Snowdrift Part 2

"It would be about a year," agreed Downey, gravely nodding his head. "I made this patrol in February."

"It's just a year--the thirteenth of the month. I'll not be forgetting it."

"An' have you had no word?"

The old factor shook his head: "No word. They left in May--with the rivers not yet free of running ice. Two light canoes. Margot could handle a canoe like a man."

"You'll prob'ly hear from 'em on the break-up this spring. Maybe they'll give it up an' come back."

Molaire shook his head: "Ye don't know Murdo MacFarlane," he said, "He'll never give up. He swore he would never return to Las.h.i.+n' Water without gold. He's Scotch--an' stubborn as the seven-year itch."

"I'm Scotch," grinned Downey, hoping to draw the old man into an argument and turn his thoughts from the absent ones. But he would not be drawn. For a long time he smoked in silence while outside the wind howled and moaned and sucked red flames high into the stovepipe.

"She'd be two years old, now," Molaire said, "An' maybe talkin' a bit.

Maybe they've taught her to say grand-pere. Don't you think she might be talkin' a little?"

"I don't know much about 'em. Do they talk when they're two?"

The old factor pondered: "Why--it seems to me _she_ did--the other Margot. But--it's a long time ago--yet it seems like yesterday. I'm gettin' old an' my memory plays me tricks. Maybe it was three, instead of two when she begun to say words. D'ye mind, Downey, a year ago we played whist?"

"Two-handed cribbage is all right," suggested the Corporal. But the old man shook his head and for a long, long time the only sound in the room was the irregular tapping of contracting metal as the fire died down unheeded in the stove. The old man's pipe went out and lay cold in his hand. The bearded chin sagged forward onto the breast of his woolen s.h.i.+rt and his eyes closed. Beyond the stove Corporal Downey drowsed in his chair.

Suddenly the old man raised his head: "What was that?" he asked sharply.

Downey listened with his eyes on the other's face. "I hear nothing," he answered, "but the booming of the wind."

The peculiar startled look died out of Molaire's eyes: "Yes," he answered, "It is the wind. I must have be'n dozin'. But it sounded like bells. I've heard the bells of Ste. Ann's boom like that--tollin'--when some one--died." Stiffly he rose from his chair and fumbled upon the counter for a candle which he handed to Downey. "We'll be goin' to bed, now," he said, "It's late."

IV

Upon a bunk built against the wall of a tiny cabin of logs five hundred miles to the northward of Las.h.i.+ng Water post the sick woman turned her head feebly and smiled into the tear-dimmed eyes of the man who leaned over her: "It's all right, Murdo," she murmured, "The pain in my side seems better. I think I slept a little."

Murdo MacFarlane nodded: "Yes, Margot, you have been asleep for an hour.

In a few days, now, I'm thinkin' you'll be sittin' up, an' in a week's time you'll be on your feet again."

The woman's eyes closed, and by the tightening of the drawn lips her husband knew that she was enduring another paroxysm of the terrible pain. Outside, the wind tore at the eaves, the sound m.u.f.fled by its full freighting of snow. And on the wooden shelf above the man's head the little alarm clock ticked bra.s.sily.

Once more Margot's eyes opened and the muscles of the white pain-racked face relaxed. The breath rushed in quick jerky stabs between the parted lips that smiled bravely. "We are not children, Murdo--you and I," she whispered. "We must not be afraid to face--this thing. We have found much happiness together. That will be ours always. Nothing can rob us of that. We have had it. And now you must face a great unhappiness. I am going to die. In your eyes I have seen that you, too, know this--when you thought I slept. To-day--to-night--not later than to-morrow I must go away. I am not afraid to go--only sorry. We would have had many more years of happiness, Murdo--you--and I--and the little one--" The low voice faltered and broke, and the dark eyes brimmed with tears.

The man's hands clenched till the nails bit deep into the palms. A great dry sob shook the drooped shoulders: "G.o.d!" he breathed, hoa.r.s.ely, "An'

it's all my fault for bringin' you into this d.a.m.ned waste of snow an'

ice, an' bitter cold!"

"No, Murdo, it is not your fault. I was as anxious to come as you were.

