CHAPTER V.
AN INVITATION TO DINE.
Lunch was not long in preparing, for the rice had been on the fire when Colina first appeared. The young man set forth the meal as temptingly as he could on a flat rock, and at the risk of breaking his sinews carried another rock for Colina to sit upon. His apologies for the discrepancies in the service disarmed Colina again.
"I am no fine lady," she said. "I know what it is to live out."
Colina was hungry and the food good. A good understanding rapidly established itself between them. But the young man made no move to serve himself. Indeed he sat at the other side of the rock-table and produced his pipe.
"Why don't you eat?" demanded Colina.
"There is plenty of time," he said, blushing.
"But why wait?"
"Well—there's only one knife and fork."
"Is that all?" said Colina coolly. "We can pass them back and forth—can't we?"
Starting up and dropping the pipe in his pocket he flashed a look of extraordinary rapture on her that brought Colina's eyelids fluttering down like winged birds. He was a disconcerting young man. Resentment moved her, but she couldn't think of anything to say.
They ate amicably, passing the utensils back and forth.
After a while Colina asked: "Do you know who I am?"
"Of course," he said. "Miss Colina Gaviller."
"I don't know you," she said.
"I am Ambrose Doane, of Moultrie."
"Where is Moultrie?"
"On Lake Miwasa—three hundred miles down the river."
"Three hundred miles!" exclaimed Colina. "Have you come so far alone?"
"I have Job," Ambrose said with a smile.
"How much farther are you going?" she asked.
"Only to Fort Enterprise."
"Oh!" she said. The question in the air was: "What did you come for?"
Both felt it.
"Do you know my father?" Colina asked.
"No," said Ambrose.
"I suppose you have business with him?"
"No," he said again.
Colina glanced at him with a shade of annoyance. "We don't have many visitors in the summer," she said carelessly.
"I suppose not," said Ambrose simply.
Colina was a woman—and an impulsive one; it was bound to come sooner or later: "What did you come for?"
His eyes pounced on hers with the same look of mixed boldness and apprehension that she had marked before; she saw that he caught his breath before answering.
"To see you!" he said.
Colina saw it coming, and would have given worlds to have recalled the question. She blushed all over—a horrible, unequivocal, burning blush. She hated herself for blushing—and hated him for making her.
"Upon my word!" she stammered. It was all she could get out.
He did not triumph over her discomfiture; his eyes were cast down, and his hand trembled. Colina could not tell whether he were more bold or simple. She had a sinking fear that here was a young man capable of setting all her maxims on men at naught. She didn't know what to do with him.
"What do you know about me?" she demanded.
It sounded feeble in her own ears. She felt that whatever she might say he was marching steadily over her defenses. Somehow, everything that he said made them more intimate.
"There was a fellow from here came by our place," said Ambrose simply.
"Poly Goussard. He told us about you—"
"Talked about me!" cried Colina stormily.
"You should have heard what he said," said Ambrose with his venturesome, diffident smile. "He thinks you are the most beautiful woman in the world!" Ambrose's eyes added that he agreed with Poly.
It was impossible for Colina to be angry at this, though she wished to be. She maintained a haughty silence.
Ambrose faltered a little.
"I—I haven't talked to a white girl in a year," he said. "This is our slack season—so I—I came to see you."
If Colina had been a man this was very like what she might have said—-to meet with candor equal to her own in the other sex, however, took all the wind out of her sails.
"How dare you!" she murmured, conscious of sounding ridiculous.
Ambrose cast down his eyes. "I have not said anything insulting," he said doggedly. "After what Poly said it was natural for me to want to come and see you."
"In the slack season," she murmured sarcastically.
"I couldn't have come in the winter," he said naïvely.
Colina despised herself for disputing with him. She knew she ought to have left at once—but she was unable to think of a sufficiently telling remark to cover a dignified retreat.
"You are presumptuous!" she said haughtily.
"Presumptuous?" he repeated with a puzzled air.
She decided that he was more simple than bold. "I mean that men do not say such things to women," she began as one might rebuke a little boy—but the conclusion was lamentable, "to women to whom they have not even been introduced!"
"Oh," he said, "I'm sorry! I can only stay a few days. I wanted to get acquainted as quickly as possible."
A still small voice whispered to Colina that this was a young man after her own heart. Aloud she remarked languidly: "How about me? Perhaps I am not so anxious."
He looked at her doubtfully, not quite knowing how to take this.
"Really he is too simple!" thought Colina.
"Of course I knew I would have to take my chance," he said. "I didn't expect you to be waiting on the bank with a brass band and a wreath of flowers!"
He smiled so boyishly that Colina, in spite of herself, was obliged to smile back. Suddenly the absurd image caused them to burst out laughing simultaneously—and Colina felt herself lost.
Laughter was as dangerous as a train of gunpowder. Even while he laughed Colina saw that look spring out of his eyes—the mysterious look that made her feel faint and helpless.
He leaned toward her and a still more candid avowal trembled on his lips. Colina saw it coming. Her look of panic-terror restrained him. He closed his mouth firmly and turned away his head.
Presently he offered her a breast of prairie chicken with a matter-of-fact air. She shook her head, and a silence fell between them—a terrible silence.
"Oh, why don't I go!" thought Colina despairingly.
It was Ambrose who eased the tension by saying comfortably: "It's a great experience to travel alone. Your senses seem to be more alert—you take in more."
He went on to tell her about his trip, and Colina lulled to security almost before she knew it was recounting her own journey in the preceding autumn. It was astonishing when they stuck to ordinary matters—how like old friends they felt. Things did not need to be explained.
It provided Colina with a good opportunity to retire. She rose.
Ambrose's face fell absurdly. "Must you go?" he said.
"I suppose I will meet you officially—later," she said.
