CHAPTER II

THE LIFE OBJECT

'Say, Dave!'

The Captain turned his head slowly, then drew the short stone pipe from his mouth.

'Hustle over here.'

Dave came leisurely across the grass space.

'When are you getting, Dave?'

'Morrow; noon,' came the brief reply.

'Call it day after, and I'll come,' said the Factor.

The Captain looked surprised. 'How'll you manage, Alf?'

'Don't tell you everything, Davey. I've got my leave all right. Justin can fix things while I'm away. Goldam! it's time I had a bit of a rip up.'

'Well, I can't do it, Alf.'

'You can, Dave. Just think a while. You're on good time this trip. A day this way or that won't go for anything. I'll fix it up for you, Dave. The skins weren't quite ready to be shipped; the darned old boat wanted some pitch on her side--scraped her over a sunk rock, you know, Dave. Lots of easy lies, if you like to make them. I can fix five first-classers while you're thinking out one hoodoo, Dave.'

'You can't by a jugful,'said the Captain, hotly. 'I've more practice than you, Alf. There's generally something to reckon for, end of the trip. Tell you, it strains a fellow's invention pretty hard sometimes.'

'See here, Dave. Early morning, Thursday, we start south.'

'Suppose it wouldn't make such a lot of difference, anyway.'

'Course it won't. You don't get me for a passenger every trip, Dave.'

'That's so. There'll be another beside you, though.'

'Who? There's nobody round here, far as I know.'

'Someone's going all the same. She's under my protection, too.'

'She! it's never Menotah?

Dave nodded. 'Mrs Spencer that's going to be.'

'You're fooling, Dave. She hasn't got the stuff to pay her passage.'

'We've fixed that. Tell you, I'm looking after her.'

'But she's not going to hitch on with you?'

'That's what,' said the Captain, stolidly. She's been after me for a long time. Reckon she's caught me at last.' He sighed with an air of resignation.

McAuliffe burst into a lusty laugh and slapped his knee repeatedly. Then his great face suddenly grew grave, as he thought on the darker side of the picture. What could have induced the heart-stricken girl to a promise of marriage with the ugly little Captain? Perhaps she had lost all sense and reason, poor girl. Then he said, 'Tell how you managed it, Dave.'

'This way,' said the Captain, nothing loth. 'I was fooling round by the boat, watching the boys loading her up, when Menotah comes round to me all of a sudden, and asked if I'd take her across lake. She couldn't pay for the passage, but she did her beautiest to make me say I'd agree.'

'Well! well!'

''Course I hopped at the chance. Said I, see here, Menotah, you want me to take you south. Just say you'll splice with me, and I'll put you across the lake many times as you like.'

'What did she say?'

'Fairly corked me, I tell you. Didn't think, or stop a minute, but just said yes at once. Made me promise I wasn't to come round her, till she'd done some job or other down Garry way. But say, Alf, what's come over her? Her eyes are like a couple of chunks of ice, while there's never a smile to be seen on her face. She's a darned pretty gal yet, all right. Queer things gals, ain't they, Alf? There's no understanding them. Guess she's been after me all this time. Well, well, she's caught me now, so I reckon she ought to be happy.'

The Factor was deep in thought. 'You wouldn't take her across, 'cept she promised to be your wife, eh?' he said slowly.

'You wouldn't want a fellow to lose a good chance, would you?'

'Well, Dave, if you want my opinion, I'll give it you straight. I call it a sort of mean trick to serve the gal. I know her better than you do, mind. She's got some scheme in her brain. It's a thing she's dead set on, and when it's done, she'll likely drop you. You mark me, lad.'

'She won't marry me, eh? See here, Alf, you don't know the first darned thing about it. I tell you, I'll make her.'

'And that'll be a tough sort of job. You'll find Menotah isn't the sort of gal to stand making. Bet you what you like you don't marry her, Dave.'

'You're getting cranky,' muttered the Captain. 'It's no business of yours, anyway. I'm going to marry my gal. If I reckon she's not going to stay by her word, I won't take her across. She don't play any of her women's tricks on me.'

McAuliffe laughed. 'I'll get even with you there, Dave. Derned if I won't pay her passage myself. You'll have to take her then. How's that, lad?'

At this decided cheek, the angry Captain moved off and made toward the stage, muttering diatribes against men who interested themselves overmuch in the affairs of others. Finally he found relief to his feelings by kicking an Indian, who had taken advantage of the Captain's absence to get a comfortable siesta in the shade.

From beneath heavy eyebrows McAuliffe watched the retreating figure with low chuckles. He enjoyed getting the better of Dave. Yet in the kind heart, which beat beneath a very rugged exterior, there lurked a secret and real pity for the broken girl, once the sunshine of that land, now the emblem of its misery. From long contact with the natives of his district he had learnt much of their religion. He knew with them vengeance was not merely a gratification of passion, but a duty which might not be neglected. He shrewdly guessed that Menotah possessed some secret design against the life of the man who had professed for her such love, who had yet cast her aside and gone back to the world, heedless of the misery he had created.

