Loe raamatut: «Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion», lehekülg 16

CHAPTER VII
DISCOVERY

The cool breeze, which usually blows nightly in north and west, did not rise after the sun setting. On the contrary, though the thick atmosphere cleared slightly, and the wearisome white glare disappeared, oppressive heat stillness grew yet more intolerable. Sleep in such a hot bath became almost impossible. Shortly before dark, there were visible above the southern horizon small clouds of a copper tint, which ascended with peculiar, twisting motions, to break into incessant lightning on reaching a certain higher point.

That portion of the prairie, which receded from the north wall of the fort, was known as the least wholesome quarter in the district. It was infested by a cosmopolitan crowd of the poorest class, chiefly Jews and half-breeds, whose miserable shacks were scattered everywhere within dirty enclosures. Beyond this unfragrant belt were several small houses of light framework, surrounded with high fencing, which might almost have been dignified by the title of palisade. The furthest of these improved dwellings was the first to show a light on that evening. A lamp stood near the ground floor window, which was standing open, and cast long, yellow rays across the open space in front.

The dark figure of a solitary woman came from the deep shadows beneath the north wall, and made in the direction of this house. Though her feet were bare, she walked indifferently, without flinching, over the broken fragments of bottles and other refuse which everywhere strewed the grass. Her features were concealed by a black cloak wrapped round head and shoulders. Yet, even so, at times might be seen the quick glitter of determined eyes as she glanced suspiciously towards the occasional figures that drifted along distantly in the gathering gloom. She passed from grimy tent to tarred shanty, until the unsavoury quarter had been left behind. At length she reached the tall fence which protected the house where burnt the guiding lamp. Here she paused, as though the journey's limit had been attained, and crouched into the long grass, half concealed by a bush maple which sprang up alongside the fence. Eagerly, as the tiger lying in the jungle for its prey, she kept her gaze fixed upon the illuminated window, which was scarcely more than a dozen paces distant.

By this time it was quite dark. A few gauzy moths and cumbersome beetles circled drearily round the drooping flower heads. The night air was stifling. Soon soft lightning began to play incessantly along all parts of the sky.

The woman remained bent in her cramped position, unconscious of the deadness, of sharp pricking of the limbs, disregarding the wounds in the soles of her feet, where blood trickled forth slowly. Her straining eyes were constantly fixed ahead. She could not note such trivial torments as attacks of insect or any mere suffering of the body.

A sullen roar broke from the south and trembled along the ground, while a faint air wave rippled through the night. Then silence and heat settled down again.

But, before the echo of that sound had rolled itself away across prairie, a deep groan burst from the woman's lips as she sank back in a trembling heap. Every muscle in her body shuddered; her mad fingers fought into the dusty turf; she sobbed and wailed so piteously that any chance listener might well have wondered at so great a sorrow, yet withal so quietly that the sounds covered a very slight interval. This was weakness, but nature dies hard.

For in the full light of the lamp stood two figures within that room – a man, and close to him a girl, slender and dark. His arm was encircling her waist, she was pressed to him in an embrace, while he was looking down upon her upturned face with a smile – doubtless, also, with words of love.

This was an ordinary sight, surely, that of a greeting between husband and wife on the former's return from daily toil. The woman in the dark heat outside was surely strangely influenced by trifles.

During those past few days Lamont had been making mental preparations for departure. He felt that his continued presence in Garry was perilous. Any day there might enter the fort some Indian or half-breed, who could recognise his former leader, and who might feel inclined to place himself in comfortable circumstances by denouncing him to the Government. Sinclair, his especial enemy, had been dead for some time. Nothing but an accident could now divulge his identity as the notorious White Chief. Still, with the roving passion of the adventurer, he longed for another country, for fresh faces.

He had practically abandoned the idea of instituting a search for the river of gold which lay hidden in the distant north. The journey was a difficult one, and failure probably lay at the end. Then it would be almost impossible to find companions in whom he could trust – to venture alone would be madness. Besides, once in that district, there lay the danger of crossing some Indian warrior, who would strive to avenge Menotah's lost honour.

So far, the attraction which had bound him down to the western land was his real affection for his dark Canadian wife. He had been duly married to Marie by the rites of her religion, and for the time – as with Menotah – he was quite satisfied with his heart choice. But Sinclair had spoken truly to the Indian girl when he said, 'Lamont can't love; he hasn't got the heart.' So he had recently made the inevitable discovery that her presence had ceased to bring him pleasure; in short, that he was growing tired of her, as he became weary of anything which had a tendency towards daily repetition. This fact Marie, with woman's quick discernment, perceived, and – not possessing Menotah's tender devotion – resented, as she had indeed a right to do. Slight quarrels had arisen, like first mutterings of the yet distant storm, which could not fail to widen the breach which had been already formed by his growing indifference. On more than a single occasion actual bitterness had shown itself, and though such scenes more usually ended with kiss and fresh protestation of love, memory survived, converting the lip promise into a mechanical action which had no consent of the heart.

