A Daughter of the Snows Page 19

  CHAPTER XIX

  How-ha was only an Indian woman, bred of a long line of fish-eating,meat-rending carnivores, and her ethics were as crude and simple asher blood. But long contact with the whites had given her an insightinto their way of looking at things, and though she gruntedcontemptuously in her secret soul, she none the less understood theirway perfectly. Ten years previous she had cooked for Jacob Welse,and served him in one fashion or another ever since; and when on adreary January morning she opened the front door in response to thedeep-tongued knocker, even her stolid presence was shaken as sherecognized the visitor. Not that the average man or woman would haveso recognized. But How-ha's faculties of observing and rememberingdetails had been developed in a hard school where death dealt hisblow to the lax and life saluted the vigilant.

  How-ha looked up and down the woman who stood before her. Throughthe heavy veil she could barely distinguish the flash of the eyes,while the hood of the _parka_ effectually concealed the hair, and the_parka_ proper the particular outlines of the body. But How-hapaused and looked again. There was something familiar in the vaguegeneral outline. She quested back to the shrouded head again, andknew the unmistakable poise. Then How-ha's eyes went blear as shetraversed the simple windings of her own brain, inspecting the bareshelves taciturnly stored with the impressions of a meagre life. Nodisorder; no confused mingling of records; no devious andinterminable impress of complex emotions, tangled theories, andbewildering abstractions--nothing but simple facts, neatly classifiedand conveniently collated. Unerringly from the stores of the pastshe picked and chose and put together in the instant present, tillobscurity dropped from the woman before her, and she knew her, wordand deed and look and history.

  "Much better you go 'way quickety-quick," How-ha informed her.

  "Miss Welse. I wish to see her."

  The strange woman spoke in firm, even tones which betokened the willbehind, but which failed to move How-ha.

  "Much better you go," she repeated, stolidly.

  "Here, take this to Frona Welse, and--ah! would you!" (thrusting herknee between the door and jamb) "and leave the door open."

  How-ha scowled, but took the note; for she could not shake off thegrip of the ten years of servitude to the superior race.

  May I see you?

  LUCILE.

  So the note ran. Frona glanced up expectantly at the Indian woman.

  "Um kick toes outside," How-ha explained. "Me tell um go 'wayquickety-quick? Eh? You t'ink yes? Um no good. Um--"

  "No. Take her,"--Frona was thinking quickly,--"no; bring her uphere."

  "Much better--"

  "Go!"

  How-ha grunted, and yielded up the obedience she could not withhold;though, as she went down the stairs to the door, in a tenebrous,glimmering way she wondered that the accident of white skin or swartmade master or servant as the case might be.

  In the one sweep of vision, Lucile took in Frona smiling withextended hand in the foreground, the dainty dressing-table, thesimple finery, the thousand girlish evidences; and with the sweetwholesomeness of it pervading her nostrils, her own girlhood rose upand smote her. Then she turned a bleak eye and cold ear on outwardthings.

  "I am glad you came," Frona was saying. "I have _so_ wanted to seeyou again, and--but do get that heavy _parka_ off, please. How thickit is, and what splendid fur and workmanship!"

  "Yes, from Siberia." A present from St. Vincent, Lucile felt likeadding, but said instead, "The Siberians have not yet learned toscamp their work, you know."

  She sank down into the low-seated rocker with a native grace whichcould not escape the beauty-loving eye of the girl, and withproud-poised head and silent tongue listened to Frona as the minutesticked away, and observed with impersonal amusement Frona's painfultoil at making conversation.

  "What has she come for?" Frona asked herself, as she talked on fursand weather and indifferent things.

  "If you do not say something, Lucile, I shall get nervous, soon," sheventured at last in desperation. "Has anything happened?"

  Lucile went over to the mirror and picked up, from among the trinketsbeneath, a tiny open-work miniature of Frona. "This is you? How oldwere you?"

  "Sixteen."

  "A sylph, but a cold northern one."

