Part 32 (1/2)

”Shall I die?” she asked. I could only kiss her.

”Then,” she said, ”even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game.”

She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.

Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge, and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion--and release.

I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law, but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite House were treated as lepers until they left the country.

For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.

The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relations.h.i.+p with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further mischief.

Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me, but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and neither the nurse, the Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.

While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor, perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As a professional gambler, he wore long hair, mustache and imperial, broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid ”linen” and sham diamonds. To these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common, of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank, and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him something of charm, his only a.s.set in the place of manhood.

No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of showing any temper.

When I asked him to state his business, with a large gesture he claimed the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.

”You think I'm a villain?”

I made no comment.

”I've come to thank you, ma'am. If you'd pressed that girl's case it might have been well--awkward.”

I told him that had I known the law, I should have done my best to get him penal servitude for life.

”That's straight,” he answered indulgently, ”you always were clear grit, and that's why I want--well, ma'am,” he lowered his eyes, ”I'm going to confess. You don't mind?” he added.

My eyes betrayed my one desire, escape, but he stood in the doorway leading to the house.

”Your presence,” I said, ”is distasteful. Please, will you let me pa.s.s?”

”Not till I've set things straight.”

There was no bell with which to summon help, and I should have been ashamed to make a scene.

”Go on,” I said.

”I dunno how you feel, mum, about life. I've been disappointed, starting in with ideals, and they're gone. I'm as straight as the world will let me, without my going hungry.”

Let me here quote one of Jesse's letters to his mother. ”This Brooke and I grew our beef and matured our horns on the same strong pasture, but where a homely face kept me out of temptation, he had what you call beauty, and I'd call vanity. Instead of trying to _be_, he aimed to act.

He'd play cow-boy, or robber, or gambler, things he could never _be_, because he's not a man. He could wear the clothes, the manners, the talk, and pa.s.s himself off for real. The women who petted him sank and were left in the lurch. The men who trusted him were shot and hanged.

That made him lonesome, gave him the melancholy past, the romantic air, the charm--all stock in trade. Long hair costs nothing, he pays no dog tax, but life is too rich for his blood, and in the end he'll die of it like Judas. Say, mother, wasn't there a Mrs. Judas Iscariot? She must have been a busy woman to judge by the size of the Iscariot family.”

”Yes,” Brooke sighed, ”I'm a disillusioned, disappointed man.”

I had a curious sense that this actor of life was trying to be real, and in the attempt he posed.