He raised a pair of perplexed eyes to her face. "I never thought about an introduction," he said quite humbly. "You see we never had any ladies up here."
In the light of his uncertainty Colina felt more assured. "Oh, we're sufficiently introduced by this time," she said offhand.
"But—what should I do at the fort?" he asked. "How can I see you again?"
She smiled with a touch of scorn at his simplicity. "That is for you to contrive. You will naturally call on my father; if he likes you, he will bring you home to dinner."
Ambrose smiled with obscure meaning. "He will never do that," he said.
"Why not?" demanded Colina.
"My partner and I are free-traders," he explained; "the only free-traders of any account in the Company's territory. Naturally they are bitter against us."
"But business is one thing and hospitality another," said Colina.
"You do not know what hard feeling there is in the fur trade," he suggested.
"You do not know my father," she retorted.
"Only by reputation," said Ambrose.
The shade of meaning in his voice was not lost on her. Her cheeks became warm. "All white men who come to the post dine with us as a matter of course," she said. "We owe you the hospitality. I invite you now in his name and my own."
"I would rather you asked him about me first," said Ambrose.
This made Colina really angry. "I do not consult him about household matters," she said stiffly.
"Of course not," said Ambrose; "but in this case I would be more comfortable if you spoke to him first."
"Are you afraid of him?" she inquired with raised eyebrows.
"No," said Ambrose coolly; "but I don't want to get you into trouble."
Colina's eyes snapped. "Thank you," she said; "you needn't be anxious.
You had better come—we dine at seven."
"I will be there," he said.
By this time she was mounted. As she gave Ginger his head Ambrose deftly caught her hand and kissed it. Colina was not displeased. If it had been self-consciously done she would have fumed.
She rode home with an uncomfortable little thought nagging at her breast. Was he really so simple as she had decided? Had he not baited her into losing her temper—and insisting on his coming to dinner? Surely he could not know her so well as that!
"Anyway, he is coming!" she thought with a little gush of satisfaction she did not stop to examine. "I'll wear evening dress, the black taffeta, and my string of pearls. At my own table it will be easier—and with father there to support me! We will see!"
CHAPTER VI.
THE DINNER.
Colina did not see her father until he came home from the store for dinner. She was already dressed and engaged in arranging the table.
John Gaviller's eyes gleamed approvingly at the sight of her in her finery. Black silk became Colina's blond beauty admirably. Manlike, he arrogated the extra preparations to himself. He thought it was a kind of peace offering from Colina.
"Well!" he began jocularly, only to check himself at the sight of three places set at the table. "Who's coming?" he demanded with natural surprise.
Colina, busying herself attentively with the centerpiece of painter's brush, wondered if her father had met Ambrose Doane. She gave him a brief, offhand account of her adventure without mentioning their guest's name.
"But who is it?" he asked.
She answered a little breathlessly; "Ambrose Doane of Moultrie."
Gaviller's face changed slightly. "H-m!" he said non-committally.
"Doesn't the table look nice?" said Colina quickly.
"Very nice," he said.
"We must prove to ourselves once in a while that we are not savages!"
"Naturally! Do you want me to dress?"
Colina, who had not looked at her father, nevertheless felt the inimical atmosphere. She stooped to a touch of flattery. "You are always well dressed," she said, smiling at him.
"Hm!" said Gaviller again. "Call me when you're ready." He marched off to his library.
Colina breathed freely. So far so good! Ambrose Doane had not been to call on her father. He was hardly the simple youth she had decided. But she couldn't think the less of him for that.
When she heard the door-bell ring—Gaviller's house boasted the only door-bell north of Caribou Lake—her heart astonished her with its thumping. She ran up to her own room. Ambrose according to instructions previously given was to be shown into the drawing-room.
Another wonder of Gaviller's house was the full-length mirror imported for Colina. She ran to it now. It treated her kindly. The crisp, thin, dead-black draperies showed up her white skin in dazzling contrast.
On second thought she left off the string of pearls. The effect was better without any ornament. Her face was her despair; her eyes were misty and unsure; the color came and went in her cheeks; she could not keep her lips closed.
"You fool! You fool!" she stormed at herself. "A man you have seen once! He will despise you!"
She could not keep the dinner waiting. Bracing herself, she started for the hall. A final glance in the mirror gave her better heart. After all she was beautiful and beautifully dressed. She descended the stairs slowly, whispering to herself at every step: "Be game!"
Though the sun was still shining out-of-doors, according to Colina's fancy, every night at this hour the shutters were closed and the lamps lighted. The drawing-room was lighted by a single, tall lamp with a yellow shade.
Ambrose was standing in the middle of the room. He had changed his clothes. His suit was somewhat wrinkled, and his boots unpolished, but he looked less badly than he thought. At sight of Colina he caught his breath and turned very pale. His eyes widened with something akin to awe. Colina was suddenly relieved.
"So you dared to come!" she said with a careless smile.
He did not answer. Plainly he could not. He stood as if rooted to the floor. Colina had meant to offer him her hand, but suddenly changed her mind.
Instead, with reckless bravado considering her late state of mind, she went to the lamp and turned it up. She felt his honest, stricken glance following her, and thrilled under it.
"You have not met my father?"
Ambrose "took a brace" as he would have said. "No," he answered.
"I thought very likely you would see him this afternoon," she said with a touch of smiling malice.
His directness foiled it.
"I waited down the river," he said. "I didn't want to have a row with him that might spoil to-night."
"What a terrible opinion you have of poor father!" said Colina.
"Does he know I'm coming?" asked Ambrose.
"Certainly!"
"What did he say?"
"Nothing! What should he say?"
"He has boasted that no free-trader ever dared set foot in his territory."
"I don't believe it! It's not like him. Come along and you'll see."
