Part 2 (1/2)
Often he stood in the door of the factory and looked to where the women sang at their work or carried the s.h.i.+ning pails full of water from the one deep well of the settlement, situated near the gate in the eastern wall, and the smiles were ever ready in his blue eyes.
A handsome man was this factor of Fort de Seviere, tall and well formed, with that grace of carriage which speaks of perfect manhood; his head, covered with a thick growth of sun-coloured hair curling lightly at the ends, tossed ever back, ready to laugh. Scottish blood, mingled with a strong Irish strain, ran riot in him, giving him at once both love of life and honour.
They had known what they were doing, those lords of the H. B. Company, when they had sent this young adventurer from Fenchurch Street to the new continent, and, after five years among the hards.h.i.+ps of the trade, he found himself factor of Fort de Seviere,--lord of his little world, even though that world were but one tiny finger of the great system spreading itself like a stretching hand outward from the sh.o.r.es of the Bay to that interior whose fringed skirts alone had been explored.
A high station it was for so young a man, for his twenties were not yet behind him, and the pride of his heart, its holding.
Therefore, life was a living wine to Anders McElroy, and the small world of his post a kingdom. And into it, with that travel-tired band of venturers from Rainy Lake, had pa.s.sed a princess.
Not yet did he know this,--not for many days, in which he looked from the factory door among the women, singling out one who wore no brilliant garment, yet whose s.h.i.+ning head drew the eyes of the men like a magnet.
Slowly speech grew among them, very slowly, as if something held back the usual comment of the trappers, concerning this Maren Le Moyne.
”Look you, Pierre,” ventured Marc Dupre to Pierre Garcon, as they beached their canoe one dusk after a short trip up the river; ”yonder is the young woman of the strong arm. A high head, and eyes like a thunderous night,--Eh? Is there love, think you, asleep anywhere within her?”
Whereat Pierre glanced aside under his cap to where Maren hauled up the bucket from the well, hand over hand, with the muscles slipping under her tawny skin like whipcords.
”Nom de Dieu!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Pierre under his breath; ”if there is, I would not be the one to awaken it and not be found its master! It would be a thing of flame and fury.”
”Ah!” laughed the other, ”but I would. It would be, past all chance, a thing to remember, howe'er it went! But it is not like that you or I will be the one to wake it. Milady, though clad in seeming poverty, fixes those disdainful eyes upon the clouds.”
CHAPTER III NEW HOMES
The work of raising the new cabins went forward merrily. Every one lent a hand, and by the end of May the new families were installed and living happily. In that last house near the northeast corner of the post dwelt Henri and Marie Baptiste and Maren Le Moyne.
A goodly place it was, divided into two rooms and already the hands of the two sisters had fas.h.i.+oned of such scant things as they possessed and dared buy from the factory on the year's debt, a semblance of comfort.
In the other cabins the rest of the party managed to double, each family taking one of the two rooms in each, and the women at least drew a sigh of content that the long trail had at last found an end, however unstable of tenure.
”Ah, Maren,” said Marie Baptiste, sitting on the s.h.i.+ning new log step of her domicile, ”what it is to have a home! Does it not clutch at your heart sometimes, ma cherie, the desire for a home, and that which goes with it, the love of a man?”
She raised her eyes to the face of Maren leaning above her against the lintel, and they were full of a puzzled question.
Maren answered the look with a swift smile, toying lightly with a fold of the faded sleeve rolled above her elbow.
”Home for me, Marie, is the wide blue sky above, the wind in the tossing trees, the ripple of soft waters on the bow of a canoe. For me,--I grieve that we have stopped. Not this year do we reach the Land of the Whispering Hills.”
A swift change had fallen into the depth of her golden voice, a subtle wistfulness that sang with weird pathos, and the eyes raised toward the western rim of the forest were suddenly far and sombre.
”Forgive!” said her sister gently; ”I had forgot. I know the dream, but is it not better that we rest and gain new strength for another season?
Here might well be home, here on this pretty river. We have come a mighty length already. What could be fairer, cherie,--even though we leave another to win to the untracked West.”
A small spasm drew across the features of Maren, a twitching of the full lips.
”Faint heart of you,” she said sadly. ”Oh, Marie, 'tis your voice has ever held us back. They would prod faster but for you. Is there no glory within you, no daring, no dreams of conquest? Bien! But I could go alone. This dallying stiffles the breath in me!”
She put up a hand and tore open the garment at her throat, taking a deep breath of the sunlit air.