Chapter IV. The Silken Scarf
A loneliness deeper than he had ever known--a yearning that was almostpain, oppressed Philip as he left Lac Bain behind him. Half a mile fromthe post he stopped under a shelter of dense spruce, and stood listeningas there came to him faintly the distant howling of a dog. After all,had he done right? He laughed harshly and his hands clenched as hethought of Bucky Nome. He had done right by him. But the skull--Mrs.Becker--was that right? Like a flash there came to him out of thedarkness a picture of the scene beside the fire--of Mrs. Becker and thecolonel, of the woman's golden head resting on her husband's shoulder,her sweet blue eyes filled with all the truth and glory of womanhood asshe had looked up into his grizzled face. And then there took its placethe scene beside the fire in the factor's room. He saw the woman'sflushed cheeks as she listened to the low voice of Bucky Nome, he sawagain what looked like yielding softness in her eyes--the grayish pallorin the colonel's face as he had looked upon the flirtation. Yes, hehad done right. She had recovered herself in time, but she had taken alittle bit of life from the colonel, and from him. She had broken hisideal--the ideal he had always hoped for, and had sought for, but hadnever found, and he told himself that now she was no better than thegirl of the hyacinth letter, whose golden beauty and eyes as clear as anangel's had concealed this same deceit that wrecked men's lives. M'sieurJanette's clean, white skull and the story of how and why M'sieurJanette had died would not be too great a punishment for her.
He resumed his journey, striving to concentrate his mind on otherthings. Seven or eight miles to the south and west was the cabin ofJacques Pierrot, a half-breed, who had a sledge and dogs. He would hireJacques to accompany him on his patrol in place of Bucky Nome. Thenhe would return to Nelson House and send in his report of Bucky Nome'sdesertion, since he knew well enough after the final remarks of thatgentleman that he did not intend to sever his connection with theNorthwest Mounted in the regular way. After that--He shrugged hisshoulders as he thought of the fourteen months' of service still aheadof him. Until now his adventure as a member of the Royal Mounted had notgrown monotonous for an hour. Excitement, action, fighting against odds,had been the spice of life to him, and he struggled to throw offthe change that had taken hold of him the moment he had opened thehyacinth-scented letter of Mrs. Becker. "You're a fool," he argued."You're as big a fool as Bucky Nome. My God--you--Phil Steele--letting amarried woman upset you like this!"
It was near midnight when he came to Pierrot's cabin, but a light wasstill burning in the half-breed's log home. Philip kicked off his snowshoes and knocked at the door. In a moment Pierrot opened it, steppedback, and stared at the white figure that came in out of the storm.
"Mon Dieu--it ees you--Mee-sair Philip!"
Philip held out his hand to Jacques, and shot a quick glance about him.There had been a change in the cabin since he had visited it last. Oneof Pierrot's hands was done up in a sling, his face was thin and pale,and his dark eyes were sunken and lusterless. In the little wildernesshome there was an air of desertion and neglect, and Philip wonderedwhere Pierrot's rosy-cheeked, black-haired wife and his half dozenchildren had gone.
"Mon Dieu--it ees you, Mee-sair Philip," cried Pierrot again, his facelighting up with pleasure. "You come late. You are hongree?"
"I've had supper," replied Philip. "I've just come from Lac Bain.But what's up, old man--?" He pointed to Pierrot's hand, and lookedquestionably about the cabin again.
"Eh--Iowla--my wife--she is at Churchill, over on the bay," groanedJacques. "And so are the children. What! You did not hear at Lac Bain?Iowla is taken seek--ver' seek--with a strange thing which--ugh!--has tobe fixed with a knife, Mee-sair Philip. An' so I take her to the doctorover at Churchill, an' he fix her--an' she is growing well now, an' willsoon come home. She keep the children with her. She say they mak'her think of Jacques, on his trap-line. Eh--it ees lonely--dam'--dam'lonely, and I have been gone from my Iowla but two weeks to-morrow."
"You have been with her at Fort Churchill?" asked Philip, taking off hispack and coat.
"Oui, M'sieur," said Jacques, falling into his French. "I have beenthere since November. What! They did not tell you at Lac Bain?"
"No--they did not tell me. But I was there but a few hours, Jacques.Listen--" He pulled out his pipe and began filling it, with his back tothe stove. "You saw people--strangers--at Fort Churchill, Jacques? Theycame over on the London ship, and among them there was a woman--"
Pierrot's pale face flashed up with sudden animation.
"Ah--zee angel!" he cried. "That is what my Iowla called her, M'sieur.See!" He pointed to his bandaged hand. "Wan day that bete--the Indiandog of mine--did that, an' w'en I jumped up from the snow in frontof the company's store, the blood running from me, I see her standingthere, white an' scared. An' then she run to me with a little scream,an' tear something from her neck, an' tie it round my hand. Then she gowith me to my cabin, and every day after that she come to see my Iowlaan' the children. She wash little Pierre, an' cut his hair. She washJean an' Mabelle. She laugh an' sing an' hol' the baby, an' my Iowlalaugh an' sing; an' she takes down my Iowla's hair, which is so longthat it falls to her knees, an' does it up in a wonderful way an' saysshe would give everything she got if she could have that hair. An' myIowla laugh at her, because her hair is like an angel's--like fire w'enthe sun is on it; an' my Iowla tak' hers down, all red an' gold, an' doit up in the Cree way. And w'en she brings the man with her--he laughsan' plays with the kids, an' says he knows the doctor and that therewill be nothing to pay for all that he is done. Ah--she ees wanbe-e-eautiful-l-l angel! An' this--this is w'at she tied around myhand."