"Wait!" said Ambrose quickly. "Half a minute!"
Colina looked at him curiously.
"You don't know what this means to me!" he went on, his glowing, unsmiling eyes fixed on her. "A lady's drawing-room! A lamp with a soft, pretty shade!—and you—like that! I—I wasn't prepared for it!"
Colina laughed softly. She was filled with a great tenderness for him, therefore she could jeer a little.
Ambrose had not moved from the spot where she found him.
"It's not fair," he went on. "You don't need that! It bowls a man over."
This was the ordinary language of gallantry—yet it was different. Colina liked it. "Come on," she said lightly, "father is like a bear when he is kept waiting for dinner!"
The two men shook hands in a natural, friendly way. With another man Ambrose was quite at ease. Colina approved the way her youth stood up to the famous old trader without flinching. They took places at the table, and the meal went swimmingly.
Ambrose, whether he felt his affable host's secret animosity and was stimulated by it, or for another reason, suddenly blossomed into an entertainer. When her father was present he addressed Colina's ear, her chin or her golden top-knot, never her eyes.
John Gaviller apparently never looked at her either, but Colina knew he was watching her closely. She was not alarmed. She had herself well in hand, and there was nothing in her politely smiling, slightly scornful air to give the most anxious parent concern.
Under the jokes, the laughter, and the friendly talk throughout dinner, there were electric intimations that caused Colina's nostrils to quiver. She loved the smell of danger.
It was no easy matter to keep the conversational bark on an even keel; the rocks were thick on every hand. Business, politics, and local affairs were all for obvious reasons tabooed. More than once they were near an upset, as when they began to talk of Indians.
Ambrose had related the anecdote of Tom Beavertail who, upon seeing a steamboat for the first time, had made a paddle-wheel for his canoe, and forced his sons to turn him about the lake.
"Exactly like them!" said John Gaviller with his air of amused scorn.
"Ingenious in perfectly useless ways! Featherheaded as schoolboys!"
"But I like schoolboys!" Ambrose protested. "It isn't so long since I was one myself."
"Schoolboys is too good a word," said Gaviller. "Say, apes."
"I have a kind of fellow-feeling for them," said Ambrose smiling.
"How long have you been in the north?"
"Two years."
"I've been dealing with them thirty years," said Gaviller with an air of finality.
Ambrose refused to be silenced. Looking around the luxurious room he felt inclined to remark, that Gaviller had made a pretty good thing out of the despised race, but he checked himself.
"Sometimes I think we never give them a show," he said with a deprecating air, "We're always trying to cut them to our own pattern instead of taking them as they are. They are like schoolboys, as you say.
"Most of the trouble with them comes from the fact that anybody can lead them into mischief, just like boys. If we think of what we were like ourselves before we put on long trousers it helps to understand them."
Gaviller raised his eyebrows a little at hearing the law laid down by twenty-five years old.
"Ah!" he said quizzically. "In my day the use of the rod was thought necessary to make boys into men!"
Ambrose grew a little warm. "Certainly!" he said. "But it depends on the spirit with which it is applied. How can we do anything with them if we treat them like dirt?"
"You are quite successful in handling them?" queried Gaviller dryly.
"Peter Minot says so," said Ambrose simply. "That is why he took me into partnership."
"He married a Cree, didn't he?" inquired Gaviller casually.
Colina glanced at her father in surprise. This was hardly playing fair according to her notions.
"A half-breed," corrected Ambrose.
"Of course, Eva Lajeunesse, I remember now," said Gaviller. "She was quite famous around Caribou Lake some years ago."
Ambrose with an effort kept his temper. "She has made him a good wife," he said loyally.
"Ah, no doubt!" said Gaviller affably. "Do you live with them?"
"I have my own house," said Ambrose stiffly.
Here Colina made haste to create a diversion.
"Aren't the Indian kids comical little souls?" she remarked. "I go to the mission school sometimes to sing and play for them. They don't think much of it. One of the girls asked me for a hair. One hair was all she wanted."
The subject of Indian children proved to be innocuous. They took coffee in John Gaviller's library.
"Colina brought these new-fangled notions in with her," said her father.
"They're all right!" said Ambrose soberly.
Colina saw the hand that held his spoon tremble slightly, and wondered why. The fact was the thought could not but occur to him: "How foolish for me to think she could ever bring her lovely, ladylike ways to my little shack!"
He thrust the unnerving thought away. "I can build a bigger house, can't I?" he demanded of himself. "Anyway, I'll make the best play to get her that I can!"
In the library they talked about furniture. It transpired that the trader had a passion for cabinet making, and most of the objects that surrounded them were examples of his skill. Ambrose admired them with due politeness, meanwhile his heart was sinking. He could not see the slightest chance of getting a word alone with Colina.
In the middle of the evening a breed came to the door, hat in hand, to say that John Gaviller's Hereford bull was lying down in his stall and groaning. The trader bit his lip and glanced at Colina.
"Would you like to come and see my beasts?" he asked affably.
"Thanks," said Ambrose just as politely. "I'm no hand with cattle."
He kept his eyes discreetly down.
Gaviller could not very well turn him out of the house. There was no help for it. He went.
CHAPTER VII.
TWO INTERVIEWS.
The instant the door closed behind Gaviller, Ambrose's eyes flamed up.
"What a stroke of luck!" he cried.
It had something the effect of an explosion there in the quiet room where they had been talking so prosily. Colina became panicky. "I don't understand you!" she said haughtily.
"You do!" he cried. "You know I didn't paddle three hundred miles up-stream to talk to him! Never in my life had I anything so hard to go through with as the last two hours. I didn't dare look at you for fear of giving myself away."
There was an extraordinary quality of passion in the simple words. Colina felt faint and terrified. What was one to do with a man like this! She mounted her queenliest manner. "Don't make me sorry I asked you here," she said.