So Lamont was only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to steal away from the country, and join the forces of some insurrection in any other part of the world. His wife would be left behind as a matter of course. There were women to be found everywhere. Doubtless he could discover many as beautiful in the new land of his choice. Had Sinclair set the wheels of the law revolving but a month later, he might have found himself too late.

On that particular day they had quarrelled – the heat had made him irritable – but as evening approached and an indefinite feeling of fear tormented the mind, he had made such humble overtures towards reconciliation that Marie was astonished at the change. As she was sincerely fond of her husband, when it so happened that his moods agreed with hers, she was perfectly willing to meet his advances half way. Consequently it appeared that the threatened storm had been averted. Then the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room overlooking the dark prairie, the window was left open on account of the heat, while they listened to the first smothered exclamation of the distant thunder.

Then Lamont began to experience that dim presentiment of approaching evil, which is such a real and such a terrible truth. He became suddenly so entirely lonely, and in so fearful a mood, that he was compelled to turn to his weak wife for protection as well as sympathy. It was impossible to remain any time in one position, while thought became intolerable.

'How irritable you are!' she said, when he began to pace up and down the room.

'The place is full of mosquitoes. It is the lamp light. Shall I shut the window?'

'If you like,' she replied. 'They don't trouble me, though.'

He did not go to the window, but sank into a chair. 'Marie!' he called suddenly.

She looked up in some wonder, when he called again. Then she crossed to his side. He threw his arm round her and drew her on his knee, to whisper in her ear, 'You love me, chérie, don't you?'

She did not know what to make of this sudden change of front. Somewhat doubtfully she replied, 'Yes, Hugh, when you're nice to me.'

'You don't say that in the way you used to.'

'And you haven't kept all the promises you once made. You were never to speak a harsh word to me; never dream of quarrelling with me; I should always have my wish; you would always love me devotedly; and – oh! I don't know how many more.

He put his hand over her mouth, then caressed her half fondly, half nervously.

'I always love you, chérie. You know I do, so you must forgive me. And you will always remain faithful to me, won't you?'

'Yes,' she said carelessly.

'You will always take my part? You will protect me – '

She gave a short laugh. 'How can I protect you?' she cried, with some scorn. 'What's the matter with you, Hugh?'

He passed a hand across his forehead. 'I'm unsettled. I hardly know what I'm talking about to-night.'

'Go and lie down. I'll bring you something to drink presently.'

He took no notice of her words, but pressed her to him eagerly.

'You will never desert me, Marie mine? You will be faithful to me always?'

'Of course,' she replied petulantly. 'At least so long as you are faithful to me – and country,' she added, as an afterthought.

He started wildly, all his worst fears aroused. 'What has that to do with us? If I am true to you, why think about country?'

The small patriot became infected by his strange mood. 'It is the true man's first thought. Home and country must always go together.'

'Pshaw! What has it done for us? If it is to a man's interests to go against his people, let him do so.'

He was almost startled at the horror on her face. 'Fight against your own land, against your own people! Do you mean that?'

'Why not?' he said huskily.

'It is the vilest thing a man can do,' she cried hotly. 'Look at the Rebellion that is just over. Don't you think with me that the traitor they call the White Chief is an evil spirit, and not man at all?'

The next instant she had approached him with solicitude, for his face was ghastly. 'Why, what is it, Hugh? You are not well.'

'The heat,' he muttered. 'I'm faint.'

Then there came a loud, hollow knock upon the outer door.

Lamont forgot his infirmity and sprang up excitedly. 'What is that?'

'I believe you are crazy, Hugh!' said his wife angrily. 'The paper, of course.'

'Don't go, Marie,' he pleaded. 'Stay here with me. I'm not feeling well. I don't want to be left alone.'

She stopped irresolutely at his side, and looked up at the nervous face. He was greatly excited, and trembling. With the woman's sympathy for suffering, she placed both hands on his shoulders, then said kindly, 'I'm just going for the paper. Then I will sit by you and read the latest news.'

With a soft hand she pushed back the hair from his forehead. It was moist with heat and his fear of the unknown.

'You really are unwell.'

He put his arms round her; then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he said, 'Kiss me, chérie.'

She did so, though with a perplexed smile, and with no conception of the idea that this was the last embrace which was to pass between them. As she released herself, the deep roar broke forth again from the southern night.

'The storm's coming,' he muttered, thinking on the night of Muskwah's end, 'It's the only way such a day could end.'

She was not gone more than a few minutes, yet when she returned her husband was standing near the window in a pitiful state of alarm. As she came questioningly to him, he clutched her arm with the weak action of the child who seeks protection from invisible dangers.

