Part 14 (2/2)
The girl spoke rapidly, with her eyes upon the face of MacNair. So absorbed was she that she did not see the slim fingers of Lapierre steal softly across the table-top and extract two tablets from the little pile--failed also to see the swift motion with which those fingers dropped the tablets into a porcelain cup, across the rim of which rested a silver spoon.
The man arose at the conclusion of her words, and crossing to her side rested a slim hand upon the back of her chair. ”No. Miss Elliston,”
he said gently, ”I am not to blame nor, in a measure, are the others.
It is, as you say, the North--the crus.h.i.+ng, terrible, alluring North--in whose primitive creed a good man does not mean a moral one, but one who accomplishes his purpose, even though that purpose be bad.
End, and not means, is the ethics of the lean, lone land, where human life sinks into insignificance, beneath the immutable law of savage might.”
His eyes burned as he gazed down into the upturned face of the girl.
His hands stole lightly from the chair back and rested upon her shoulder. For one long, intense moment, their eyes held, and then, with a movement as swift and lithe as the spring of a panther, the man was upon his knees beside her chair, his arms were about her, and with no thought of resistance, Chloe felt herself drawn close against his breast, felt the wild beating of his heart, and then--his lips were upon hers, and she felt herself struggling feebly against the embrace of the sinewy arms.
Only for a moment did Lapierre hold her. With a movement as sudden and impulsive as the movement that embraced her, the arms were withdrawn, and the man leaped swiftly to his feet. Too dazed to speak, Chloe sat motionless, her brain in a chaotic whirl of emotion, while in her breast outraged dignity and hot, fierce anger strove for the mastery over a thrill, so strange to her, so new, so intense that it stirred her to the innermost depths of her being.
Swiftly, unconsciously, her glance rested for a moment upon the lean, bearded face of MacNair; and beside her chair, Lapierre noted the glance, and the thin lips twisted into a smile--a cynical, sardonic smile, that faded on the instant, as his eyes flashed toward the doorway. For there, silent and grim as he had seen her once before, stood Big Lena, whose china-blue eyes were fixed upon him, in that same disconcerting, fishlike stare.
The hot blood mounted to his cheeks and suddenly receded, so that his face showed pallid and pasty in the gloom of the darkened room. He drew his hand uncertainly across his brow and found it damp with a cold, moist sweat. Was it fancy, or did the china-blue, fishlike eyes rest for just an instant upon the porcelain cup on the table? With an effort the man composed himself, and stooping, whispered a few hurried words into the ears of the girl who sat with her face buried in her hands.
”Forgive me, Miss Elliston; for the moment I forgot that I had no right. I love you! Love you more than life itself! More than my own life--or the lives of others. It was but the impulse of an unguarded moment that caused me to forget that I had not the right--forget that I am a gentleman. We love as we kill in the North. And now, good-by, I am going Southward. I will return, if it is within the power of man to return, before the ice skims the lakes and the rivers.”
He paused, but the girl remained as though she had not heard him. He leaned closer, his lips almost upon her ear. ”Please, Miss Elliston, can you not forgive me--wish me one last bon voyage?”
Slowly, as one in a dream, Chloe offered him her hand. ”Good-by!” she said simply, in a dull, toneless voice. The man seized the hand, pressed it lightly, and turning abruptly, crossed to the table. As he drew his Stetson toward him, its brim came into violent contact with the porcelain medicine cup. The cup crashed to the floor, its contents splas.h.i.+ng widely over the whip-sawed boards.
With a hurried word of apology he pa.s.sed out of the door--pa.s.sed close beside the form of Big Lena onto whose cold, fishlike eyes the black eyes stared insolently, even as the thin lips twisted into a smile--cynical, sardonic, mocking.
CHAPTER XII
A FIGHT IN THE NIGHT
The days immediately following Lapierre's departure were busy days for Chloe Elliston. The word had pa.s.sed along the lakes and the rivers, and stolid, sullen-faced Indians stole in from the scrub to gaze apathetically at the buildings on the banks of the Yellow Knife. Chloe with pain-staking repet.i.tion, through LeFroy as interpreter, explained to each the object of her school; with the result that a goodly number remained and lost no time in installing themselves in the commodious barracks.
On the evening of the second day the girl tiptoed into the sick-room and, bending over MacNair, was startled to encounter the steady gaze of the steel-grey eyes. ”I thought you never would come to,” she smiled.
”You see, I don't know much about surgery, and I was afraid perhaps--”
”Perhaps Lapierre had done his work well?”
Chloe started at the weak, almost gentle tones of the gruff voice she had learned to a.s.sociate with this man of the North. She flushed as she met the steady, disconcerting stare of the grey eyes. ”He shot on the spur of the moment. He thought you were going to shoot him.”
”And he shot from--far to the Southward?”
”Oh! You do not think--you do not believe that I deliberately _lied_ to you! That I _knew_ Lapierre was on Snare Lake!” The words fell from her lips with an intense eagerness that carried the ring of sincerity. The hard look faded from the man's eyes, and the bearded lips suggested just the shadow of a smile.
”No,” he answered weakly; ”I do not think that. But tell me, how long have I been this way? And what has happened? For I remember nothing--after the world turned black. I am surprised that Lapierre missed me. He has the reputation for killing--at his own range.”
”But he didn't miss you!” cried the girl in surprise. ”It was his bullet that--that made the world turn black.”
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