CHAPTER XV. THE WOMAN FROM WIND RIVER
"What is it?" asked Fleda, opening the door of the house.
"I want to speak to you about m'sieu'," replied the sad-faced woman.She made a motion of her head backwards towards the wood. "About M'sieu'Marchand."
Fleda's face hardened; she had had more than enough of "M'sieu'Marchand." She was bitterly ashamed that she had, even for a moment,thought of using diplomacy with him. But this woman's face was soforlorn, apart, and lonely, that the old spirit of the Open Road workedits will. In far-off days she had never seen a human being turned awayfrom a Romany tent, or driven from a Romany camp. She opened the doorand stood aside to admit the wayfarer.
A few moments later, the woman, tidied and freshened, sat at the amplebreakfast which was characteristic of Romany home-life. The woman'splate was bountifully supplied by Fleda, and her cup filled more thanonce by Madame Bulteel, while old Gabriel Druse bulked friendly overall. His face now showed none of the passion and sternness which hadbeen present when he passed the Sentence of the Patrin upon Jethro Fawe;nothing of the gloom filling his eyes as he left Ingolby's house. Thegracious, bountiful look of the patriarch, of the head of the clan, wasupon him.
The husband of one wife, the father of one child, yet the Ry of Rys hadstill the overlooking, protective sense of one who had the care of greatnumbers of people. His keen eyes foresaw more of the story the woman wasto tell presently than either of the women of his household. He hadseen many such women as this, and had inflexibly judged between them andthose who had wronged them.
"Where have you come from?" he asked, as the meal drew to a close.
"From Wind River and under Elk Mountain," the woman answered with alook of relief. Her face was of those who no longer can bear the soul'ssecrets.
There was silence while the breakfast things were cleared away, and thewindow was thrown wide to the full morning sun. It broke through thebranches of pine and cedar and juniper; it made translucent the leavesof the maples; it shimmered on Fleda's brown hair as she pulled a rosefrom the bush at the window, and gave it to the forlorn creature in thegrey "linsey-woolsey" dress and the loose blue flannel jacket, whoseskin was coarsened by outdoor life, but who had something of real beautyin the intense blue of her eyes. She had been a very comely figure inher best days, for her waist was small, her bosom gently and firmlyrounded, and her hands were finer than those of most who live and workmuch in the open air.
"You said there was something you wished to tell me," said Fleda, atlast.
The woman gazed slowly round at the three, as though with puzzledappeal. There was the look of the Outlander in her face; of one who hadbeen exiled from familiar things and places. In manner she was like achild. Her glance wandered over the faces of the two women, then hereyes met those of the Ry, and stayed there.
"I am old and I have seen many sorrows," said Gabriel Druse, diviningwhat was in her mind. "I will try to understand."
"I have known all the bitterness of life," interposed the low, softvoice of Madame Bulteel.
"All ears are the same here," Fleda added, looking the woman in theeyes.
"I will tell everything," was the instant reply. Her fingers twined anduntwined in her lap with a nervousness shown by neither face nor body.Her face was almost apathetic in its despair, but her body had anupright courage.
She sighed heavily and began.
"My name is Arabella Stone. I was married from my home over against WindRiver by the Jumping Sandhills.
"My father was a lumberman. He was always captain of the gang in thewoods, and captain of the river in the summer. My mother was deaf anddumb. It was very lonely at times when my father was away. I loveda boy--a good boy, and he was killed breaking horses. When I wastwenty-one years old my mother died. It was not good for me to be alone,my father said, so he must either give up the woods and the river, orhe or I must marry. Well, I saw he would not marry, for my mother's facewas one a man could not forget."
The old man stirred in his seat. "I have seen such," he said in his deepvoice.
"So it was I said to myself I would marry," she continued, "though Ihad loved the Boy that died under the hoofs of the black stallion. Thereweren't many girls at the Jumping Sandhills, and so there were men, nowone, now another, to say things to me which did not touch my heart; butI did not laugh, because I understood that they were lonely. Yet I likedone of them more than all the others.