With new life Pierrot went to a covered box nailed against one of thelog walls and a moment later placed in Philip's hands a long, white,silken neck-scarf. Once more there rose to his nostrils the sweet, faintscent of hyacinth, and with a sudden low cry Philip crushed the daintyfabric in a mass to his face. In that moment it seemed as though thesweetness of the woman herself was with him, stirring him at last toconfess the truth--the thing which he had fought against so fiercely inthose few hours at Lac Bain; and the knowledge that he had surrenderedto himself, that in going from Lac Bain he was leaving all that theworld held for him in the way of woman and love, drew his breath fromhim in another broken, stifled cry.
When he lowered the scarf his face was white. Pierrot was staring athim.
"It makes me think--of home," he explained lamely. "Sometimes I getlonely, too. There's a girl--down there--who wears a scarf like this,and what she wears smells like a flower, just as this does--"
"Oui, I understand," said Pierrot softly. "It is the way I feel when myIowla is gone."
He replaced the scarf in the box, and when he returned to the stovePhilip explained why he had come to his cabin. With Pierrot's promiseto accompany him with dogs and sledge on his patrol the next day heprepared to go to bed. Pierrot also was undressing, and Philip said tohim casually,
"This woman--at Churchill--Jacques--what if some one should tell youthat she is not so much of an angel after all--that she is, perhaps,something like--like the woman over at Lac la Biche, who ran away withthe Englishman?"
Pierrot straightened as though Philip had thrust a knife-point into hisback. He broke forth suddenly into French.
"I would call him a liar, M'sieur," he cried fiercely. "I would call hima liar, once-twice--three times, and then if he said it again I wouldfight him. Mon Dieu, but it would be no sin to kill one with a mouthlike that!"
Philip was conscious of the hot blood rushing to his face as he bentover his bunk. The depths of Pierrot's faith shamed him, and he crawledsilently between the blankets and turned his face to the wall. Pierrotextinguished the light, and a little later Philip could hear his deepbreathing. But sleep refused to close his own eyes, and he lay on hisback, painfully awake. In spite of the resolution he had made tothink no more of the woman at Lac Bain, his mind swept him back to herirresistibly. He recalled every incident that had occurred, every wordthat she had s
poken, since he had first looked upon her beautifulface out on the Churchill trail. He could find nothing but purity andsweetness until he came with her for that fatal hour or two into thecompany of Bucky Nome. And then, again, his blood grew hot. But--afterall--was there not some little excuse for her? He thought of thehundreds of women he had known, and wondered if there was one among themall who had not at some time fallen into this same little error as Mrs.Becker. For the first time he began to look at himself. Mrs. Becker hadlaughed with Bucky Nome, her cheeks had grown a little flushed, her eyeshad shone radiantly--but were those things a sin? Had those same eyesnot looked up into his own, filled with a sweetness that thrilled him,when he bent over her beside the fire out on the Churchill trail? Wasthere not that same lovely flush in her face when his lips had almosttouched her hair? And had not the colonel's sudden return brought aflush into both their faces? He smiled to himself, and for a moment hethrilled ecstatically. The reaction came like a shock. In an instantother scenes--other faces--flashed upon him, and again he saw theluring, beautiful face of Eileen Hawkins, who smiled on men as Mrs.Becker had smiled on Bucky Nome and on him.
He closed his eyes and tried to force himself into sleep, but failed.At last he rose silently from his bunk, filled his pipe, and sat downin the darkness beside the stove. The storm had increased to a gale,wailing and moaning over the cabin outside, and the sound carriedhim back to the last night in the cabin far to the south, when he haddestroyed the hyacinth-scented letter. The thought of the letter movedhim restlessly. He listened to Pierrot's breathing, and knew that thehalf-breed was asleep. Then he rose to his feet and laid his pipe on thetable. A curious feeling of guilt came over him as he moved towardthe box in which Jacques had placed the silken scarf. His breath camequickly; in the dark his eyes shone; a tingling thrill of strangepleasure shot through him as his fingers touched the thing for whichthey were searching. He drew the scarf out, and returned to the stovewith it, crushing it in both his hands. The sweetness of it came to himagain like the woman's breath. It was the sweetness of her hair, of thegolden coils massed in the firelight; a part of the woman herself,of her glorious eyes, her lips, her face--and suddenly he crushed thefabric to his own face, and stood there, trembling in the darkness,while Jacques Pierrot slept and the storm wailed and moaned over hishead. For he knew--now--that he would do more for this woman thanJacques Pierrot could ever do; more, perhaps, than even the colonel,her husband, would do. His heart seemed bursting with a new and terriblepain, and the truth at last seemed to rise and choke him. He loved her.He loved this woman, the wife of another man. He loved her as he hadnever dreamed that he could love a woman, and with the scarf stillsmothering his lips and face he stood for many minutes, silent andmotionless, gathering himself slowly from out of the appalling depthsinto which he had allowed himself to plunge.
Then he folded the scarf, and instead of returning it to the box, put itin one of the pockets of his coat.
"Pierrot won't care," he excused himself. "And it's the only thing,little girl--the only thing--I'll ever have--of you."