Kate's Narrative

Mr. Eure inspected the woods and water-power, then departed for the coast, secretly to buy timber limits, avowedly to find a nurse and a doctor.

Mr. Tom Faulkner, his engineer, surveyed, then let contracts for temporary snow road, log buildings at the falls, and a telegraph line which would secure our business from being known at Polly's post-office.

Mr. Dale reopened the Sky-line mines, pending my arrangement with the owners.

Mr. Surly Brown placed a cable and built a scow in readiness to renew his ferry business.

Mr. Tearful George placed loads of forage a day's march apart across the forest, then drifted live stock into Jesse's ranch.

Father Jared sought out young gentlemen to be trained at Jesse's "School of Colonial Instruction."

Mr. William O'Flynn became bartender, despatch rider, stable man, general adviser, and commander-in-chief at the Hundred.

A bewildered Chinaman, with a yellow smile, cooked, scrubbed, chattered pidgin-English, and burned incense to Joss in the kitchen.

And I, Kate, was busy nursing and keeping house, with never a moment to spare for the specters which thronged our forest. After the snow road diverted traffic, my one visitor was Pete Mathson, who on Saturdays climbed the long hill for his rations. When my patient was well enough, he would talk with "Bolt" Taylor about old times in the gold mines, or on the high technic of pack-train harness, above the comprehension of a woman.

Until the nurse came I was with my patient always, and slept in the same close room. On her arrival—how I envied that pretty uniform—Nurse Panton proceeded to set us all to rights. She was a colorless creature, supported by routine as by a corset, and Billy informed me that she needed to be shocked thoroughly. He told her that the patient, being a sailor, wanted the nursing done shipshape and Bristol fashion. Nurse and I were to have each four hours on and four off, with two dog or half watches, which would daily reverse the order, so giving us the middle watch by turns. Nurse was indignant at the very idea, and finding me on Billy's side, protested to the captain. "Capital!" said he, delighted at any chance of shaking up the long monotony of illness. "You'll strike the bells as we do at sea," he said, "two for each hour."

Of course the first of the nursing ten commandments is, "Pretend to agree with the patient;" but then the naval officer, if he missed his bells, would awake with horrible deep-sea oaths, and "Stop her grog," so that she got no tea except by obedience.

Whether relieved at midnight or at four A. M. I would put on my furs for a little prowl outdoors. To leave the house when it was forty degrees below zero, felt like the plunge into an icy bath, but gave the same refreshment afterward. And it was good to watch the ghostly dances of the northern lights fill the whole sky with music visible.

Once setting out on such an excursion I traversed the dining-hall, entered the dark barroom, and opened the inner door which gave upon the porch. But this time I could not push the storm door open. Something resisted, something outside thrusting at the panels, something alive. I fell back against the bar, imagining bears, burglars, bogies, anything, while I listened, afraid to breathe.

It was then I heard a voice, a girlish voice outside in the Arctic cold, chanting in singsong recitation as though at school:

"Bruce, Bruce; Huron, Desoronto; Chatham Cayuga; Guelph—not Guelph—oh, what comes after Cayuga?" Then feeble hands battered against the door, "Teacher! Teacher!"

But when I opened the door, the girl stepped back afraid.

"You're not the teacher," she said; "oh, tell me before she comes. Sixty-six counties and the towns have all got mixed."

"Come in and let me tell you."

"I daren't! I daren't! You're not the teacher. This is not the school. You'll take me back!"

She turned, trying to run away, but her legs seemed wooden, and she slid about as though she were wearing clogs.

"I won't," she screamed, "I won't go back!" Then she fell.

"Dear child, you shan't go back."

But still she shrank from me. "Oh, leave me alone!" she pleaded.

"Mayn't I give you some tea?"

"You won't take me back to Spite House?"

"Not to that dreadful place."

"Do you keep girls, too?"

"There's only a nurse, and a poor dying man."

"And you'll hear me the counties of Ontario?"

"Why, yes, dear."

"I'll come then," but as she tried to get up, "it's cramp," she moaned.

"Dear child, you're freezing."

"I'm not cold, it's cramp."