'There was a face – a white, revengeful face.'

'Where?' she asked, quickly with a strange glance. 'At the window. Only for a moment. The eyes were terrible. There was death in them. Didn't you hear me call out?'

Marie advanced to the open window, where a few mosquitoes sang their mournful, high-pitched note. There was nothing, except the soft lightning playing incessantly through the hot air. 'It was your imagination,' she said, with a certain wondering contempt. 'Come and see for yourself.'

But he did not stir. 'I hear footsteps. There are men coming through the grass.'

'Well, the prairie is public. People have a right to pass if they like. Ciel! Get rid of this folly of yours.'

She drew him to a chair, then seated herself beside him, and opened the single vilely printed sheet published in Garry at that time under the title of newspaper. That evening it was larger than usual.

He was completely beneath her influence, so obeyed her light touch, casting many furtive glances in the direction of the window, which was constantly flooded in a pale blue light. The thunder now commenced to roll and roar through the stifling night.

Outside, between the fence and the bush maple, still crouched the dark figure, never shifting her position, and always gazing into that room. Occasionally she could even hear a portion of the conversation.

Marie's attention was drawn at once towards the black lettered headlines of the opening column. 'It is an account of Father Lecompte's death,' she said solemnly.

'He is dead, then?' said Lamont, blankly, his thoughts on other things.

'You know he is. Didn't you listen to the bell tolling last night? You said it kept you awake.' Then she began to read from the closely printed sheet. 'The Archbishop has lost his right hand. The good priest, who fought with him so loyal-heartedly in his endeavours to quell the Indian rising, will be seen in our midst no more. During the Rebellion, when there were traitors – '

'The Rebellion!' he interrupted violently. 'You're always talking on that. I tell you, it's over and done with. I don't want to hear about the priest's death, Marie. Heaven knows this night is dismal enough without making it worse by reading such things.' Ho shuddered as he spoke.

With a little petulant movement his wife turned over the sheet. Her eyes were immediately caught by another headline, announcing far more significant intelligence. She read the paragraph that followed quickly, then turned to her husband, who sat motionless in his chair.

Sinclair, the simple-minded hunter, had reckoned without the journalist in the laying of his plans. He knew nothing of the searching curiosity of the reporter, with whom nothing is sacred, reputation least of all. During a moment of incautious jubilation in official circles, the secret must have leaked into the ears of clerks, each a type of garrulity, and the keen-scented news maker, who could track copy in the air, had made the tidings his prey. The newspaper is always the criminal's most faithful ally, the friend when everything human has dropped away from him. Now it came very near to wrecking Sinclair's well-devised plans.

Marie spread the sheet across her knee and smoothed it out excitedly. 'Listen, Hugh. Here is something that really will interest you.'

He made no reply, nor was there any curiosity in his manner. Full of the startling intelligence, she continued quickly, —

'It is about the White Chief. He has been discovered.'

She bent her head to read from the paper, but at the moment a strange sound of deep gasping came to her ears. She looked up hurriedly, and then her own face for the moment grew white with fear.

He stood in the centre of the room, a livid hue crossing his face, knees knocking together in weakness of extreme terror, hands clutching at the table for support. His entire being was transformed.

Marie came forward, trembling. 'What is it? Tell me, Hugh – '

He reached out towards the paper, and tried in vain to speak. The shock had been so terrible, so fearfully sudden.

'It is that, then,' she said, with a strange light growing in her eyes. 'Would you like to hear the rest?'

She held the sheet beneath the lamplight. 'Information has been given by a man who for some time was believed to be dead, hunter Sinclair of St Andrews.'

It was all over now. There could be nothing worse than this, so strength, the unreasoning strength of despair, liberated his tongue and brought energy back to the limbs. He forgot the presence of his wife, everything save his awful position. He stood surrounded by a blood-red atmosphere, where lightnings blazed and thunders crashed; before him he saw the limp figure of Riel swaying at the rope's end; in his ears sounded the mad shouts and execrations of the people. He was a man by himself, outside all mercy, with a country shrieking for his blood.

'Sinclair is dead!' he cried, in an awful voice. 'He never rose, never moved. I could not have missed my aim. He is dead – dead.'

His wife shrank in her turn, the horrible truth worming into her heart.

'Speak!' she shouted at him. 'Tell me the meaning of this.'

He did not notice her. 'There is no one else. Spencer had no proofs. Sinclair is dead.'

He shuddered frightfully, then staggered across the floor.

Motion removed the numbness from his mind. The first paralysing wave of terror had passed, so now he saw again clearly. He looked upon his wife, with hatred growing in her eyes; he thought of the possible foes already in wait outside the door; he beheld the window, and knew that salvation lay there.