"So, for my father's sake, I came nearer to Dennis, and at last itseemed I could bear to look at him any time of the day or night he cameto me. He was built like a pine-tree, and had a playful tongue, and alsohe was a ranchman like the Boy that was gone. It all came about on theday he rode in from the range the wild wicked black stallion which allrange-riders had tried for years to capture. It was like a brother ofthe horse which had killed my Boy, only bigger. When Dennis mastered himand rode him to my door I made up my mind, and when he whispered to meover the dipper of buttermilk I gave him, I said, 'Yes.' I was proud ofhim. He did things that a woman likes, and said the things a woman lovesto hear, though they be the same thing said over and over again."
Madame Bulteel nodded her head as though in a dream, and the Ry of Ryssat with his two great hands on the chair-arm and his chin dropped onhis chest. Fleda's hands were clasped in her lap, and her big eyes neverleft the woman's face.
"Before a month was gone I had married him," the low, tired voice wenton. "It was a gay wedding; and my father was very happy, for he thoughtI had got the desire of a woman's life--a home of her own. For a timeall went well. Dennis was gay and careless and wilful, but he was easyto live with, too, except when he came back from the town where he soldhis horses. Then he was different, because of the drink, and he wasquarrelsome with me--and cruel, too.
"At last when he came home with the drink upon him, he would sleep onthe floor and not beside me. This wore upon my heart. I thought thatif I could only put my hand on his shoulder and whisper in his ear, hewould get better of his bad feeling; but he was sulky, and he would notbear with me. Though I never loved him as I loved my Boy, still I triedto be a good wife to him, and never turned my eyes to any other man."
Suddenly she stopped as though the pain of speaking was too great.Madame Bulteel murmured something, but the only word that reached theears of the others was the Arabic word 'mafish'. Her pale face wassuffused as she said it.
Two or three times the woman essayed to speak again, but could not.At last, however, she overcame her emotion and said: "So it was whenM'sieu' Felix Marchand came up from the Sagalac."
The old man started and muttered harshly, but Fleda had foreseen theentrance of the dissolute Frenchman into the tale, and gave no sign ofsurprise.
"M'sieu' Marchand bought horses," the sad voice trailed on. "One day hebought the mining-claims Dennis had been holding till he could developthem or sell them for good money. When Dennis went to town again hebrought me back a present of a belt with silver clasps; but yet againthat night he slept upon the floor alone. So it went on. M. Marchand,he goes on to the mountains and comes back; and he buys more horses,and Dennis takes them to Yargo, and M. Marchand goes with him, but comesback before Dennis does. It was then M'sieu' begun to talk to me; to saythings that soothe a woman when she is hurt. I knew now Dennis did notwant me as when he first married me. He was that kind of man--quick tocare and quicker to forget. He was weak, he could not fasten where hestood. It pleased him to be gay and friendly with me when he was sober,but there was nothing behind it--nothing, nothing at all. At last Ibegan to cry when I thought of it, for it went on and on, and I was toomuch alone. I looked at myself in the glass, and I saw I was not oldor lean. I sang in the trees beside the brook, and my voice was evena little better than in the days when Dennis first came to my father'shouse. I looked to my cooking, and I knew that it was as good as ever. Ithought of my clothes, and how I did my hair, and asked myself if Iwas as fresh to see as when Dennis first came to me. I could see nodifference. There was a clear pool not far away under the
little hillswhere the springs came together. I used to bathe in it every morning anddry myself in the sun; and my body was like a child's. That being so,should my own man turn his head away from me day or night? What had Idone to be used so, less than two years after I had married!"
She paused and hung her head, weeping gently. "Shame stings a woman likenothing else," Madame Bulteel said with a sigh.
"It was so with me," continued Dennis's wife. "Then at last the thoughtcame that there was another woman. And all the time M. Marchand keptcoming and going, at first when Dennis was there, and always with somegood reason for coming--horses, cattle, shooting, or furs bought of theIndians. When Dennis was not there, he came at first for an hour or two,as if by chance, then for a whole day, because he said he knew I waslonely. One day, I was sitting by the pool--it was in the evening. Iwas crying because of the thought that followed me of another womansomewhere, who made Dennis turn from me. Then it was M'sieu' came andput a hand on my shoulder--he came so quietly that I did not hear himtill he touched me. He said he knew why I cried, and it saddened hissoul."