"Sorry?" he said. "Why should you be? You can do what you like! I can't pretend. I must say my say the best way I can. I may not get another chance!"
Colina had to fight both herself and him. She made a gallant stand. "You are ridiculous!" she said. "I will leave the room until my father comes back if you can't contain yourself."
He was plainly terrified by the threat, nevertheless he had the assurance to put himself between her and the door.
"You have no cause to be angry with me," he said. "You know I do not disrespect you!" He was silent for a moment. His voice broke huskily. "You are wonderful to me! I have to keep telling myself you are only a woman—of flesh and blood like myself—else I would be groveling on the floor at your feet, and you would despise me!"
Colina stared at him in haughty silence.
"I love you!" he whispered with odd abruptness. "No woman need be insulted by hearing that. You came upon me to-day like a bolt of lightning. You have put your mark on me for life! I will never be myself again."
His voice changed; he faltered, and searched for words. "I know I'm rough! I know women like to be courted regularly. It's right, too! But I have no time! I may never see you alone again. Your father will take care of that! I must tell you while I can. You can take your time to answer."
Colina contrived to laugh.
The sound maddened him. He took a step forward, and a vein in his forehead stood out. She held her ground disdainfully.
"Don't do that!" he whispered. "It's not fair! I—I can't stand it!"
"Why must you tell me?" asked Colina. "What do you expect?"
"You!" he whispered hoarsely. "If God is good to me! For life."
"You are mad!" she murmured.
"Maybe," he said, eying her with the resentment which is so closely akin to love; "but I think you understand my madness. Talking gets us nowhere. A dozen times to-day your eyes answered mine. Either you feel it too or you are a coquette!"
This brought a genuine anger to Colina's aid. Her weakness fled. "How dare you!" she cried with blazing eyes.
"Coquette!" he repeated doggedly. "To dress yourself up like that to drive me mad!"
Colina forgot the social amenities. "You fool!" she cried. "This is my ordinary way of dressing at night! It is not for you!"
"It was for me!" he said sullenly. "You were happy when you saw its effect on me! If it's only a game I can't play it with you. It means too much to me!"
"Coquette!" still made a clangor in Colina's brain that deafened her to everything else. "You are a savage!" she cried. "I'm sorry I asked you here. You needn't wait for my father to come back. Go!"
"Not without a plain answer!" he said.
Colina tried to laugh; she was too angry. "My answer is no!" she cried with outrageous scorn. "Now go!"
He stood studying her from under lowering brows. The sight of her like that—head thrown back, eyes glittering, cheeks scarlet, and lips curled—was like a lash upon his manhood. The answer was plain enough, but an instinct from the great mother herself bade him disregard it. Suddenly his eyes flamed up.
"You beauty!" he cried.
Before she could move he had seized her in her finery. Colina was no weakling, but within those steely arms she was helpless. She strained away her head. He could only reach her neck, under the ear. She yielded shudderingly.
"I hate you! I hate you!" she murmured.
Their lips met.
Colina swayed ominously on his arm. She sank down on the sofa, still straining away from him, but weakly. Suddenly she burst into passionate weeping.
"What have you done to me!" she murmured.
At sight of the tears he collapsed. "Ah, don't!" he whispered brokenly. "You break my heart! My darling love! What is the matter?"
"I am a fool—a fool!—a fool!" she sobbed tempestuously. "To have given in to you! You will despise me!"
He slipped to the floor at her feet. He strove desperately to comfort her. Tenderness lent eloquence to his clumsy, unaccustomed tongue.
"Ah, don't say that! It's like sticking a knife in me! My lovely one! As if I could! You are everything to me! I have nothing in the world but you! Forgive me for being so rough! I couldn't help it! I couldn't go by anything you said. I had to find out for sure! It had to happen! What does it matter whether it was in a day or a year? The minute I saw you I knew how it was. I knew I had to have you or live like a priest till I died."
Colina was not to be comforted. "You think so now!" she said. "Later, when you have tired of me a little, or if we quarreled, you would remember that I—I was too easily won!"
"Ah, don't!" he cried exasperated. "If you say it again I'll have to swear. What more can I say? I love you like my life! I could not despise you without despising myself! I don't know how to put it. I sound like a fool! But—but this is what I mean. You make me seem worth while to myself."
Colina's hands stole to her breast. "Ah! If I could believe you!" she breathed.
"Give me time!" he begged. "What good does talking do! What I do will show you!"
Little by little she allowed him to console her. Her arm stole around his shoulders, her head was lowered until her cheek lay in his hair.
They came down to earth. Ambrose seated himself beside her, and looking in her shamed face laughed softly and deep. "You fraud," he said.
Colina hid her face. "Don't!" she begged.
He laughed more.
"What are you laughing at?" she demanded.
"To think how you scared me," he said. "With your grand clothes and high and mighty airs. I had to dig my toes into the floor to keep from cutting and running. And it was all bluff!"
"Scared you!" said Colina. "I never in my life knew a man so utterly regardless and brutal!"
"You like it," he said. Colina blushed.
"I had no line to go on," said Ambrose with his engaging simplicity. "I never made love to any girls. I haven't read many books either. I guess that's all guff, anyway. I didn't know how the thing ought to be carried through. But something told me if I knuckled under to you the least bit it would be all day with Ambrose."
They laughed together.
John Gaviller's step sounded on the porch outside. They sprang up aghast. They had completely forgotten his existence.
"Oh, Heavens!" whispered Colina. "He has eyes like a lynx!"
Ambrose's eyes, darting around the room, fell upon an album of snapshots lying on the table. He flung it open.
When Gaviller came in he found them standing at the table, their backs to him. He heard Ambrose ask:
"Who is that comical little guy?"
