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Honor of the Big Snows

<h2 id="id01009" style="margin-top: 4em">CHAPTER XXII</h2> <h5 id="id01010">HER PROMISE</h5> Gravois did not stay to see the effect of his last words. Only he knew, as he went through the door, that her eyes were following him, and that if he looked at her she would call him back. So he shut the door quickly behind him, fearing that he had already said too much. Cummins and Jan came in together at suppertime. The factor was in high humor. An Indian from the Porcupine had brought in two silver fox that morning, and he was immensely pleased at Jan's return—a combination of incidents which put him in the best of moods. Mélisse sat opposite Jan at the table. She had twisted a sprig of red bakneesh into her glossy braid, and a cluster of it nestled at her throat, but Jan gave no sign that he had noticed this little favor, which was meant entirely for him. He smiled at her, but there was a clear coolness in the depths of his dark eyes which checked any of the old familiarity on her part. "Has MacVeigh put in his new trap-line?" Cummins inquired, after asking Jan many questions about his trip. "I don't know," replied Jan. "I didn't go to MacVeighs'." Purposely he held his eyes from Mélisse. She understood his effort, and a quick flush gathered in her cheeks. "It was MacVeigh who brought in word of you," persisted the factor, oblivious of the effect of his questions. "I met him in the Cree Lake country, but he said nothing of his trap-lines." He rose from the table with Cummins, and started to follow him from the cabin. Mélisse came between. For a moment her hand rested upon his arm. "You are going to stay with me, Jan," she smiled. "I want your help with the dishes, and then we're going to play on the violin." She pulled him into a chair as Cummins left, and tied an apron about his shoulders. "Close your eyes—and don't move!" she commanded, laughing into his surprised face as she ran into her room. A moment later she returned with one hand held behind her back. The hot blood surged through Jan's veins when he felt her fingers running gently through his long hair. There came the snip of scissors, a little nervous laugh close to his head, and then again the snip, snip, snip of the scissors. "It's terribly long, Jan!" Her soft hand brushed his bearded cheek. "Ugh!" she shuddered. "You must take that off your face. If you don't—" "Why?" he asked, through lack of anything else to say. She lowered her head until her cheek pressed against his own. "Because it feels like bristles," she whispered. She reddened fiercely when he remained silent, and the scissors snipped more rapidly between her fingers. "I'm going to prospect the big swamp along the edge of the Barrens this summer," he explained soon, laughing to relieve the tension. "A beard will protect me from the black flies." "You can grow another." She took the apron from about his shoulders, and held it so that he could see the result of her work. He looked up, smiling. "Thank you, Mélisse. Do you remember when you last cut my hair?" "Yes—it was over on the mountain. We had taken the scissors along for cutting bakneesh, and you looked so like a wild Indian that I made you sit on a rock and let me trim it." "And you cut my ear," he reminded. "For which you made me pay," she retorted quickly, almost under her breath. She went to the cupboard behind the stove, and brought out her father's shaving-mug and razor. "I insist that you shall use them," she said, stirring the soap into a lather, and noting the indecision in his face. "I am afraid of you!" "Afraid of me?" He stood for a moment in front of the little mirror, turning his face from side to side. Mélisse handed him the razor and cup. "You don't seem like the Jan that I used to know once upon a time. There has been a great change in you since—since—" She hesitated. "Since when, Mélisse?" "Since the day we came in from the mountain and I put up my hair." With timid sweetness she added: "I haven't had it up again, Jan." She caught a glimpse of his lathered face in the glass, staring at her with big, seeking eyes. He turned them quickly away when he saw that she was looking, and Mélisse set to work at the dishes. She had washed them before he finished shaving. Then she took down the old violin from the wall and began to play, her low, sweet voice accompanying the instrument in a Cree melody which Iowaka had taught her during Jan's absence at Nelson House and the Wholdaia. Surprised, he faced her, his eyes glowing as there fell from her lips the gentle love-song of a heart-broken Indian maiden, filled with its infinite sadness and despair. He knew the song. It was a lyric of the Crees. He had heard it before, but never as it came to him now, sobbing its grief in the low notes of the violin, speaking to him with immeasurable pathos from the trembling throat of Mélisse. He stood silent until she had finished, staring down upon her bowed head. When she lifted her eyes to him, he saw that her long lashes were wet and glistening in the lamp-glow. "It is wonderful, Mélisse! You have made beautiful music for it." "Thank you, Jan." She played again, her voice humming with exquisite sweetness the wordless music which he had taught her. At last she gave him the violin. "Now you must play for me." "I have forgotten a great deal, Mélisse." She was astonished to see how clumsily his brown fingers traveled over the strings. As she watched him, her heart thrilled uneasily. It was not the old Jan who was playing for her now, but a new Jan, whose eyes shone dull and passionless, in whom there was no stir of the old spirit of the violin. He wandered listlessly from one thing to another, and after a few minutes