Thither he went, with an attempt at a smile upon his features. Ah, there was shelter and life in that dark night. But then the lightning burst forth wildly, converting the outer blackness into a weird atmosphere of shuddering blue.

He fell back with a shout no effort could repress. In the brief space of light had been plainly visible a knot of men crossing the prairie in that direction.

But his wife had seen them, too. The dreadful truth, so far a suspicion, now became a certainty. Unwittingly she had taken to husband the vilest and most cowardly of all her country's treacherous sons.

'I see,' she said, bending forward like the snake about to strike. 'You are afraid of these men. They are coming here. Perhaps you know why.'

One minute of perfect coolness, and he would be safe. He could escape by the door, pass out at the back, reach open prairie, then make for the bush. None could touch him there. But he must first secure his weapons, which lay in the next room.

So he laughed feebly, and smiled in ghastly fashion upon his wife. 'It's all right, Marie, chérie. The heat has knocked me over altogether. I'm just going out for a bit.'

But as he crossed the floor, she stepped forward and put herself in his way.

'Where are you going?'

His tongue and throat were parched. All he could say was, 'I'll be back in a few minutes. I can't tell you.'

She held his arm. 'Before you go, tell me what you know of the White Chief?' There was a pause, broken by the rattling of the thunder, then her voice came again, 'Why did you try to kill Sinclair?'

He tried to move onward – naturally the one idea was immediate flight – but she hung to him.

'I can't tell you. I know nothing.'

Then she placed herself between him and the door. Her face was hard and stern.

'You shall not go. I believe you know who this villain is.'

Again he tried to laugh. 'Yes – but I couldn't tell you, or anyone. He's a friend, who often has done me good service. I can't forget him now. He lives in Garry, so I am going out to warn him. I shouldn't like to see him hung.'

The last words were spoken in a thick whisper, while he turned a frightened glance towards the window.

'You liar!' she burst forth. 'Why did you speak to me on fidelity to country? What was the reason of your fear, and why did you see an enemy in every passer by? Why did you almost lose reason when I read that paragraph from the paper? Why did you yourself confess that you tried to shoot Sinclair?'

Deceit was now a useless weapon. The last resource lay in the power of a terrible name coupled with brute force.

'Damn you,' he said in a soft, sinister whisper, which had often aided him better than muscular strength, 'I AM THE WHITE CHIEF! Stand aside, and let me pass.'

'Never!' Then she compressed her lips fiercely.

He clenched his fists and made a menacing movement. 'Come away from that door!'

'You shall not pass.'

Then she locked the door and drew forth the key.

'It will have to be over your body. The choice is yours.'

She raised a denouncing finger, and met him with the single word, 'Traitor!'

He was cool again now. 'Too late for that,' he began, but her passion was fully aroused.

'See! Those men are waiting outside for a signal. They have come to arrest you. I shall see you hung at Regina, if the people do not kill you here.'

Her concluding words were almost drowned in a crash of thunder. A lurid picture of the bloodthirsty lynchers, with a prospect of horrible death by burning, flashed across his mental vision. Weakness returned, and he trembled.

'There are footsteps. There is someone coming up to the window.'

He would have rushed there, but dared not. Escape by the door was his only chance.

'Dare to lay a finger on me, traitor. I am a free woman now. Your perfidy has divorced me from you.'

'The key!' he cried in hoarse tones many times.

'There is the open window. Leave the house that way. The soldiers are waiting to receive you.'

The sweat broke on his forehead. 'I give you another chance. Stand aside, and let me pass.'

She drew herself up proudly. 'No man shall ever say of Marie Larivière that she feared a traitor to her country.'

This return to her maiden name showed him how completely isolated he was from all human sympathy.

He swore fiercely, then sprang forward at her. But the little patriot was ready; she doubled her fingers and struck him across the eyes.

'Perfide!'

The bold action aroused his entire fury. He seized her by the waist and flung her brutally to the floor. Bravely she clutched the key within her two hands. He bent over, and furiously struggled to wrest it from her grasp. But it is no easy task – even with far greater strength – to open the fist which is closed in a grim determination. She panted and sobbed, yet fought nobly; he swore and threatened, but could not succeed.

It was terrible. The sweat flowed from his face. Any second he might find himself surrounded by soldiers and his last hope gone. The demon within triumphed. He struck the girl twice upon the side of the head. She sank upon the floor, while the fingers yielded limply. Feverishly he clutched the key, again seeing the world of liberty opening and spreading before him.

He reached the door. With shaking hands he endeavoured to force the key into its place.

Suddenly a new flood of terror passed into his being and robbed the hands of strength. They were unmistakable sounds in the room. Someone had entered. As he started round, a low voice gave utterance to the pitiless words, —

'It is no good.'

Standing in the centre of the floor was a woman, barefooted, bareheaded, with hair streaming wildly over her shoulders, with hungry set look on her colourless face.