One by one Philip threw out the fish until they were all gone. Then he stood and looked down upon the flat-bellied pack, listening to the crunching of bones and frozen flesh, and Josephine came and stood beside him again.
Suddenly he felt her start. He looked up, and saw that her face was turned down the trail. He had caught the quick change in her eyes, the swift tenseness that flashed for an instant in her mouth. The vivid colour in her face had paled. She looked again as he had seen her for that short s.p.a.ce at the door in Miriam"s room. He followed the direction of her eyes.
A hundred yards away two figures were advancing toward them. One was her father, the master of Adare. And on his arm was Miriam his wife.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The strange effect upon Josephine of the unexpected appearance of Adare and his wife pa.s.sed as quickly as it had come. When Philip looked at her again she was waving a hand and smiling. Adare"s voice came booming up the trail. He saw Miriam laughing. Yet in spite of himself--even as he returned Adare"s greeting--he could not keep himself from looking at the two women with curious emotions.
"This is rank mutiny!" cried Adare, as they came up. "I told them they must sleep until noon. I have already punished Miriam. And you, Mignonne? Does Philip let you off too easily?"
Adare"s wife had given Philip her hand. A few hours" rest had brightened her eyes and brought colour into her face. She looked still younger, still more beautiful. And Adare was riotous with joy because of it.
"Look at your mother, Josephine," he commanded in a hoa.r.s.e whisper, meant for all to hear. "I said the forests would do more than a thousand doctors in Montreal!"
"You do look splendid, Mikawe," said Josephine, slipping an arm about her mother"s waist.
Adare had turned into a sudden volley of greetings to the feasting dogs, and for another moment Philip"s eyes were on mother and daughter.
Josephine was the taller of the two by half a head. She was more like her father. He noted that the colour had not returned fully into her cheeks, while the flush in Miriam"s face had deepened. There was something forced in Josephine"s laugh, a note that was unreal and make-believe, as she turned to Philip.
"Isn"t my mother wonderful, Philip? I call her Mikawe because that means a little more than Mother in Cree--something that is almost undying and spirit-like. You will never grow old, my little mother!"
"Ponce de Leon made a great mistake when he didn"t search in these forests for his fountain of eternal youth," said Adare, laying a hand on Philip"s shoulder. "Would you guess that it was twenty-two years ago a month from to-day that she came to be mistress of Adare House? And you, Ma Cheri," added Adare tenderly, taking his wife by the hand, "Do you remember that it was over this same trail that we took our first walk--from home? We went to the Chasm."
"Yes, I remember."
"And here--where we stand--the wood violets were so thick they left perfume on our boots."
"And you made me a wreath of them--with the red bakneesh," said Miriam softly.
"And braided it in your hair."
"Yes."
She was breathing a little more quickly. For a moment it seemed as if these two had forgotten Philip and Josephine. Their eyes had turned to each other.
"Twenty-two years ago--A MONTH FROM TO-DAY!" repeated Josephine.
It seemed as if she had spoken the words that Philip might catch their hidden meaning.
Adare straightened with a sudden idea:
"On that day we shall have a great anniversary feast," he declared. "We will ask every soul--red and white--for a hundred miles about, with the exception of the rogues over at Th.o.r.eau"s Place! What do you say, Philip?"
"Splendid!" cried Philip, catching triumphantly at this straw in the face of Josephine"s plans for him. He looked straight into her eyes as he spoke. "A month from to-day these forests shall ring with our joy.
And there will be a reason for it--MORE THAN ONE!"
She could not misunderstand that! And Philip"s heart beat joyously as Josephine turned quickly to her mother, the colour flooding to the tips of her ears.
The dogs had eaten their fish and were crowding about them. For the first time Adare seemed to notice Metoosin, who had stood motionless twenty paces behind them.
"Where is Jean?" he asked.
Josephine shook her head.
"I haven"t seen him since last night."
"I had almost forgotten what I believe he intended me to tell you,"
said Philip. "He has gone somewhere in the forest. He may be away all day."
Philip saw the anxious look that crept into Josephine"s eyes. She looked at him closely, questioningly, yet he guessed that beyond what he had said she wanted him to remain silent. A little later, when Adare and his wife were walking ahead of them, she asked:
"Where is Jean? What did he tell you last night?"
Philip remembered Jean"s warning.
"I cannot tell you," he replied evasively. "Perhaps he has gone out to reconnoitre for--game."
"You are true," she breathed softly. "I guess I understand. Jean doesn"t want me to know. But after I went to bed I lay awake a long time and thought of you--out in the night with that gun in your hand. I can"t believe that you were there simply because of a noise, as you said. A man like you doesn"t hunt for a noise with a pistol, Philip.
What is the matter with your arm?"
The directness of her question startled him.
"Why do you ask that?" he managed to stammer.
"You have flinched twice when I touched it--this arm."
"A trifle," he a.s.sured her. "It should have healed by this time."
She smiled straight up into his eyes.
"You are too true to tell me fairy stories in a way that I must believe them, Philip. Day before yesterday your sleeves were up when you were paddling, and there was nothing wrong with this arm--this forearm--then. But I"m not going to question you. You don"t want me to know." In the same breath she recalled his attention to her father and mother. "I told you they were lovers. Look!"
As if she had been a little child John Adare had taken his wife up in his arms and sat her high on the trunk of a fallen tree that was still held four or five feet above the ground by a crippled spruce. Philip heard him laugh. He saw the wife lean over, still clinging for safety to her husband"s shoulders.
"It is beautiful," he said.
Josephine spoke as if she had not heard him.
"I do not believe there is another man in the world quite like my father. I cannot understand how a woman could cease to love such a man as he even for a day--an hour. She couldn"t forget, could she?"
There was something almost plaintive in her question. As if she feared an answer, she went on quickly:
"He has made her happy. She is almost forty--thirty-nine her last birthday. She does not look that old. She has been happy. Only happiness keeps one young. And he is fifty. If it wasn"t for his beard, I believe he would appear ten years younger. I have never known him without a beard; I like him that way. It makes him look "beasty"--and I love beasts."