She must have fallen through the snow which covered our water-hole, for she was literally incased in ice up to the breasts.

Finding I had not strength to carry her, I shouted for the nurse, who roused Billy, and then the Chinaman. Together we carried her indoors, gave her brandy, and laid her, dressed as she was, in Captain Taylor's bath. Then while Billy rode hard for a doctor, nurse and I filled the bath with freezing water, which for eight hours we kept renewed with ice. Drawn gently from her body, the frost formed a film of ice upon the surface, but she assured me that she felt quite warm, without the slightest pain. To sustain her I gave liquid food at intervals, and quite clear now in her mind, even cheerfully she trusted me with her story.

She told me of a village among vineyards, overlooking Lake Ontario, just where a creek comes tumbling down from the Niagara heights. Her father, a retired minister, wasted his narrow means in trying to raise the proper grapes for sacramental wine. Mother was dead, and nine small children had to be fed and clothed, to appear with decency at church and school, so that they would not be ashamed among the neighbors. "You see," she added primly, "I'm the eldest, the only one grown up, so, of course, I couldn't be spared to stay at college." And there was little to earn in the village, much to do taking a mother's place.

Then Uncle John found an advertisement in the paper. A governess was wanted for four children somewhere in British Columbia. The wages were so generous that there would be enough to spare for helping father. It meant so much of proper food, and good warm clothing for the younger children. So references were exchanged with Mr. Brooke, who wrote most charming letters, and Uncle John lent money for the journey. My little schoolma'am pursed her lips severely over that loan, which must be repaid by instalments. Then her eyes shone with tears, and her face quivered, all the scholastic manner quite gone, for she spoke of the sad parting with everybody she loved, then of the long nights, the lonely days of that endless journey across the continent.

Mr. Brooke met Jenny at Ashcroft, and took her by sleigh nearly a hundred miles, getting more and more familiar and horrid until, in a state of wild fear of him, she ran for safety into a drunken riot at Spite House. The waitresses were rude and cruel, Polly lay drunk on the floor. There were no children.

Afterward I learned from Mr. Eure that I was a prejudiced witness, without a shred of evidence, that no court would listen to hearsay, and that the dying girl's confession would not be allowed in court except it were made under oath before a magistrate. Poor Jenny would never have told any man what happened at Spite House; she would not have given the last sane moments of her life to vengeance; and so there was no case against either Brooke or Polly in a crime which had earned them penal servitude.

Vengeance? I think our prayers together did more good, and when the time came for Jenny's removal to a bed of lint soaked in carbolic oil, she was prepared to face the coming pain.

"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 relationship 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 asset 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 pass?"

"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 pass 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.

"Not that I claim," he went on, "that Spite House is anyways holy. It's not. Of course, a sporting and gambling joint meets a demand, a regrettable demand, a thing we both abhor and would like to be shut of. But since demand creates the supply, let's have it in high-toned style, not run by thugs. That's what I say."

His spacious benevolence seemed to confer partnership, yet to be shocked at my immoral tendencies.

"However," he sighed, "it's over. It's done with, shoved aside. There was money in it, but small money, and we pass on. Old Taylor may have told you that as far back as November we decided, Mrs. Smith and me, to run the house as a first-class resort for tourists. We bought the Star Pack-train from Taylor, and the old cargador is making our new riggings."

This was news indeed!

"Of course pack-trains as such are out of date as Noah's ark, and we've got to march with the procession. You'll see in this prospectus," he held out a paper, "well, I'll read it. Let's see—yes—'Forest Lodge, long under the able management of Mrs. Jesse Smith, with great experience in' * * * no, it's further on—'Forest Lodge is the natural center for parties viewing the wondrous wilds.' That should grip them, eh? 'Experienced guides with pack and saddle animals from the famous Star atajo,' we can't call them mules, of course, 'will escort parties visiting the sceneries and hunting grounds of the Coast Range, the Cariboo, the Omenica, the Babine, and the Cassiar.' That ought to splash!"

Billy had warned me of bad characters settled on the lands toward Jesse's ranch. Were these Brooke's "experienced guides"?