McAuliffe was right. Dave had also spoken truly. It was Menotah's intention to cross the lake, and that she might obtain her wish, she had consented to marry the Captain of the boat.

For the desolate girl had concluded that it was time to discharge the last duty of a short life. Then, and not till then, she had a right to release the breath, and return to the Manitou, that hazy land of the Beyond, where her father dwelt. There, if she first obeyed the will of the god, the heart might find its peace.

Those long past months of winter and early summer had been charged with the fulness of horror and loneliness. As she lived for an object, so mind and body strength never entirely forsook her. For herself she cared not, nor for happiness of others. But she only struggled on beneath the overwhelming weight of life, until the time should come when the spirit called to the sombre duty of fate.

To her, in that misery, day and night, sunshine and storm, were alike. What mattered it whether the ground was flower vested, or mantled with snow? There was no difference in the touch to her bare feet. Whether the trees were joyful in summer, or black with winter? The picture of Nature was unchanging to those eyes. Whether faces surrounding her were kind or stern? The heart had done with the idle phantasy of affection. Each day dragged its hours away, detail with that preceding, to be replaced by another equally lengthy, not less dreary. Environment partook of the nature of a constant hallucination. As there was little life within, there could be but slight animation in surroundings. When she had been happy, her light-heartedness found novelty in things that had in themselves no real change. Now that she was so deeply sunk in the slough of despair, the shifting moods of others expressed always the same, the monotonous sentiment--hatred of herself. For she had cut herself apart from the people of her name by a forbidden alliance. By her own selfish act she had drawn disgrace upon the tribe.

The birth of her child, though it brought another pang of torture, proved perhaps the means of preserving reason. Maternity was detestable, yet it carried responsibilities which might not be neglected. Bitterly she reflected that here was another creature born to despair and misery. Surely it would be better for this smiling boy to die, and know not the horror of living. But when the tiny voice was first lifted in unconscious appeal for nurture, resentment perished beneath the sudden passion of early motherhood. What if the father was villain and traitor? Here was at least a portion of her own body, flesh of her flesh. The child should learn the name of mother, but never that of father. It should love the one parent and hate the other. Often she dimly reflected as the infant lay, breathing softly in healthy sleep, upon her knees, knowing not that he was the child of misery and the son of a broken heart. And such were her thoughts: Ah! if I might only live to bring this boy up to manhood and teach him the lesson of his life. Then should one appear far greater than Riel, one who would gather together the sons of the Ancient Race from the four winds, from the ice ocean to the count of the wind, who would swoop, like the Spirit of the Storm, across the land, from lake to forest, from rock-land to prairie. Then, with his justice and his might, he would blot the white traitors from the plains which were not theirs, he would drive them from the wide fields they had wrongly stolen from others. Then the country would come back again to its own children, and there would be joy at the heart of all.

But, at length, she felt within her that hot flame which warned her of duty. Then appeared the black boat upon the river. It but remained to secure passage in her across the Great Water. Dave was repulsive and hateful, yet she gave ready consent to his demands. No obstacle could be allowed to stand in her path at that stage. 'When I have finished my work, I will again think of joining myself to a man,' she had spoken bitterly, as she turned back to the dreary hut.

Before that long journey to the south, one detail of the plan required attention. So, on that evening when Dave and the Factor had a difference of opinion regarding herself, she turned her heavy footsteps toward that place where she knew the old Antoine might be found. Very feeble was her mentor now. Outside the door of his hut he crouched in the last sunshine, the nodding head leaning against his staff, quivering hands tapping feebly on skeleton knees, bleared eyes deeply sunken, ears uncertain of sound. To any passing along that silent pathway he might have appeared as a very personification of grim sorrow. To the grief-stricken woman he was fit emblem of the vengeance she sought, worthy representative of the evil one himself.

With the child resting upon her back within the blanket, she came and laid a hand upon the Ancient's shoulder. He peered up with dreary eyes and would have forced a smile into the long wrinkles of his shrunken countenance.

'So, child; you have come.' Such was his greeting.

'For the last time, old Father. To seek one more service, then to trouble you no more.'

'It is no pain to succour those we love. The life fades from my body, yet the warm love remains still within. Sit at my feet, child, as you were wont to do. Tell me what it is you desire.'

She did so, yet in the motion a soft fluffy head brushed the old man's knee. A shudder convulsed him, as he endeavoured to drag the stiff limbs from the hateful contact. Feebly and vengefully he cried, 'Take that away, child! Why have you brought him here to torment my eyes?'

Not a muscle of the girl's face moved. 'I forgot,' she said coldly.

Then she arranged the blanket at the foot of a tall pine, wrapped up the child in it, and returned.

The Ancient spoke. 'Daughter, I know the matter on which you would speak. Make speed with the work, for my body strength has gone. I would wish to see the end, so may I tell all to your father in the joy land. Memory is now a faint shadow of the past. Yet will I speak on those things I may see dimly with the mind. A white man has destroyed your heart, my daughter; he has betrayed you; he has left you to the death misery. You would have punishment brought upon that man. Is it not so, my daughter?'

'It is so, old Father,' came the stern reply.