Colina replied: "Ahcunazie, one of the Kakisa Indians in his winter clothes."
Colina turned, presenting a sufficiently composed face to her father. "Oh," she said. "You were gone a long while. What was the matter with the bull?"
She strolled to the sofa and sat down. Ambrose idly closed the book and sat down across the room from her. Gaviller glanced from one to another—perhaps it was a little too well done. But his face instantly resumed its customary affability.
"Nothing serious," he said. "He is quite all right again."
Ambrose was tormented by the desire to laugh. He dared not meet Colina's eye. "It is terrible to lose a valuable animal up here," he said demurely.
After a few desultory polite exchanges Ambrose got up to go. "I was waiting to say good night to you," he explained.
"You are camping down the river, I believe."
"Half a mile below the English mission. I paddled up."
"I'll walk to the edge of the bank with you," said Gaviller politely.
As in nearly all company posts there was a flag-pole in the most conspicuous spot on the river-bank. It was halfway between Gaviller's house and the store. At the foot of the pole was a lookout-bench worn smooth by generations of sitters.
Leaving the house after a formal good night to Colina, Ambrose was escorted as far as the bench by John Gaviller. The trader held forth amiably upon the weather and crops. They paused.
"Sit down for a moment," said Gaviller. "I have something particular to say to you."
Ambrose suspected what was coming. But humming with happiness like a top as he was, he could not feel greatly concerned.
Still in the same calm, polite voice Gaviller said:
"I confess I was astonished at your assurance in coming to my house."
This was a frank declaration of war. Ambrose, steeling himself, replied warily: "I did not come on business."
"What did you come for?"
Ambrose did not feel obliged to be as frank with father as with daughter. "I am merely looking at the country."
"Well, now that you have seen Fort Enterprise," said Gaviller dryly, "you may go on or go back. I do not care so long as you do not linger."
Ambrose frowned. "If you were a younger man—" he began.
"You need not consider my age," said Gaviller.
Ambrose measured his man. He had to confess he had good pluck. The idea of a set-to with Colina's father was unthinkable. There was nothing for him to do but swallow the affront. He bethought himself of using a little guile.
"Why shouldn't I come here?" he demanded.
"I don't like the way you and your partner do business," said Gaviller.
There was nothing to be gained by a wordy dispute, but Ambrose was only human. "You are sore because we smashed the company's monopoly at Moultrie," he said.
"Not at all," said Gaviller calmly. "The trade is free to all. What little you have taken from us is not noticeable in the whole volume. But you have deliberately set to work to destroy what it has taken two centuries to build up—the white man's supremacy. You breed trouble among the Indians. You make them insolent and dangerous."
"Company talk," said Ambrose scornfully. "A man can make himself believe what he likes. We treat the Indians like human beings. Around us they're doing well for the first time. Here, where you have your monopoly, they're sick and starving!"
"That is not true," said Gaviller coolly. "And, in any case, I do not mean to discuss my business with you. I deal openly. You had the opportunity to do my daughter a slight service. I have repaid it with my hospitality. We are quits. I now warn you not to show your face here again."
"I shall do as I see fit," said Ambrose doggedly.
"You compel me to speak still more plainly," said Gaviller. "If you are found on the Company's property again, you will be thrown off."
"You cannot frighten me with threats," said Ambrose.
"You are warned!" said Gaviller. He strode off to his house.
CHAPTER VIII.
IN AMBROSE'S CAMP.
Ambrose was awakened in his mosquito-tent by an alarm from Job. The sun was just up, and it was therefore no more than three o'clock. A visitor was approaching in a canoe.
In the North a caller is a caller. Ambrose crept out of his blankets and, swallowing his yawns, stuck his head in the river to clear his brain.
The visitor was a handsome young breed of Ambrose's own age. Ambrose surveyed his broad shoulders, his thin, graceful waist and thighs approvingly. He rejoiced in an animal built for speed and endurance. Moreover, the young man's glance was direct and calm. This was a native who respected himself.
"Tole Grampierre, me," he said, offering his hand.
Ambrose grasped it. "I'm Ambrose Doane," he said.
"I know," said the young breed. "Las' night I go to the store. The boys say Ambrose Doane, the free-trader, is camp' down the river. So I talk wit' my fat'er. I say I go and shake Ambrose Doane by the hand."
"Will you eat?" said Ambrose. "It is early."
"When you are ready," answered Tole politely. "I come early. I go back before they get up at the fort. If old man Gaviller know I come to you it mak' trouble. My fat'er he got trouble enough wit' Gaviller."
Tole squatted on the beach. There is an established ritual of politeness in the North, and he was punctilious.
"You are well?" he asked gravely. Ambrose set about making his fire.
"I am well," he said.
"Your partner, he is well?"
"Peter Minot is well."
"You do good trade at Lake Miwasa?"
"Yes. Marten is plentiful."
"Good fur here, too. Not much marten; plenty link."
"Your father is well?" asked Ambrose in turn.
"My fat'er is well," said Tole. "My four brot'ers well, too."
"I am glad," said Ambrose.
More polite conversation was exchanged while Ambrose waited for his guest to declare the object of his visit. It came at last.
"Often I talk wit' my fat'er," said Tole. "I say there is not'ing for me here. Old man Gaviller all tam mad at us. We don't get along. I say I fink I go east to Lake Miwasa. There is free trade there. Maybe I get work in the summer. When they tell me Ambrose Doane is come, I say this is lucky. I will talk wit' him."
"Good," said Ambrose.
"Wat you t'ink?" asked Tole, masking anxiety under a careless air. "Is there work at Moultrie in the summer?"
Ambrose instinctively liked and trusted his man. "Sure," he said.
"There is room for good men."