"His soul--the jackal!" growled the old man in his beard.
The woman nodded wearily and went on. "For all of ten days I had beenalone, except for the cattlemen camping a mile away and an old Indianhelper who slept in his tepee within call. Loneliness makes you weakwhen there's something tearing at the heart. So I let M'sieu' Marchandtalk to me. At last he told me that there was a woman at Yargo--thatDennis did not go there for business, but to her. Everyone knew itexcept me, he said. He told me to ask old Throw Hard, the Indian helper,if he had spoken the truth. I was shamed, and angry and crazy, too, Ithink, so I went to old Throw Hard and asked him. He said he could nottell the truth, and that he would not lie to me. So I knew it was alltrue.
"How do I know what was in my mind? Is a woman not mad at such a time!There I was, tossed aside for a flyaway, who was for any man that wouldcome her way. Yes, I think I was mad. The pride in me was hurt--as onlya woman can understand." She paused and looked at the two women wholistened to her. Fleda's eyes were on the world beyond the window of theroom.
"Surely we understand," whispered Madame Bulteel.
The woman's courage returned, and she continued: "I could not go to myfather, for he was riding the river scores of miles away. I was terriblyalone. It was then that M'sieu' Marchand, who had bribed the woman todraw Dennis away, begged me to go away with him. He swore I should marryhim as soon as I could be free of Dennis. I scarcely knew what I saidor thought; but the place I had loved was hateful to me, so I went awaywith him."
A sharp, pained exclamation broke from the lips of Madame Bulteel, butpresently she reached out and laid a hand upon the woman's arm. "Ofcourse you went with him," she said. "You could not stay where you wereand face the return of Dennis. There was no child to keep you, and theman that tempted you said he adored you?"
The woman looked gratefully at her. "That was what he said," sheanswered. "He said he was tired of wandering, and that he wanted ahome-and there was a big house in Montreal."
She stopped suddenly upon an angry, smothered word from Fleda's lips.A big house in Montreal! Fleda's first impulse was to break in upon thewoman's story and tell her father what had happened just now outsidetheir own house; but she waited.
"Yes, there was a big house in Montreal?" said Fleda, her eyes nowresting sadly upon the woman.
"He said it should be mine. But that did not count. To be far away fromall that had been was more than all else. I was not thinking of the man,or caring for him, I was flying from my shame. I did not see then theshame to which I was going. I was a fool, and I was mad and bad also.When I waked--and it was soon--there was quick understanding between us.The big house in Montreal--that was never meant for me. He was alreadymarried."
The old man stretched heavily to his feet, leaned both hands on thetable, and looked at the woman with glowering eyes, while Fleda's heartseemed to stop beating.
"Married!" growled Gabriel Druse, with a blur of passion in his voice.He knew that Felix Marchand had followed his daughter as though he werea single man.
Fleda saw what was working in his mind. Since her father suspected, heshould know all.
"He almost offered me the big house in Montreal this morning," she saidevenly and coldly.
A malediction broke from the old man's lips.
"He almost thought he wanted me to marry him," Fleda added scornfully.
"And what did you say?" Druse asked.
"There could only be one thing to say. I told him I had never thought ofmaking my home in a sewer." A grim smile broke over the old man's face,and he sat down again.
"Because I saw him with you I wanted to warn you," the woman continued."Yesterday, I came to warn him of his danger, and he laughed at me. FromMadame Thibadeau I heard he had said he would make you sing his song.When I came to tell you, there he was with you. But when he left youI was sure there was no need to speak. Still I felt I must tellyou--perhaps because you are rich and strong, and will stop him fromdoing more harm."
"How do you know we are rich?" asked Druse in a rough tone.