I am a child of the North, and I love the North. I love its storms and its suns.h.i.+ne. I love even the grim cruelty of it--its relentless snuffing out of lives in the guarding of its secrets. Strong men have gone to their death fighting it, and more men will go--why then should not I, who am a woman, go also? But, it would have been the same if we had stayed at Las.h.i.+ng Water. I know what this sickness is. I have seen men die of it before--Nash, of the Mounted--and Nokoto, a Company Indian. It is the appendicitis, and no doctor could have got to Las.h.i.+ng Water in time, any more than he could have got here. They sent the fastest dog-team on the river when Nash was sick, and before the doctor came he was dead. It is not your fault, my husband. It is no one's fault. There is a time when each of us must die. My time is now. That is all." She ceased speaking, and with an effort that brought little beads of cold sweat to her forehead, she raised herself upon her elbow and pointed a faltering forefinger toward the little roughly made crib that stood close beside the bunk. "Promise me, Murdo," she gasped, "promise me upon your soul that you will see--that--she--_that she shall go to school!_ More than I have gone, for there are many things I do not know.

I have read in books things I do not understand."

"Aye, girl," the deep voice of MacFarlane rumbled through the room as he eased his wife back onto the pillow, "I promise."

The dark eyes closed, the white face settled heavily onto the pillow, and as MacFarlane bent closer he saw that the breathing was peaceful and regular. It was as though a great load had been lifted from her mind, and she slept. With her hand still clasped in his the man's tired body sagged forward until his head rested beside hers.

MacFarlane awoke with a start. Somewhere in the darkness a small voice was calling: "Mamma! Daddy! I cold!" For a moment the man lay trying to collect his befuddled senses. "Just a minute, baby," he called, "Daddy's comin'." As he raised to a sitting posture upon the edge of the bunk his fingers came in contact with his wife's hand--the hand that he suddenly remembered had been clasped in his. Rapidly his brain cleared. He must have fallen asleep. The fire had burned itself out in the stove and he s.h.i.+vered in the chill air. Margot's hand must have slipped from his clasp as they slept. It was too cold for her hand to lie there on top of the blankets, and her arm protected only by the sleeve of her nightgown.

He would slip it gently beneath the covers and then build up a roaring fire.

A low whimpering came from the direction of the crib: "Daddy, I cold."

"Just a minute, baby, till daddy lights the light." He reached for the hand that lay beside him there in the darkness. As his fingers clutched it a short, hoa.r.s.e cry escaped him. The hand was icy cold--too cold for even the coldness of the fireless room. The fingers yielded stiffly beneath his palm and the arm lay rigid upon the blanket.

MacFarlane sprang to his feet and as he groped upon the shelf for matches his body was shaken by great dry sobs that ended in low throaty moans. Clumsily his trembling fingers held the tiny flame to the wick of the candle, and as the light flickered a moment and then burned clear, he crossed to the crib where the baby had partly wriggled from beneath her little blankets and robes. Wrapping her warmly in a blanket, he drew the rest of the covers over her.

"I want to get in bed with mamma," came plaintively from the small bundle.

MacFarlane choked back a sob: "Don't, don't! little one," he cried, then lowering his voice to a hoa.r.s.e whisper, he bent low over the crib.

"S-h-s-h, don't disturb mamma. She's--asleep."

"I want sumpin' to eat. I want some gravy and some toast."

"Yes, you wait till daddy builds the fire an' then we'll be nice an'

warm, an' daddy'll get supper."

Silently MacFarlane set about his work. He kindled a fire, put the teakettle on, and warmed some caribou gravy, stirring it slowly to prevent its scorching while he toasted some bread upon the top of the stove. Once or twice he glanced toward the bed. Margot's face was turned away from him, and all he could see was a wealth of dark hair ma.s.sed upon the pillow. That--and the hand that showed at the end of the nightgown sleeve. White as snow--and cold as snow it looked against the warm red of the blanket. MacFarlane crossed and drew the blanket up over the hand and arm, covering it to the shoulder. Bending over, he looked long into the white face. The eyes were closed, MacFarlane was glad of that, and the lips were slightly parted as though in restful slumber.

"Good bye--Margot--la.s.s--" his voice broke thickly. He was conscious of a gnawing pain in his throat, and two great scalding tears rolled down his cheeks and dropped to the ma.s.s of dark hair where they glistened in the steady glow of the single candle like tiny globes of fire. He raised the blanket to cover the still face, lowered it again and crossed to the table where he laid out a tincup for himself and a little thick yellow bowl into which he crumbled the toast and poured the gravy over it. Then he warmed a tiny blanket, wrapped the baby in it and, holding her on his lap, fed her from a spoon. Between the slowly portioned spoonfuls he drank great gulps of scalding tea. There were still several spoonfuls left in the bowl when the tiny mite in his arms snuggled warmly against him. "Tell me a 'tory," demanded the mite. MacFarlane told the "'tory"--and another, and another. And then, in response to an imperious demand, he sang a song. It was the first time MacFarlane had ever sung a song. It was a song he had often heard Margot sing, and he was surprised that he had unconsciously learned the words which fell from his lips in a wailing monotone.