"Naturally," Brooke folded his prospectus, "the sporting trade had to be closed right down before the tourist connection took a hold. Millionaire sportsmen out to spend their dollars, expect to find things just so. They want recherchÉ meals, and unique decorations, real champagne wine, and everything 'imported' even when it's made on the spot. They don't make no hurroar over losing a few thousands at cards, but they just ain't going to stand seeing Polly laying around drunk on the barroom floor. I tell you when they comes I ain't going to have Polly around my place. That's straight. She'll get her marching orders P. D. Q."

So Polly was next for betrayal.

"Yes." Brooke became very confidential. "What I require at Forest Lodge is a real society hostess, a lady. Yes, that's what's the matter—a lady. Now that's what I come about. Ever since I seen you Mrs., I mean madam, I mean—"

He became quite diffident, leaving the doorway, leaning over the counter.

"Would you—" he began, "would you be prepared, ma'am, to—"

My way was clear, and I ran.

It often seemed to me that Jesse's life and mine were veiled in some strange glamour of a directed fate. Little by little, in ever so slow degrees this mist was lifting, and I began to feel that soon the air would clear, giving us back to blessed commonplace. Through no act of mine, but by Brooke's incompetence, the prosperous business of Spite House had been brought to ruin.[A] Polly was drinking herself to death, and presently would find herself betrayed by that same callous treachery which had wrought such havoc in my dear man's life and mine.

Billy had held these last few weeks that Polly's funds were gone, that she was penniless. He begged me to let him destroy the great sign-board across the road to Spite House. Failure to renew that would indeed be conclusive proof of the woman's penury, but the meanness of such a test revolted me, for one does not strike a fallen adversary.

Were there any funds to promote black pines and mosquitoes as an attraction to millionaires? Brooke in his folly had divulged that foolish scheme, sufficient to complete the ruin of a poor wretched woman, before he abandoned her interests to seek his own. Was it true? I went straight to Captain Taylor.

For a week past my refractory patient had insisted upon living entirely upon cheese, a seemingly fatal diet, which to confess the truth had done him a world of good. Save for the loss of his sight he was quite his dear old self and glad of a gossip.

"Yes, Kate," he chuckled, "the murder's out at last. You see I'm not exactly prosperous, and my retired pay is a drop in my bucket of debts. And then our good friend Polly invested all her wealth in buying up the mortgage on this ranch."

"But why?"

"For fun. For the pleasure of turning me out. She kindly granted me permission to sleep in that old barrel which used to belong to my fox, but then you see I really couldn't be under any obligations to the lady."

"Did you pay off the mortgage?"

"I did. So Polly strums rag-time tunes on my piano, Brooke wears my early Victorian frock coat, they serve their beans and bacon with my family plate, the gentleman sports my crest, the lady has my dear mother's diamonds which are really paste. My dear, they're county society—you really must call and leave cards."

"But the portraits!"

"They stared at me so rudely that I burnt them. Ancestors ought to remember they're dead, and they'd rather be burned, too, than be claimed as Polly's aunts."

"And the Star Pack-train?"

"A half-interest, my dear, a half-interest, that's all."

"So you're in partnership?"

"Why, no. Fact is, old Pete has been working thirty-five years, with his faithful eyes shining behind that hair—it's silver now, eh? Well, I couldn't leave him in the lurch. And there's the Hudson's Bay to consider, with forts up north depending on us for supplies. And I suppose, when I come to think of it, I'm rather proud of the outfit. So, in my sentimental way, I made a deed by which Pete is managing owner, with a half-interest, while Polly is sleeping partner with no right to interfere."

"You've told Pete?"

"No. I suppose I've got to own up?"

"You don't want Pete to be cheated by his partners."

"You're right. Just open my desk and look inside. It's the paper on top."

I found and read the deed.

"You've read it, of course," I said.

"It was read to me by the lawyer chap. Isn't it all right?"

"Oh, yes," I managed to say, "it's all right—such funny legal jargon."

I looked at the names of the witnesses, Cultus McTavish and Low-lived Joe, the worst characters in our district. The document read to the old blind man had been no doubt destroyed. The deed actually signed made Polly sole owner of the famous pack-train. My friend had been cheated.