  "The blood warms late with us," Frona reproved; "but is--"

  "None the less warm for that," Lucile laughed. "And how old are younow?"

  "Twenty."

  "Twenty," Lucile repeated, slowly. "Twenty," and resumed her seat."You are twenty. And I am twenty-four."

  "So little difference as that!"

  "But our blood warms early." Lucile voiced her reproach across theunfathomable gulf which four years could not plumb.

  Frona could hardly hide her vexation. Lucile went over and looked atthe miniature again and returned.

  "What do you think of love?" she asked abruptly, her face softeningunheralded into a smile.

  "Love?" the girl quavered.

  "Yes, love. What do you know about it? What do you think of it?"

  A flood of definitions, glowing and rosy, sped to her tongue, butFrona swept them aside and answered, "Love is immolation."

  "Very good--sacrifice. And, now, does it pay?"

  "Yes, it pays. Of course it pays. Who can doubt it?"

  Lucile's eyes twinkled amusedly.

  "Why do you smile?" Frona asked.

  "Look at me, Frona." Lucile stood up and her face blazed. "I amtwenty-four. Not altogether a fright; not altogether a dunce. Ihave a heart. I have good red blood and warm. And I have loved. Ido not remember the pay. I know only that I have paid."

  "And in the paying were paid," Frona took up warmly. "The price wasthe reward. If love be fallible, yet you have loved; you have done,you have served. What more would you?"

  "The whelpage love," Lucile sneered.

  "Oh! You are unfair."

  "I do you justice," Lucile insisted firmly. "You would tell me thatyou know; that you have gone unveiled and seen clear-eyed; thatwithout placing more than lips to the brim you have divined the tasteof the dregs, and that the taste is good. Bah! The whelpage love!And, oh, Frona, I know; you are full womanly and broad, and lend noear to little things, but"--she tapped a slender finger toforehead--"it is all here. It is a heady brew, and you have smelledthe fumes overmuch. But drain the dregs, turn down the glass, andsay that it is good. No, God forbid!" she cried, passionately."There are good loves. You should find no masquerade, but one fairand shining."

  Frona was up to her old trick,--their common one,--and her hand sliddown Lucile's arm till hand clasped in hand. "You say things which Ifeel are wrong, yet may not answer. I can, but how dare I? I darenot put mere thoughts against your facts. I, who have lived solittle, cannot in theory give the lie to you who have lived somuch--"

  "'For he who lives more lives than one, more lives than one mustdie.'"

  From out of her pain, Lucile spoke the words of her pain, and Frona,throwing arms about her, sobbed on her breast in understanding. Asfor Lucile, the slight nervous ingathering of the brows above hereyes smoothed out, and she pressed the kiss of motherhood, lightlyand secretly, on the other's hair. For a space,--then the browsingathered, the lips drew firm, and she put Frona from her.

  "You are going to marry Gregory St. Vincent?"

  Frona was startled. It was only a fortnight old, and not a word hadbeen breathed. "How do you know?"

  "You have answered." Lucile watched Frona's open face and the boldrunning advertisement, and felt as the skilled fencer who fronts atyro, weak of wrist, each opening naked to his hand. "How do Iknow?" She laughed harshly. "When a man leaves one's arms suddenly,lips wet with last kisses and mouth areek with last lies!"

  "And--?"

  "Forgets the way back to those arms."

  "So?" The blood of the Welse pounded up, and like a hot sun driedthe mists from her eyes and left them flashing. "Then that is whyyou came. I could have guessed it had
I given second thought toDawson's gossip."

  "It is not too late." Lucile's lip curled. "And it is your way."

  "And I am mindful. What is it? Do you intend telling me what he hasdone, what he has been to you. Let me say that it is useless. He isa man, as you and I are women."

  "No," Lucile lied, swallowing her astonishment.

  "I had not thought that any action of his would affect you. I knewyou were too great for that. But--have you considered me?"

  Frona caught her breath for a moment. Then she straightened out herarms to hold the man in challenge to the arms of Lucile.

  "Your father over again," Lucile exclaimed. "Oh, you impossibleWelses!"