"Good," said Tole calmly. "I go back wit' you."
Ambrose had a strong curiosity to learn of the situation at Fort Enterprise. "What do you mean by saying old man Gaviller is mad at you?" he asked.
"I tell you," said Tole. He filled his pipe and got it going well before he launched on his tale.
"My fat'er, Simon Grampierre, he is educate'," he began. "He read in books, he write, he spik Angleys, he spik French, he spik the Cree. We are Cree half-breed. My fat'er's fat'er, my mot'er's fat'er, they white men. We are proud people. We own plenty land. We live in a good house. We are workers.
"All the people on ot'er side the river call my fat'er head man. When there is trouble all come to our house to talk to my fat'er because he is educate'. He got good sense.
"Before, I tell you there is good fur here. It is the truth. But the people are poor. Every year they are more poor as last year. The people say: 'Bam-by old man Gaviller tak' our shirts! He got everyt'ing else.' They ask my fat'er w'at to do."
Tole went on: "Always my fat'er say: 'Wait,' he say. 'We got get white man on our side. We got get white man who knows all outside ways. He bring an outfit in and trade wit' us.' The people don't want to wait. 'We starve!' they say.
"My fat'er say: 'Non! Gaviller not let you starve. For why, because you not bring him any fur if you dead. He will keep you goin' poor. Be patient,' my fat'er say. 'This is rich country. It is known outside. Bam-by some white man come wit' outfit and pay good prices.'
"Always my fat'er try to have no trouble," continued Tole. "But old man Gaviller hear about the meetings at our house. He hear everyt'ing. He write a letter to my fat'er that the men mus' come no more.
"My fat'er write back. My fat'er say: 'This my house. This people my relations, my friends. My door is open to all.' Then old man Gaviller is mad. He call my fat'er mal-content. He tak' away his discount."
"Discount?" interrupted Ambrose.
Tole frowned at the difficulty of explaining this in English. "All goods in the store marked by prices," he said slowly. "Too moch prices. Gaviller say for good men and good hunters he tak' part of price away. He tak' a quarter part of price away. He call that discount. If a man mak' him mad he put it back again."
The working out of such a scheme was clear to Ambrose. "Hm!" he commented grimly. "This is how a monopoly gets in its innings."
"Always my fat'er not want any trouble," Tole went on. "Pretty soon, I t'ink, the people not listen to him no more. They are mad. This year there will be trouble about the grain. Gaviller put the price down to dollar-fifty bushel. But he sell flour the same."
"Do you mean to say he buys your grain at his own price, and sells you back the flour at his own price?" demanded Ambrose.
Tole nodded. "My fat'er the first farmer here," he explained. "Long tam ago when I was little boy, Gaviller come to my fat'er. He say: 'You have plenty good land. You grow wheat and I grind it, and both mak' money.'
"My fat'er say: 'I got no plow, no binder, no thresher.' Gaviller say: 'I bring them in for you.' Gaviller say: 'I pay you two-fifty bushel for wheat. I can do it up here. You pay me for the machines a little each year.'
"My fat'er t'ink about it. He is not moch for farm. But he t'ink, well, some day there is no more fur. But always there is mouths for bread. If I be farmer and teach my boys, they not starve when fur is no more.
"My fat'er say to Gaviller: 'All right.' Writings are made and signed. The ot'er men with good land on the river, they say they raise wheat, too.
"After that the machines is brought in. Good crops is raised.
Ev'rything is fine. Bam-by Gaviller put the price down to
two-twenty-five. Bam-by he only pay two dollar. Tams is hard, he say.
Las' year he pay one-seventy-five. Now he say one-fifty all he pay.
"The farmers say they so poor now, might as well have nothing. They say they not cut the grain this year. Gaviller say it is his grain. He will go on their land and cut it. There will be trouble."
"This is a kind of slavery!" cried Ambrose.
"There is more to mak' trouble," Tole went on with his calm air. "Three years ago Gaviller build a fine big steamboat. He say: 'Now, boys, you can go outside when you want.' He says: 'This big boat will bring us ev'rything good and cheap from outside.'
"But when she start it is thirty dollars for a man to go to the Crossing. And fifty cents for every meal. Nobody got so much money as that.
"It is the same to bring t'ings in. Not'ing is cheaper. Jean Bateese Gagnon, he get a big book from outside. In that book there is all things to buy and pictures to show them. The people outside will send you the t'ings. You send money in a letter."
"Mail order catalogue," suggested Ambrose.
"That is the name of the book," said Tole. In describing its wonders he lost, for the first time, some of his imperturbable air. "Wa! Wa! All is so cheap inside that book. It is wonderful. Three suits of clothes cost no more as one at the Company store.
"Everyt'ing is in that book. A man can get shirts of silk. A man can get a machine to milk a cow. All the people want to send money for t'ings. Gaviller say no. Gaviller say steamboat only carry Company freight. Gaviller say: 'Come to me for what you want and I get it—at regular prices.'"
"And this is supposed to be a free country," said Ambrose.
"The men are mad," continued Tole. "They do not'ing. Only Jean Bateese Gagnon. He is the mos' mad. He say he don' care. He send the money for a plow las' summer. All wait to see w'at Gaviller will do.
"Gaviller let the steamboat bring it down. He say the freight is fifteen dollars. Jean Bateese say: 'Tak' it back again. I won't pay.' Gaviller say: 'You got to pay.' He put it on the book against Gagnon."
Tole related other incidents of a like character, Ambrose listened with ever mounting indignation. There could be no mistaking the truthful ring of the simple details.
Not only was Ambrose's sense of humanity up in arms, but the trader in him was angered that a competitor should profit by such unfair means. With a list of grievances on one side and unqualified sympathy on the other, the two progressed in friendship.