"It is what the world says," was the reply. "Is there harm in that? Inany case it was right to tell you all; so that one who had herded with awoman like me should not be friends with you."
"I have seen worse women than you," murmured the old man.
"What danger did you come to warn M. Marchand about?" asked Fleda.
"To his life," answered the woman.
"Do you want to save his life?" asked the old man.
"Ah, is it not always so?" intervened Madame Bulteel in a low, sadvoice. "To be wronged like that does not make a woman just."
"I am just," answered the woman. "He deserves to die, but I want to savethe man that will kill him when they meet."
"Who will kill him?" asked Fleda. "Dennis--he will kill Marchand if hecan."
The old man leaned forward with puzzled, gloomy interest. "Why? Dennisleft you for another. You say he had grown cold. Was that not what hewanted--that you should leave him?"
The woman looked at him with tearful eyes. "If I had known Dennisbetter, I should have waited. What he did is of the moment only. A manmay fall and rise again, but it is not so with a woman. She thinks andthinks upon the scar that shows where she wounded herself; and she neverforgets, and so her life becomes nothing--nothing."
No one saw that Madame Bulteel held herself rigidly, and was so whitethat even the sunlight was gold beside her look. Yet the strangest,saddest smile played about her lips; and presently, as the eyes of theothers fastened on the woman and did not leave her, she regained herusual composure.
The woman kept looking at Gabriel Druse. "When Dennis found that I hadgone, and knew why--for I left word on a sheet of paper--he went madlike me. Trailing to the south, to find M'sieu' Marchand, he had anaccident, and was laid up in a shack for weeks on the Tanguishene River,and they could not move him. But at last a ranchman wrote to me, and theletter found me on the very day I left M'sieu'. When I got that letterbegging me to go to the Tanguishene River, to nurse Dennis who loved mestill, my heart sank. I said to myself I could not go; and Dennis andI must be apart always to the end of time. But then I thought again. Hewas ill, and his body was as broken as his mind. Well, since I could dohis mind no good, I would try to help his body. I could do that much forhim. So I went. But the letter to me had been long on the way, and whenI got to the Tanguishene River he was almost well."
She paused and rocked her body to and fro for a moment as though inpain.
"He wanted me to go back to him then. He said he had never cared for thewoman at Yargo, and that what he felt for me now was different from whatit had ever been. When he had settled accounts we could go back to theranch and be at peace. I knew what he meant by settling accounts, and itfrightened me. That is why I am here. I came to warn the man, Marchand,for if Dennis kills him, then they will hang Dennis. Do you not see?This is a country of law. I saw that Dennis had the madness in hisbrain,
and so I left him again in the evening of the day I found him,and came here--it is a long way. Yesterday, M'sieu' Marchand laughed atme when I warned him. He said he could take care of himself. But suchmen as Dennis stop at nothing; there will be killing, if M'sieu' stayshere."
"You will go back to Dennis?" asked Fleda gently. "Some other woman willmake him happy when he forgets me," was the cheerless, grey reply.
The old man got up and, coming over, laid a hand upon her shoulder.
"Where did you think of going from here?" he asked.
"Anywhere--I don't know," was the reply.
"Is there no work here for her?" he asked, turning to Madame Bulteel.
"Yes, plenty," was the reply. "And room also?" he asked again.
"Was ever a tent too full, when the lost traveller stumbled into campin the old days?" rejoined Fleda. The woman trembled to her feet, aglad look in her eyes. "I ought to go, but I am tired and I will gladlystay," she said and swayed against the table.
Madame Bulteel and Fleda put their arms round her, steadying her.
"This is not the way to act," said Fleda with a touch of sharp reproof.Had she not her own trouble to face?
The stricken woman drew herself up and looked Fleda in the eyes. "I willfind the right way, if I can," she said with courage.
A half-hour later, as the old man sat alone in the room where he hadbreakfasted, a rifle-shot rang out in the distance.
"The trouble begins," he said, as he rose and hastened into the hallway.
Another shot rang out. He caught up his wide felt hat, reached for agreat walking-stick in the corner, and left the house hurriedly.