CHAPTER XIX
To the cabin Kent groped his way, and knocked, and it was Marette whoopened the door for him and stepped back for him to enter. Like a greatwet dog he came in, doubling until his hands almost touched the floor.He sensed the incongruity of it, the misplacement of his overgrown bodyin this playhouse thing, and he grinned through the trickles of wetthat ran down his face, and tried to see. Marette had taken off herturban and rain-coat, and she, too, stooped low in the four-feet spaceof the cabin--but not so ridiculously low as Kent. He dropped on hisknees again. And then he saw that in the tiny stove a fire was burning.The crackle of it rose above the beat of the rain on the roof, and theair was already mellowing with the warmth of it. He looked at Marette.Her wet hair was still clinging to her face, her feet and arms and partof her body were wet; but her eyes were shining, and she was smiling athim. She seemed to him, in this moment, like a child that was glad ithad found refuge. He had thought that the terror of the night wouldshow in her face, but it was gone. She was not thinking of the thunderand the lightning, the black trail, or of Kedsty lying dead in hisbungalow. She was thinking of him.
He laughed outright. It was a joyous, thrilling thing, this black nightwith the storm over their heads and the roll of the great river underthem--they two--alone--in this cockleshell cabin that was not highenough to stand in and scarcely big enough in any direction to turnround in. The snug cheer of it, the warmth of the fire beginning toreach their chilled bodies, and the inspiring crackle of the birch inthe little stove filled Kent, for a space, with other thoughts thanthose of the world they were leaving. And Marette, whose eyes and lipswere smiling at him softly in the candle-glow, seemed also to haveforgotten. It was the little window that brought them back to thetragedy of their flight. Kent visioned it as it must look from theshore--a telltale blotch of light traveling through the darkness. Therewere occasional cabins for several miles below the Landing, and eyesturned riverward in the storm might see it. He made his way to thewindow and fastened his slicker over it.
"We're off, Gray Goose," he said then, rubbing his hands. "Would itseem more homelike if I smoked?"
She nodded, her eyes on the slicker at the window.
"It's pretty safe," said Kent, fishing out his pipe, and beginning tofill it. "Everybody asleep, probably. But we won't take any chances."The scow was swinging sideways in the current. Kent felt the change inits movement, and added: "No danger of being wrecked, either. Thereisn't a rock or rapids for thirty miles. River clear as a floor. If webump ashore, don't get frightened."
"I'm not afraid--of the river," she said. Then, with rather startlingunexpectedness, she asked him, "Where will they look for us tomorrow?"
Kent lighted his pipe, eyeing her a bit speculatively as she seatedherself on the stool, leaning toward him as she waited for an answer toher question.
"The woods, the river, everywhere," he said. "They'll look for amissing boat, of course. We've simply got to watch behind us and takeadvantage of a good start."
"Will the rain wipe out our footprints, Jeems?"
"Yes. Everything in the open."
"But--perhaps--in a sheltered place--?"
"We were in no sheltered place," he assured her. "Can you remember thatwe were, Gray Goose?"
She shook her head slowly. "No. But there was Mooie, under the window."
"His footprints will be wiped out."
"I am glad. I would not have him, or M'sieu Fingers, or any of ourfriends brought into this trouble."
She made no effort to hide the relief his words brought her. He was alittle amazed that she should worry over Fingers and the old Indian inthis hour of their own peril. That danger he had decided to keep as farfrom her mind as possible. But she could not help realizing theimpending menace of it. She must know that within a few hours Kedstywould be found, and the long arm of the wilderness police would beginits work. And if it caught them--
She had thrust her feet toward him and was wriggling them inside herboots, so that he heard the slushing sound of water. "Ugh, but they arewet!" she shivered. "Will you unlace them and pull them off for me,Jeems?"
He laid his pipe aside and knelt close to her. It took him five minutesto get the boots off. Then he held one of her sodden little feet closebetween his two big hands.
"Cold--cold as ice," he said. "You must take off your stockings,Marette. Please."
He arranged a pile of wood in front of the stove and covered it with ablanket which he pulled from one of the bunks. Then, still on hisknees, he drew the cane chair close to the fire and covered it with asecond blanket. A few moments later Marette was tucked comfortably inthis chair, with her bare feet on the blanketed pile of wood. Kentopened the stove door. Then he extinguished one of the smoking candles,and after that, the other. The flaming birch illumined the little cabinwith a mellower light. It gave a subdued flush to the girl's face. Hereyes seemed to Kent wonderfully soft and beautiful in that changedlight. And when he had finished, she reached out a hand, and for aninstant it touched his face and his wet hair so lightly that he sensedthe thrilling caress of it without feeling its weight.
"You are so good to me, Jeems," she said, and he thought there was alittle choking note in her throat.
He had seated himself on the floor, close to her chair, with his backto the wall. "It is because I love you, Gray Goose," he repliedquietly, looking straight into the fire.