gave her the instrument again. Without speaking, she rose from her chair and hung the violin upon the wall. "You must practise a great deal," she said quietly. At her movement he, too, rose from his seat; and when she turned to him again he had his cap in his hand. A flash of surprise shot into her eyes. "Are you going so soon, Jan?" "I am tired," he said in excuse. "It has been two days since I have slept, Mélisse. Good night!" He smiled at her from the door, but the "Good night" which fell from her lips was lifeless and unmeaning. Jan shivered when he went out. Under the cold stars he clenched his hands, knowing that he had come from the cabin none too soon. Choking back the grief of this last meeting with Mélisse, he crossed to the company store. It was late when Cummins returned home. Mélisse was still up. He looked at her sharply over his shoulder as he hung up his coat and hat. "Has anything come between you and Jan?" he asked suddenly. "Why have you been crying?" "Sometimes the tears come when I am playing the violin, father. I know of nothing that has come between Jan and me, only I—I don't understand—" She stopped, struggling hard to keep back the sobs that were trembling in her throat. "Neither do I understand," exclaimed the factor, going to the stove to light his pipe. "He gave me his resignation as a paid servant of the company tonight!" "He is not going—to leave—the post?" breathed Mélisse. "He is leaving the service," reiterated her father. "That means he can not long live at Lac Bain. He says he is going into the woods, perhaps into Jean's country of the Athabasca. Has he told you more?" "Nothing," said Mélisse. She was upon her knees in front of the little bookcase. A blinding film burned in her eyes. She caught her breath, struggling hard to master herself before she faced her father again. For a moment the factor went into his room, and she took this opportunity of slipping into her own, calling "Good night" to him from the partly closed door. The next day it was Croisset who went along the edge of the Barrens for meat. Gravois found Jan filling a new shoulder-pack with supplies. It was their first encounter since he had learned that Jan had given up the service. "Diable!" he fairly hissed, standing over him as he packed his flour and salt in a rubber bag. "Diable, I say, M. Jan Thoreau!" Jan looked up, smiling, to see the little Frenchman fairly quivering with rage. "Bon jour, M. Jean de Gravois!" he laughed back. "You see I am going out among the foxes." "The devils!" snapped Jean. "No, the foxes, my dear Jean. I am tired of the post. I can make better wage for my time in the swamps to the west. Think of it, Jean! It has been many years since you have trapped there, and the foxes must be eating up the country!" Jean's thin lips were almost snarling. "Blessed saints, and it was I who—" He spun upon his heels without another word, and went straight to Mélisse. "Jan Thoreau is going to leave the post," he announced fiercely, throwing out his chest and glaring at her accusingly. "So father has told me," said Mélisse. Her cheeks were colorless, and there were purplish lines under her eyes, but she spoke with exceeding calmness. "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Jean, whirling again, "you take it coolly!" A little later Mélisse saw Jan coming from the store. When he entered the cabin his dark face betrayed the strain under which he was laboring, but his voice was unnaturally calm. "I have come to say good-by, Mélisse," he said. "I am going to prospect for a good trap-line among the Barrens." "I hope you will have good luck, Jan." In her voice, too, was a firmness almost metallic. For the first time in his life Jan held out his hand to her. She started, and for an instant the blood surged from her heart to her face. Then she gave him her own and looked him squarely and unflinchingly in the eyes. "Will you wait a moment?" she asked. She hurried into her room, and scarcely had she gone before she reappeared again, this time with a flush burning in her cheeks and her eyes shining brightly. She had unbraided her hair, and it lay coiled upon the crown of her head, glistening with crimson sprigs of bakneesh. She came to him a second time, and once more gave him her hand. "I don't suppose you care now," she said coldly, and yet laughing in his face. "I have not broken my promise. It was silly, wasn't it?" He felt as if his blood had been suddenly chilled to water, and he fought to choke back the thick throbbing in his throat. "You promised—" He could not go further. "I promised that I would not do up my hair again until you had forgotten to love me," she finished for him. "I will do it up now." He bowed his head, and she could see his shoulders quiver under their thick caribou coat. Her tense lips parted, and she raised her arms as if on the point of stretching them out to him; but his voice came evenly, without a quiver, yet filled with the dispassionate truth of what he spoke. "I have not forgotten to love you, Mélisse. I shall never cease to love my little sister. But you are older now, and it is time for you to do up your hair." He turned, without looking at her again, leaving her standing with her arms still half stretched out to him, and went from the cabin. "Good-by, Jan!" The words fell in a sobbing whisper from her, but he had gone too far to hear. Through the window she saw him shake hands with Cummins in front of the company's store. She watched him as he went to the cabin of Iowaka and Jean. Then she saw him shoulder his pack, and, with bowed head, disappear slowly into the depths of the black spruce forest. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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