Part 10 (1/2)

Whereon Maren pa.s.sed, out the open door and the tongues began again, more carefully.

In the distance there flashed a crimson skirt at whose beaded edge there hung a great grey dog, his heavy head waist-high to the little maid who wore it.

CHAPTER VIII FIRST DAWN

Throughout the week that followed Fort de Seviere was gay with the bustle of trading. Packs of furs went up the main way and loads of merchandise went down, carried on the backs of the braves, guns and blankets and many a foot of Spencer's Twist at one beaver a foot, powder and b.a.l.l.s in buckskin bags, and all the things of heart's desire that had brought the a.s.siniboines from the forks of the Saskatchewan.

Kept close to the factory by the bartering, McElroy and Ridgar and the two clerks hardly saw the blue spring sky, nor caught a breath of the scented air of the spring. Within the forest the Saskatoon was blooming and the blueberry bushes were tossing soft heads of foam, while many a tree of the big woods gave forth a breath of spice. It came in at the door and the young factor raised his head many times a day to drink its sweetness in a sort of wistfulness. At dusk he stood on the sill, released from the trade, and looked over his settlement as was his habit, and ever his eyes strayed to that new cabin at the far end, of the northern row.

What was she thinking, that dark-browed girl with the deep eyes that changed as the waters of a lake with each breath of wind, of him and the blundering gift he had carried to her door? What had she done with it, and would he ever see it clinging to those splendid shoulders, falling over the rounded breast?

A feeling of warmth grew at his heart each day with thought of her, and when he saw her swinging down toward the well he felt the blood leap in his veins. The very s.h.i.+ne of the sun was different when it struck the tight black braids wrapped round her head.

Verily the little kingdom had brought forth its Princess.

And with her coming there was one heart that burned hot with pa.s.sion, that fas.h.i.+oned itself after the form of hatred, for little Francette had seen, first a glow in a man's eyes and then a gift in his hand, and she fingered a small, flat blade that hung in her sash with one hand, the while the other strayed on the head of Loup. Dark was the fire that played in her pretty eyes, heavy the anguish that rode her breast.

She hated the memory of that white garment spread out on Maren Le Moyne's bed.

”Tessa,” she said one day, sidling up to that Tessa Bibye who had cast a taunt in her teeth, ”know you the charm which that doctress of the Crees gave to Marci Varendree when she sickened for love of that half-breed, Tohi Stannard?”

”Oho!” cried Tessa gleefully, ”a man again! Who lacks one now, Francette?”

”Nay,” said Francette, ”but I know of one who sickens inwardly and I would give her the charm.”

”Go into the flats of the Beaver House after Marci and her Indian, whither they went,” Tessa laughed. ”I know not the charm. But it was good, for she got him, and went to the wilds with him. Follow and learn, Francette.”

But Francette, with a gesture of disgust, turned away.

The warm spring days pa.s.sed in a riot of song from the depths outside the post, the a.s.siniboine rippled and whispered along its sh.o.r.es and over the illimitable stretches of the wilderness there hung the very spirit of the mating-time.

Within the stockade, mothers sat in the doors crooning to the babes that clutched at the sunbeams, dogs slept in the cool shadows of the cabins, and here and there a youth sang a s.n.a.t.c.h of a love song.

”Verily, Marie, it is good to be here,” sighed Micene Bordoux, sitting on her sill with her capable arms folded on her knees, and her eyes, cool and sane and tolerant, roving over the settlement lolling so quietly in the sun. ”After the trail the rest is good, and yet I will be eager long before the year has pa.s.sed to follow Maren,--may Mary give her grace!--into that wilderness which so draws at her heartstrings.”

”Oh, Micene!” cried Marie, a trifle vexed, ”if only she might forget her dreams! What is it like, the heart of a maid, that turns from thought of love to that of these wild lands, to the mystery of the Whispering Hills that lie, the good G.o.d knows where, in that dim and untracked West! I would that Maren might love! Then would we have peace and stop forever at this pleasant place.”

Good Micene, with her brave heart and her whole-souled sense, smiled at Marie.

”Love,” she said,--”and think you THAT could turn that exalted spirit from its quest? Still the stir of conquest within her bosom, hush the call of that glorious country which we know from rumor, and plain hearsay lies at the heart of the Athabasca?

”Little do you know Maren, Marie, though the same mother gave you birth.

There is naught that could turn the maid, and I love her for it. It is that undaunted faith, that steadfast purpose, that white fire in her face which holds at her heels the whole of us, that turns to her the faces of our men, as those legions of France turned to the Holy Maid.

Love? She would turn not for it if she could not take it with her.”

Micene looked off across the cabins, and there was a warm light in her eyes.

”Nay, Marie,” she said, ”make ready for the trail the coming spring, for we will surely go.”