She was silent. She, too, was looking into the fire. Close over theirheads they heard the beating of the rain, like a thousand soft littlefists pounding the top of the cabin. Under them they could feel theslow swinging of the scow as it responded to the twists and vagaries ofthe current that was carrying them on. And Kent, unseen by the girl whowas looking away from him, raised his eyes. The birch light was glowingin her hair; it trembled on her white throat; her long lashes werecaught in the shimmer of it. And, looking at her, Kent thought ofKedsty lying back in his bungalow room, choked to death by a tress ofthat glorious hair, so near to him now that, by leaning a littleforward, he might have touched it with his lips. The thought broughthim no horror. For even as he looked, one of her hands crept up to hercheek--the small, soft hand that had touched his face and hair aslightly as a bit of thistle-down--and he knew that two hands like thatcould not have killed a man who was fighting for life when he died.
And Kent reached up, and took the hand, and held it close in his own,as he said, "Little Gray Goose, please tell me now--what happened inKedsty's room?"
His voice thrilled with an immeasurable faith. He wanted her to know,no matter what had happened, that this faith and his love for her couldnot be shaken. He believed in her, and would always believe in her.
Already he was sure that he knew how Kedsty had died. The picture ofthe tragedy had pieced itself together in his mind, bit by bit. Whilehe slept, Marette and a man were down in the big room with theInspector of Police. The climax had come, and Kedsty was struck ablow--in some unaccountable way--with his own gun. Then, just as Kedstywas recovering sufficiently from the shock of the blow to fight,Marette's companion had killed him. Horrified, dazed by what hadalready happened, perhaps unconscious, she had been powerless toprevent the use of a tress of her hair in the murderer's final work.Kent, in this picture, eliminated the boot-laces and the curtain cords.He knew that the unusual and the least expected happened frequently incrime. And Marette's long hair was flowing loose about her. To use ithad simply been the first inspiration of the murderer. And Kentbelieved, as he waited for her answer now, that Marette would tell himthis.
And as he waited, he felt her fingers tighten in his hand.
"Tell me, Gray Goose--what happened?"
"I--don't--know--Jeems--"
His eyes went to her suddenly from the fire, as if he was not quitesure he had heard what she had said. She did not move her head, butcontinued to gaze unseeingly into the flames. Inside his palm herfingers worked to his thumb and held it tightly again, as they hadclung to it when she was frightened by the thunder and lightning.
&n
bsp; "I don't know what happened, Jeems."
This time he did not feel the clinging thrill of her little fingers andsoft palm. Deep within him he experienced something that was like asudden and unexpected blow. He was ready to fight for her until hislast breath was gone. He was ready to believe anything she toldhim--anything except this impossible thing which she had just spoken.For she did know what had happened in Kedsty's room. She knew--unless--
Suddenly his heart leaped with joyous hope. "You mean--you wereunconscious?" he cried in a low voice that trembled with his eagerness."You fainted--and it happened then?"
She shook her head. "No. I was asleep in my room. I didn't intend tosleep, but--I did. Something awakened me. I thought I had beendreaming. But something kept pulling me, pulling me downstairs. Andwhen I went, I found Kedsty like that. He was dead. I was paralyzed,standing there, when you came."
She drew her, hand away from him, gently, but significantly. "I knowyou can't believe me, Jeems. It is impossible for you to believe me."
"And you don't want me to believe you, Marette."
"Yes--I do. You must believe me."
"But the tress of hair--your hair--round Kedsty's neck--"
He stopped. His words, spoken gently as they were, seemed brutal tohim. Yet he could not see that they affected her. She did not flinch.He saw no tremor of horror. Steadily she continued to look into thefire. And his brain grew confused. Never in all his experience had heseen such absolute and unaffected self-control. And somehow, it chilledhim. It chilled him even as he wanted to reach out and gather her closein his arms, and pour his love into her ears, entreating her to tellhim everything, to keep nothing back from him that might help in thefight he was going to make.
And then she said, "Jeems, if we should be caught by the Police--itwould probably be quite soon, wouldn't it?"
"They won't catch us."
"But our greatest danger of being caught is right now, isn't it?" sheinsisted.
Kent took out his watch and leaned over to look at it in the fireglow."It is three o'clock," he said. "Give me another day and night, GrayGoose, and the Police will never find us."
For a moment or two more she was silent. Then her hand reached out, andher fingers twined softly round his thumb again. "Jeems--when we aresafe--when we are sure the Police won't find us--I will tell you allthat I know--about what happened in Kedsty's room. And I will tellyou--about--the hair. I will tell you--everything." Her fingerstightened almost fiercely. "Everything," she repeated. "I will tell youabout that in Kedsty's room--and I will tell you about myself--andafter that--I am afraid--you won't like me."
"I love you," he said, making no movement to touch her. "No matter whatyou tell me, Gray Goose, I shall love you."
She gave a little cry, scarcely more than a broken note in her throat,and Kent--had her face been turned toward him then--would have seen theglory that came into it, and into her eyes, like a swift flash oflight--and passed as swiftly away.
What he did see, when she turned her head, were eyes caught suddenly bysomething at the cabin door. He looked. Water was trickling in slowlyover the sill.
"I expected that," he said cheerfully. "Our scow is turning into arain-barrel, Marette. Unless I bail out, we'll soon be flooded."
He reached for his slicker and put it on. "It won't take me long tothrow the water overboard," he added. "And while I'm doing that I wantyou to take _off_ your wet things and tuck yourself into bed. Will you,Gray Goose?"
"I'm not tired, but if you think it is best--" Her hand touched his arm.
"It is best," he said, and for a moment he bent over her until his lipstouched her hair.
Then he seized a pail, and went out into the rain.