They breakfasted together, Job making a third. Ambrose found himself more and more strongly drawn to the young fellow. He was reminded that he had no friend of his own age in the country. Tole, he said to himself, was whiter than many a white man he had known.
Job, who as a rule drew the colorline sharply, was polite to Tole. Job was pleased because Tole ignored him. Uninvited overtures from strangers made Job self-conscious.
Tole and Ambrose, being young, drifted away from serious business after a while. They discussed sport. Tole lost some of his gravity in talking about hunting the moose.
Not until Tole was on the point of embarking did the real object of his visit transpire. "My father say he want you come to his house," he said diffidently.
"Sure I will," said Ambrose.
Tole lingered by his dugout, affecting to test the elasticity of his paddle on the stones. He glanced at Ambrose with a speculative eye.
"Maybe you and Peter Minot open a store across the river and trade with us," he suggested with a casual air.
Ambrose was staggered by the possibilities it opened up. He knew the idea was already in Peter's mind. What if he, Ambrose, should be chosen to carry it out? He sparred for wind.
"I don't know," he said warily. "There is much to be considered. I will talk with your father."
Tole nodded and pushed off.
CHAPTER IX.
LOVERS.
Ambrose and Colina had had no opportunity the night before to arrange for another meeting. Ambrose stuck close to his camp, feeling somehow that the next move should come from her.
It was not that he had been unduly alarmed by her father's threat, though he had a young man's healthy horror of being humiliated in the beloved one's presence.
But the real reason that kept him inactive was an instinctive compunction against embroiling Colina with her father. She had only known him, Ambrose, a day; she should have a chance to make sure of her own mind, he felt.
As to what he would do if Colina made no move, Ambrose could not make up his mind. He considered a night expedition to the fort; he considered sending a message by Tole. Either plan had serious disadvantages. It was a hard nut to crack.
Then he heard hoofs on the prairie overhead. His heart leaped up and his problems were forgotten. He sprang to the bank. Job heard the hoofs, too, and recognized the horse. Job hopped into the empty dugout, and lay down in the bow out of sight, like a child in disgrace.
At the sight of her racing toward him a dizzying joy swept over Ambrose; but something was wrong. She stopped short of him, and his heart seemed to stop, too.
She was pale; her eyes had a dark look. An inward voice whispered to him that it was no more than to be expected; his happiness had been too swift, too bright to be real.
He went toward her. "Colina!" he cried apprehensively.
"Don't touch me!" she said sharply.
He stopped. "What is the matter?" he faltered.
She made no move to dismount. She did not look at him. "I—I have had a bad night," she murmured. "I came to throw myself on your generosity."
"Generosity?" he echoed.
"To—to ask you to forget what happened last night. I was mad!"
Ambrose had become as pale as she. He had nothing to say.
She stole a glance at his face. At the sight of his blank, sick dismay she quickly turned her head. A little color came back to her cheeks.
There was a silence.
At last he said huskily: "What has happened to change you?"
"Nothing," she murmured. "I have come to my senses." His stony face and his silence terrified her. "Aren't you a little relieved?" she faltered. "It must have been a kind of madness in you, too."
He raised a sudden, penetrating glance to her face. She could not meet it. It came to him that he was being put to a test. The revulsion of feeling made him brutal. Striding forward, he seized her horse by the rein.
"Get off!" he harshly commanded.
Colina had no thought but to obey.
He tied the rein to a limb and, turning back, seized her roughly by the wrists.
"What kind of a game is this?" he demanded.
Colina, breathless, terrified, delighted, laughed shakily.
He dropped her as suddenly as he had seized her, and walked away to the edge of the bank and sat down, staring sightlessly across the river and striving to still the tumult of his blood. He was frightened by his own passion. He had wished to hurt her.
Colina went to him and humbly touched his arm.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
He looked at her grimly.
"You should not try such tricks," he said. "A man's endurance has its limits."
There was something delicious to Colina in abasing herself before him.
She caught up his hand and pressed it to her cheek.
"How was I to know?" she murmured. "Other men are not like you."
"I might have surprised you," he said grimly.
"You did!" whispered Colina. The suspicion of a dimple showed in either cheek.
He rose. "Let me alone for a minute," he said. "I'll be all right."
He went to the horse and loosened the saddle girths.
Colina could have crawled through the grass to his feet. She lay where he had left her until he came back. He sat down again, but not touching her. He was still pale, but he had got a grip on himself.
"Tell me," he said quietly, "did you do it just for fun, or had you a reason?"
"I had a reason."
"What was it?" he asked in cold surprise.
"I—I can't tell you while you are angry with me," she faltered.
"I can't get over it right away," he said simply. "Give me time."
Colina hid her face in her arm and her shoulders shook a little. It is doubtful if any real tears flowed, but the move was just as successful. He leaned over and laid a tender hand on her shoulder.
"Ah, don't!" he said. "What need you care if I am angry. You know I love you. You know I—I am mad with loving you! Why—it would have been more merciful for you to shoot me down than come at me the way you did!"
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I never dreamed it would hurt so much! I had to do it—Ambrose!"
It was the first time she had spoken his name. He paused for a moment to consider the wonder of it.
"Why?" he asked dreamily.
Colina sat up.
"I worried all night about whether you would be sorry to-day," she said, averting her head from him. "I thought that nothing so swift could possibly be lasting. And then this morning father and I had a frightful row.
"I was starting out to come to you, and he caught me. He all but disowned me. I came right on—I told him I was coming. And on the way here I thought—I knew I would have to tell you what had happened.
"And I thought if you were secretly sorry—for last night—when you heard about father and I—you would feel that you had to stand by me anyway! And then I would never know if you really— So I had to find out, first."
This confused explanation was perfectly clear to Ambrose.
"Will you always be doubting me?" he asked wistfully. "Can't you believe what you see?"
