptions of it, without thought of G.o.d or man. She turned hot all over as she saw herself in this new light--as she saw those about her indulgently smiling at her airs of the mistress of it. It angered her--though the smile might be good-humored, even affectionate.
And she shrank into herself with utter loathing when she remembered Ned Trent. There indeed her woman"s pride was hard stricken. She recalled with burning cheeks how his intense voice had stirred her; how his wishes had compelled her; she shivered pitifully as she remembered the warmth of his shoulder touching carelessly her own. If he had come to her honestly and asked her aid, she would have given it; but this underhand pretence at love! It was unworthy of him; and it was certainly most unworthy of her. What must he think of her? How he must be laughing at her--and hoping that his spell was working, so that he could get the coveted rifle and the forty cartridges.
"I hate him!" she cried to herself, the backs of her long, slender hands pressed against her eyes. She meant that she loved him, but for the purposes in hand one would do as well as the other.
At earliest daylight she was up. Bathing her face and throat in cold water, and hastily catching her beautiful light hair under a cap, she slipped down stairs and out past the stockade to the point. There she seated herself, a heavy shawl about her, and gave herself up to reflection. She had approached silently, her moccasins giving no sound. Presently she became aware that someone was there before her.
Looking toward the river she saw on the next level below her a man, seated on a bowlder, and gazing to the south.
His very soul was in his eyes. Virginia gasped at the change in him since last she had seen him. The gay, mocking demeanor which had seemed an essential part of his very flesh and blood had fallen away from him, leaving a sad and lofty dignity that enn.o.bled his countenance. The lines of his face were stern, of his mouth pathetic; his eyes yearned. He stared toward the south with an almost mesmeric intensity, as though he hoped by sheer longing to materialize a vision. Tears sprang to the girl"s eyes at the subtle pathos of his att.i.tude.
He stretched his arms wearily over his head, and sighed deeply and looked up. His eyes rested on the girl without surprise; the expression of his features did not change.
"Pardon me," he said, simply. "To-day is my last of plenty. I am up enjoying it."
Virginia had antic.i.p.ated the usual instantaneous transformation of his manner when he should catch sight of her. Her resentment was dispelled. In face of the vaster tragedies little considerations gave way.
"Do you leave--to-day?" she asked, in a low voice.
"To-morrow morning, early," he corrected. "To-day I found my provisions packed and laid at my door. It is a hint I know how to take."
"You have everything you need?" asked the girl, with an a.s.sumption of indifference.
He looked her in the eyes for a moment.
"Everything," he lied, calmly.