  "But he is not worthy of you, Frona Welse," she continued; "of me,yes. He is not a nice man, a great man, nor a good. His love cannotmatch with yours. Bah! He does not possess love; passion, of onesort and another, is the best he may lay claim to. That you do notwant. It is all, at the best, he can give you. And you, pray whatmay you give him? Yourself? A prodigious waste! But your father'syellow--"

  "Don't go on, or I shall refuse to listen. It is wrong of you." SoFrona made her cease, and then, with bold inconsistency, "And whatmay the woman Lucile give him?"

  "Some few wild moments," was the prompt response; "a burning burst ofhappiness, and the regrets of hell--which latter he deserves, as doI. So the balance is maintained, and all is well."

  "But--but--"

  "For there is a devil in him," she held on, "a most alluring devil,which delights me, on my soul it does, and which, pray God, Frona,you may never know. For you have no devil; mine matches his andmates. I am free to confess that the whole thing is only anattraction. There is nothing permanent about him, nor about me. Andthere's the beauty, the balance is preserved."

  Frona lay back in her chair and lazily regarded her visitor, Lucilewaited for her to speak. It was very quiet.

  "Well?" Lucile at last demanded, in a low, curious tone, at the sametime rising to slip into her parka.

  "Nothing. I was only waiting."

  "I am done."

  "Then let me say that I do not understand you," Frona summed up,coldly. "I cannot somehow just catch your motive. There is a flatring to what you have said. However, of this I am sure: for someunaccountable reason you have been untrue to yourself to-day. Do notask me, for, as I said before, I do not know where or how; yet I amnone the less convinced. This I do know, you are not the Lucile Imet by the wood trail across the river. That was the true Lucile,little though I saw of her. The woman who is here to-day is astrange woman. I do not know her. Sometimes it has seemed she wasLucile, but rarely. This woman has lied, lied to me, and lied to meabout herself. As to what she said of the man, at the worst that ismerely an opinion. It may be she has lied about him likewise. Thechance is large that she has. What do you think about it?"

  "That you are a very clever girl, Frona. That you speak sometimesmore truly than you know, and that at others you are blinder than youdream."

  "There is something I could love in you, but you have hidden it awayso that I cannot find it."

  Lucile's lips trembled on the verge of speech. But she settled herparka about her and turned to go.

  Frona saw her to the door herself, and How-ha pondered over the whitewho made the law and was greater than the law.

  When the door had closed, Lucile spat into the street. "Faugh! St.Vincent! I have defiled my mouth with your name!" And she spatagain.

  "Come in."

  At the summons Matt McCarthy pulled the latch-string, pushed the dooropen, and closed it carefully behind him.

  "Oh, it is you!" St. Vincent regarded his visitor with darkabstraction, then, recollecting himself, held out his hand. "Why,hello, Matt, old man. My mind was a thousand miles away when youentered. Take a stool and make yourself comfortable. There's thetobacco by your hand. Take a try at it and give us your verdict."

  "An' well may his mind be a thousand miles away," Matt assuredhimself; for in the dark he had passed a woman on the trail wholooked suspiciously like Lucile. But aloud, "Sure, an' it'sday-dramin' ye mane. An' small wondher."

  "How's that?" the correspondent asked, cheerily.

  "By the same token that I met Lucile down the trail a piece, an' theheels iv her moccasins pointing to yer shack. It's a bitter tonguethe jade slings on occasion," Matt chuckled.

  "That's the worst of it." St. Vincent met him frankly. "A man lookssidewise at them for a passing moment, and they demand that themoment be eternal."

  Off with the old love's a stiff proposition, eh?"

  "I should say so. And you understand. It's easy to see, Matt,you've had some experience in your time."

  "In me time? I'll have ye know I'm not too old to still enjoy a bitiv a fling."

  "Certainly, certainly. One can read it in your eyes. The warm heartand the roving eye, Matt!" He slapped his visitor on the shoulderwith a hearty laugh.

