Part 20 (2/2)
”It was terrible for me--even as a child. I said that I could never forgive, but when his mother died, blessing me, I did. Then there came something else.”
”You saw him, there amie?”
”I saw him--so changed, so quiet, so much older--all grey at the temples. At first I lived here that I might get used to the thought of the thing--to learn to bear it; and afterwards that I might learn--” She paused, looking in half-doubt at Pierre.
”It is safe; I am silent,” he said.
”That I might learn to bear--him,” she continued.
”Is he still--” Pierre paused.
She spoke up quickly. ”Oh no, he has been free two years.”
”Where is he now?”
”I don't know.” She waited for a minute, then said again, ”I don't know.
When he was free, he came to me, but I--I could not. He thought, too, that because he had been in gaol, that I wouldn't--be his wife. He didn't think enough of himself, he didn't urge anything. And I wasn't ready--no--no--no--how could I be! I didn't care so much about the gaol, but he had killed John Marcey. The gaol--what was that to me! There was no real shame in it unless he had done a mean thing. He had been wicked--not mean. Killing is awful, but not shameful. Think--the difference--if he had been a thief!”
Pierre nodded. ”Then some one should have killed him!” he said. ”Well, after?”
”After--after--ah, he went away for a year. Then he came back; but no, I was always thinking of that night I walked behind John Marcey's body to the Fort. So he went away again, and we came here, and here we have lived.”
”He has not come here?”
”No; once from the far north he sent me a letter by an Indian, saying that he was going with a half-breed to search for a hunting party, an English gentleman and two men who were lost. The name of one of the men was Brickney.”
Pierre stopped short in a long whiffing of smoke. ”Holy!” he said, ”that thief Brickney again. He would steal the broad road to h.e.l.l if he could carry it. He once stole the quarters from a dead man's eyes. Mon Dieu!
to save Brickney's life, the courage to do that--like sticking your face in the mire and eating!--But, pshaw!--go on, p't.i.te Lucille.”
”There is no more. I never heard again.”
”How long was that ago?”
”Nine months or more.”
”Nothing has been heard of any of them?”
”Nothing at all. The Englishman belonged to the Hudson's Bay Company, but they have heard nothing down here at Fort Ste. Anne.”
”If he saves the Company's man, that will make up the man he lost for them, eh--you think that, eh?” Pierre's eyes had a curious ironical light.
”I do not care for the Company,” she said. ”John Marcey's life was his own.”
”Good!” he added quickly, and his eyes admired her. ”That is the thing.
Then, do not forget that Marcey took his life in his hands himself, that he would have killed Laforce if Laforce hadn't killed him.”
”I know, I know,” she said, ”but I should have felt the same if John Marcey had killed Stroke Laforce.”
”It is a pity to throw your life away,” he ventured. He said this for a purpose. He did not think she was throwing it away.
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