She crept under his arm. "It was so sudden!" she murmured. "When I am not with you my heart fails me. How can I be sure?"
He undertook to assure her with what eloquence his heart lent his tongue. The feeling was rarer than the words.
"How wonderful," said Ambrose dreamily, "for two to feel the same toward each other! I always thought that women, well, just allowed men to love them."
"You dear innocent!" she whispered. "If you knew! Women are not supposed to give anything away! It makes men draw back. It makes them insufferable."
"It makes me humble," said Ambrose.
"You boy!" she breathed.
"I'm years older than you," he said.
"Women's hearts are born old," said Colina; "men's never grow out of babyhood."
Her head was lying back on the thick of his arm.
"Your throat is as lovely—as lovely as pearl!" he whispered, brooding over her.
The exquisite throat trembled with laughter.
"You're coming out!" she said.
"I don't care!" said Ambrose. "You're as beautiful as—what is the most beautiful thing I know?—as beautiful as a morning in June up North."
"I don't know which I like better," she murmured.
"Of what?" he asked.
"To have you praise me or abuse me. Both are so sweet!"
"Do you know," he said, "I am wondering this minute if I am dreaming!
I'm afraid to breathe hard for fear of waking up."
She smiled enchantingly.
"Kiss me!" she whispered. "These are real lips."
"Sit up," he said presently, with a sigh, "We must talk hard sense to each other. What the devil are we going to do?"
She leaned against his shoulder.
"Whatever you decide," she said mistily.
"What did your father say to you?" asked Ambrose.
She shuddered. "Hideous quarrelling!" she said. "I have the temper of a devil, Ambrose!"
"I don't care," he said.
"When I told him where I was going he took me back in the library and started in," she went on. "He was so angry he could scarcely speak. If he had let it go it wouldn't have been so bad. But to try to make believe he wasn't angry! His hypocrisy disgusted me.
"To go on about my own good and all that, and all the time he was just plain mad! I taunted him until he was almost in a state of ungovernable fury. He would not mention you until I forced him to.
"He said I must give him my word never to see you or speak to you again. I refused, of course. He threatened to lock me up. He said things about you that put me beside myself. We said ghastly things to each other. We are very much alike. You'd better think twice before you marry into such a family, Ambrose."
"I take my chance," he said.
"I'm sorry now," Colina went on. "I know he is, too. Poor old fellow!
I have you."
"You mustn't break with him yet," said Ambrose anxiously.
"I know. But how can I go back and humble myself?"
"He'll meet you half-way."
"If—if we could only get in the dugout and go now!" she breathed.
He did not answer. She saw him turn pale.
"Wouldn't it be the best way," she murmured, "since it's got to be anyway?"
He drew a long breath and shook his head.
"I wouldn't take you now," he said doggedly.
"Of course not!" she said quickly. "I was only joking. But why?" she added weakly. Her hand crept into his.
"It wouldn't be fair," he said, frowning. "It would be taking too much from you."
"Too much!" she murmured, with an obscure smile.
Ambrose struggled with the difficulty of explaining what he meant. "I never do anything prudent myself. I hate it. But I can't let you chuck everything—without thinking what you are doing. You ought to stay home a while—and be sure."
"It isn't going to be so easy," she said, "quarreling continually."
"I sha'n't see you again until I come for you," said Ambrose. "And it's useless to write letters from Moultrie to Enterprise. I'm out of the way. Why can't the question of me be dropped between you and your father?"
"Think of living on from month to month without a word! It will be ghastly!" she cried.
"You've only known me two days," he said sagely. "I could not leave such a gap as that."
"How coldly you can talk about it!" she cried rebelliously.
Ambrose frowned again. "When you call me cold you shut me up," he said quietly.
"But if you do not make a fuss about me every minute," she said naïvely, "it shames me because I am so foolish about you."
Ambrose laughed suddenly.
There followed another interlude of celestial silliness.
This time it was Colina who withdrew herself from him.
"Ah," she said with a catch of the breath, "every minute of this is making it harder. I shall want to die when you leave me."
Ambrose attempted to take her in his arms again.
"No," she insisted. "Let us try to be sensible. We haven't decided yet what we're going to do."
"I'm going home," said Ambrose, "to work like a galley-slave."
"It is so far," she murmured.
"I'll find some way of letting you hear from me. Twice before the winter sets in I'll send a messenger. And you, you keep a little book and write in it whenever you think of me, and send it back by my messenger."
"A little book won't hold it all," she said naïvely.
"Meanwhile I'll be making a place for you. I couldn't take you to
Moultrie."
She asked why.
"Eva, Peter's wife," he explained. "In a way Peter is my boss, you see. It would be a horrible situation."
"I see," said Colina. "But if there was no help for it I could."
"Ah, you're too good to me!" he cried. "But it won't be necessary. Peter and I have always intended to open other posts. I'll take the first one, and you and I will start on our own. Think of it! It makes me silly with happiness!"
Upon this foundation they raised a shining castle in the air.
"I must go," said Colina finally, "or father will be equipping an armed force to take me."
"You must go," he agreed, but weakly.
They repeated it at intervals without any move being made. At last she got up.
"Is this—good-by?" she faltered.
He nodded.
They both turned pale. They were silent. They gazed at each other deeply and wistfully.
"Ah! I can't! I can't!" murmured Colina brokenly. "Such a little time to be happy!"
They flew to each other's arms.
"No—not quite good-by!" said Ambrose shakily. "I'll write to you to-morrow morning—everything I think of to-night. I'll send it by Tole Grampierre. You can send an answer by him."
"Ah, my dear love, if you forget me I shall die!"
"You doubt me still! I tell you, you have changed everything for me.
I cannot forget you unless I lose my mind!"