  "An' I've none the best iv ye, Vincent. 'Tis a wicked lad ye are,with a takin' way with the ladies--as plain as the nose on yer face.Manny's the idle kiss ye've given, an' manny's the heart ye've broke.But, Vincent, bye, did ye iver know the rale thing?"

  "How do you mean?"

  "The rale thing, the rale thing--that is--well, have ye been iver afather?"

  St. Vincent shook his head.

  "And niver have I. But have ye felt the love iv a father, thin?"

  "I hardly know. I don't think so."

  "Well, I have. An' it's the rale thing, I'll tell ye. If iver a mansuckled a child, I did, or the next door to it. A girl child atthat, an' she's woman grown, now, an' if the thing is possible, Ilove her more than her own blood-father. Bad luck, exciptin' her,there was niver but one woman I loved, an' that woman had matedbeforetime. Not a soul did I brathe a word to, trust me, nor evenherself. But she died. God's love be with her."

  His chin went down upon his chest and he quested back to aflaxen-haired Saxon woman, strayed like a bit of sunshine into thelog store by the Dyea River. He looked up suddenly, and caught St.Vincent's stare bent blankly to the floor as he mused on other things.

  "A truce to foolishness, Vincent."

  The correspondent returned to himself with an effort and found theIrishman's small blue eyes boring into him.

  "Are ye a brave man, Vincent?"

  For a second's space they searched each other's souls. And in thatspace Matt could have sworn he saw the faintest possible flicker orflutter in the man's eyes.

  He brought his fist down on the table with a triumphant crash. "ByGod, yer not!"

  The correspondent pulled the tobacco jug over to him and rolled acigarette. He rolled it carefully, the delicate rice paper crispingin his hand without a tremor; but all the while a red tide mountingup from beneath the collar of his shirt, deepening in the hollows ofthe cheeks and thinning against the cheekbones above, creeping,spreading, till all his face was aflame.

  "'Tis good. An' likely it saves me fingers a dirty job. Vincent,man, the girl child which is woman grown slapes in Dawson this night.God help us, you an' me, but we'll niver hit again the pillow asclane an' pure as she! Vincent, a word to the wise: ye'll niver layholy hand or otherwise upon her."

  The devil, which Lucile had proclaimed, began to quicken,--a fuming,fretting, irrational devil.

  "I do not like ye. I kape me raysons to meself. It is sufficient.But take this to heart, an' take it well: should ye be mad enough tomake her yer wife, iv that damned day ye'll niver see the inding, norlay eye upon the bridal bed. Why, man, I cud bate ye to death withme two fists if need be. But it's to be hoped I'll do a nater job.Rest aisy. I promise ye."

  "You Irish pig!"

  So the devil burst forth, and all unaware, for McCarthy found himselfeye-high with the muzzle of a Colt's revolver.

  "Is it loaded?" he asked. "I belave ye. But why are ye lingerin'?Lift the hammer, will ye?"

  The correspondent's trigger-finger moved and there was a warningc
lick.

  "Now pull it. Pull it, I say. As though ye cud, with that flutterto yer eye."

  St. Vincent attempted to turn his head aside.

  "Look at me, man!" McCarthy commanded. "Kape yer eyes on me when yedo it."

  Unwillingly the sideward movement was arrested, and his eyes returnedand met the Irishman's.

  "Now!"

  St. Vincent ground his teeth and pulled the trigger--at least hethought he did, as men think they do things in dreams. He willed thedeed, flashed the order forth; but the flutter of his soul stopped it.

  "'Tis paralyzed, is it, that shaky little finger?" Matt grinned intothe face of the tortured man. "Now turn it aside, so, an' drop it,gently . . . gently . . . gently." His voice crooned away insoothing diminuendo.

  When the trigger was safely down, St. Vincent let the revolver fallfrom his hand, and with a slight audible sigh sank nervelessly upon astool. He tried to straighten himself, but instead dropped down uponthe table and buried his face in his palsied hands. Matt drew on hismittens, looking down upon him pityingly the while, and went out,closing the door softly behind him.