'Methinks there is still a faint shadow of memory remaining. It tells me that on a certain night I prayed you to listen to wise words. But you cast aside the love advice. So the anger grew upon me, and I said that surely a day would come when you would creep to me with a heart of sorrow, when you would pray me for help in the work of vengeance. Methinks that memory is not all shadow.'

'It is truth. I ask not for pity. I have prepared this suffering for myself. Let the dead past lie dead.'

'I would not call up the black tale of grief to wound you, child. Youth follows the unreasoning heart always. Now it but remains to find the remedy, to strike, to kill.'

All the malevolence in his nature poured forth in the whispered sounds. His wrinkled face grew hideous as he looked at her, the grey-white hair hanging in sparse lines along the neck.

'For that I have come,' she said defiantly.

''Tis well. Am I not living but to aid you? Ah, child, might I only listen to your soul laughter again. Might I hear your song of happiness, I would go then with contentment to the fire, and breathe away my life with joy. Can you not find one smile, child? Is there not hidden in the cold heart a last laugh, my daughter?'

He would have said more, but she frowned and interrupted him. 'That which is left of the heart is not for joy or sorrow. To feeling it is dead. Were I now to laugh, the sound would strike terror to your soul. Can the ice thaw on the winter's day?'

'The heat follows,' he muttered. 'The flame of the sun will lick up the ice.'

'The heat will come; you speak truth, old Father. It is the fire which must consume my body.'

'Talk not of it, child. Even now the vision closes round me. Each day I look for the end. For you, life lies in the Beyond.'

Her passion was at length awakened. 'Life!' she almost shrieked in his withered face. 'Dare you speak of that which has passed? Already I have lived, and now stand ready for death. For, when misery comes, what is life but a memory, and what is memory but agony, and what is agony but death? May not I speak on such things? Happiness _is_ life. When it is gone, that which is left is death. Perchance the body may still move and ask for food; may hate--it cannot love; may grieve--it cannot rejoice. Within all is dead. Only a hot clinging to action for the sake of vengeance holds the body from corruption.'

A small portion of the old colour returned to her thin cheeks. Her breath came and went quickly. The old man weakly upraised his shaking hands. 'Cease, child. The senses fail me,' he gasped. 'Speak into my ear. Tell me what it is you wish.'

She raised her face, until the young lips touched the scanty locks. With set face and hard voice she spoke a few words into his ear. He listened with slow nods of his feeble head. 'I have it, daughter. The materials lie within the hut.'

'It would be successful?' she asked indifferently.

'Unless the Spirit robbed it of power. The plan is well thought of, my daughter.'

'In the early morning I will come. Will it be prepared?'

'A shorter time will be sufficient. No, it cannot fail. Often have I made trial of it. Not in vain have I passed long nights beneath the moon. Not in vain have I plucked the strange herbs, and fed the plants with black blood of the dead. Much knowledge was given me by those who went before. Yet there will be more for those who follow me. Daughter, find me here when the moon touches yon distant ridges. Then can I say farewell, and lay my old body to the sleep.'

She gazed at the trembling figure and the palsied limbs. 'Perchance the sleep will be deep.'

'No, my daughter; there is time yet. Hot life burns within me, fierce life. The fire yet lives after the dying down of the bright flames. You shall find me here when you return. You shall pour into my ear the glad song of your vengeance. The young are swept aside suddenly, but the old survive and see the world decay.'

'Is this the teaching of your new religion?' she asked scornfully.

'I but spoke the mind thought. Of the new religion all things baffle belief. When your work is done, I may gladly return to the gods I have loved.'

'What is there in the new faith which passes understanding?'

'I can see nothing clearly. The doctor, who threw water on my forehead, and drew thereon a charm, told me we should love those who have made life bitter to us. It were great evil to punish them, for in the hands of the God alone lay the might of vengeance.'

'Should we then treat friend and foe as alike?'

'The doctrine is false,' he cried shrilly, as the evening shadows rose from the river. 'What is the gift of the hand when the thought at the heart is hatred? The doctor further told me that the God once lived as a man and walked the earth. More, He was even killed by the men He had called into being.'

'Why pray to One Who is dead?'

'He lives again. Now He has come through the unknown of death, no power may touch Him. Therefore is He God.'

'I believe it not,' cried Menotah, clasping again the child in her arms. 'Behold! it is now my turn to give you advice. Return to your own gods, who bid you take vengeance and crush the foe. Not willingly would you harm those you love. Why then should you have pity for those you hate? I trust not to such teaching.'

She turned to depart, yet the old man sent after her quavering words, 'Let not anger prevail over the mind, my daughter; for when the blood runs hot, and the heart rages with passion fire, the hand may tremble and the eyes may fail. See there is no need for the second blow.'

She cast the words back at him as he sat huddled before the door. 'You may throw aside your fear. Have I kept this strength to fail at the last hour, when retribution lies like a gift in my hand? I, child as you call me, am older even than you. The day of sorrow is longer than the year of joy.'

'You will return?' he muttered, dimly perceiving that she moved away.

'When the moons dips upon the ridge summits,' she said. Then, with the child clasped to her bosom, she disappeared with slow step amid the fast gathering darkness.