MacFarlane's heart was breaking--but he finished the song.

"I sleepy," came drowsily from the blanket. "I want to kiss mamma."

"S-h-s-h, mamma's asleep. Kiss daddy, and we'll go to bed."

"I want to kiss mamma," insisted the baby.

MacFarlane hesitated with tight-pressed lips. Then he rose and carried the baby to the bedside. "See, mamma's asleep," he whispered, pointing to the ma.s.s of dark hair on the pillow. "Just kiss her hair--and we--won't--wake--her--up." He held the baby so that the little pursed lips rested for a moment in the thick ma.s.s of hair, then he carried her to her crib and tucked her in. She was asleep when he smoothed the robe into place.

For a long time he stood looking down at the little face on the pillow.

Then he crossed to the table where he sat with his head resting upon his folded arms while the minutes ticked into hours and the fire burned low.

As he sat there with closed eyes MacFarlane followed the thread of his life from his earliest recollection. His childhood on the little hillside farm, the long hours that he struggled with his books under the eye of the stern-faced schoolmaster, his 'prentices.h.i.+p in the shop of the harness-maker in the small Scotch town, his year of work about the docks at Liverpool, his coming to Canada and hiring out to the Hudson's Bay Company, his a.s.signment to Las.h.i.+ng Water as Molaire's clerk, his meeting with Margot when she returned home from school at the mission--and the wonderful days of that first summer together. Then--his promotion to the position of trader, his marriage to Margot--step by step he lived again that long journey from Las.h.i.+ng Water to Ste. Anne's.

For it was old Molaire's wish that his daughter should be married in the old Gothic church where, years before, he had married her mother.

MacFarlane raised his head and listened, his wide-staring eyes fixed upon the black square of the window--that sound--it was--only the moan and the m.u.f.fled roar of the wind--but, for a moment it had sounded like the tone of a deep-throated bell--like the booming of the bells of Ste.

Anne's. Slowly the man lowered his head to his arms and groped for the thread of his thought where he had left it. Lingeringly, he dwelt upon the happiness that had been theirs, the coming of the little Margot--the infinite love that welled in their hearts for this soft little helpless thing, their delight in her unfolding--the gaining of a pound--the first tooth--the first half-formed word--the first step. He remembered, too, their distress at her tiny ills, real and fancied. Then, his own desire to seek gold--not for himself, but that these two loved ones might enjoy life in a fullness undreamed by the family of a fur trader. He recollected Molaire's opposition, his arguments, his scoffing, and his prediction that by the end of a year he would be back at Las.h.i.+ng Water buying fur for the Company. And he recollected his own retort, that without the gold he would never come back.

And here, in this little thick walled cabin far into the barren grounds, he had come to the end of the long, long trail. MacFarlane raised his head and stared at the crib. But, was it the end? He knew that it was not, and he groped blindly, desperately to picture the end. If it were not for her--for this little one who lay asleep there in the crib, the end would be easy. The man's glance sought the rifle that rested upon its pegs above the window. It was out of the question to think of returning to Las.h.i.+ng Water, if he would--the baby could not stand five hundred miles of gruelling winter-trail. He could not keep her here and leave her alone while he prospected. He could not remain in the cabin all winter and care for her--he must hunt to live--and game was scarce and far afield. He shuddered at the thought of what might happen if he were to leave her alone in the cabin with a fire in the stove--or worse, of what might eventually happen if some accident befell him and he could not return to the cabin.

MacFarlane sat bolt upright. He suddenly remembered that a few days before, from a high hill some thirty miles to the westward, he had seen an Indian village nestled against a spruce swamp at a wide bend of a river. It was a small village of a dozen or more tepees, and he had intended to visit it later. Why not take the baby over there and give her into the keeping of some squaw. If he could find one like Neseka all would be well, for Neseka's love for the little Margot was hardly less than his own. And surely, in a whole village there must be at least one like her.

MacFarlane replenished his fire, and groping upon the shelf, found a leather covered note book and pencil. The guttered candle flared smokily and he replaced it with another, and for an hour or more he wrote steadily, filling page after page of the note book with fine lined writing.