CHAPTER XVIII
Janet Bares Her Heart
Spring came and rotting trails cut off Fort Bruce from its world. The ice on the great lakes was blackening, the snow was becoming drab, the north stood forth in all its ugliness, dreary and spent after the long battle with winter.
The people of the north, too, were resting. Fur had loosened in the skins of animals, travel was difficult and dangerous. Hunters lay in their wigwams. Post managers sat in empty trade shops.
Corrigal waited impatiently in Fort Bruce. For all he could do, the battle was ended. In early June hundreds of Indians would arrive at distant posts with the larger part of their winter's hunt. What share of it went to the Hudson's Bay and what to the Keewatin Company would not be known until the arrival of the brigades in July. Corrigal could do nothing except depend on his post managers to conclude the struggle as best they could.
Although impatient, the district manager was confident. He knew Donald had made serious inroads yet he believed it was only a flare. It was incomprehensible to him that the great company could be defeated so suddenly and so easily. For generations the Indians had known the Hudson's Bay and its protective influence. The crooked dealings of free traders and their callousness toward the hunters' welfare had served to cement an allegiance which had been fostered for so long.
Corrigal's instinctive attitude was not unlike that of a religious zealot. He believed the company to be supreme, possessed of inherent rights. He was modern in his methods but only this attack was required to arouse the ancient pride and faith in the light of which Donald's action became an effort doomed to failure because it was a desecration.
As an executive in a responsible position Corrigal was colder, more analytical, and he believed in the success of his own efforts. He controlled a gigantic machine and had directed it in a crushing onslaught. He knew in the beginning he had not succeeded but at the end of three months on the trails he believed he had turned the tide.
There were other outcomes of the struggle he tried to ignore. For thirty years he had withdrawn from human contacts. He had made himself hard and uncompromising and he had been content because it was his wish. Now he discovered that men were withdrawing from him, were withholding themselves, offering only a hard, indifferent exterior. Bitterness came in sudden flashes and the loneliness against which he had fought crowded forward in his mind.
Since he had left the dwelling house nine months before, he had never mentioned Donald to any of the Layards. He seldom saw Evelyn or Janet. He talked often to Merton but always on matters of business and even after Donald's sudden reappearance the young man's name was not brought up.
Yet in the long wait for the fur brigades when each was eager for news and none could be had it was inevitable that the subject should crop out.
"It wouldn't surprise me at all if we had opposition here next year," Merton said when he handed in his April report. "We ought to get ready for it now."
"Opposition here?" Corrigal asked. "What do you mean?"
Fort Bruce, though comparatively easy of access to civilization, had always conducted a successful defense and for many years no attempt had been made there by a free trader.
"You don't imagine for a moment that after his success this winter Norton is going leave Fort Bruce alone?" Merton demanded.
"I have thought of that," Corrigal answered slowly, "but I don't think he'll do it. He's too wise to extend himself so rapidly. It would be suicide."
Merton stared in amazement. He had pictured Corrigal's wrath if Donald's name were mentioned.
"Then you will admit that he is a good fur trader?" he asked.
"There's no doubt about it," was the ready reply. "He's more than that. He's an exceptional man."
"And you let him go! You drove him to this!" The exclamation was involuntary but Merton did not regret it.
"I would do it again," Corrigal answered coldly. "Norton has shown how little the company meant to him, has proved the point I made. The Indian in him has come out. Don't you suppose I understand? It's revenge he wants. He hates me. He believes I am his father. Nee-tah-wee-gan must have told him. He holds me responsible, not only for removing him from Fort James but for his having been born."
That had been Merton's view at the beginning of the winter but Evelyn's ideas and his own more sober reflection had weakened his faith in it. Corrigal's statement was all that was needed to put him in opposition.
"Did it occur to you that he might be only trying to prove that you are wrong, that you made a mistake?" he demanded. "It is not revenge. Donald hasn't such a petty ambition."
"I've seen too many half-breeds react to just such a situation," Corrigal answered calmly. "Norton is only running true to form. He'd rather stick a knife in a man's back than meet him face to face. He thinks he's doing that to me now."
Layard leaped to his feet and strode to the door. He was too angry to speak for a moment and when at last the words did come he cast all restraint to the winds.
"Ask Millington if he's afraid to stand up to a man!" he shouted. "There's no fairness or justice in you. If there were you would be proud of the record he has made. Even Philip Collinge, the man you despise, has done better by his sons. At least he has never denied their parentage."
Corrigal's face became white and he moistened his lips before he spoke.
"I'll overlook that this time, Layard, because I know what Norton has meant to you," he said slowly and with a most evident effort at self-control. "But I don't expect to have to listen to it again. I've not denied anything that was true and I will not allow you or anyone else to repeat this charge against me. I can pardon Norton. It is natural that he should believe what his mother told him. I objected only to the way he tried to use it."
June came and with the opening of navigation from the south a new bombshell burst at Fort Bruce. Building materials and men arrived from Winnipeg and began the erection of warehouses, a dwelling house and an office less than a mile down the shore from the Hudson's Bay. Before the first boat was unloaded everyone knew the Keewatin Company was establishing headquarters there and Donald Norton's activities took on a new significance.
Donald himself did not appear until after all the fur brigades had arrived. Although he immediately took up quarters in the new buildings the Hudson's Bay people never saw him. They knew he was there. The fur land telegraph relayed quickly a report of his daily habits, but that was all.
In that first week after his arrival Donald's status began to change. A year before he had left Fort Bruce with the sympathy of practically everyone in the district. In mid-winter he had burst upon them like a meteor and, in secret, everyone wished him success in his fierce attack upon Corrigal, as his activities had been construed.
But with the coming of the fur brigades and the gathering of the post managers in July and the knowledge that the Keewatin Company, always a weak, despised opposition that had merely furnished a little zest in the battle for pelts, had made serious inroads upon the Hudson's Bay, the servants of the great company suddenly awakened to the fact that they had a real fight on their hands. And they rallied to the support of the Hudson's Bay as they would never rally to Corrigal's call.
When Millington, Sandy Hay and Nicol MacKar, who had been shifted back to Whitefish Lake, compared notes there was even more consternation than had followed Corrigal's bitter tirade after the final reports were in.
"Near as I can make out, the lad's been at two places at once most of the winter," Sandy declared. "He must fly from one post to another."
"I don't mind that," MacKar said, "but there's something more. Collinge was down and out. Millington had about finished him. And then Donald comes along and shoots something into his veins that makes a new man of him."
"Anyone would think to hear you talk that he was a superman," Millington said disgustedly. "The explanation is easy. Norton has been at all three posts where the Keewatin Company suddenly came to life. He knows each Indian and all about him."
"You can bet they know him, too!" Sandy declared. "Any Indian who ever knew Donald is his friend. But that's not the whole explanation. He's a fur trader, that lad is—such a one as hasn't been in this district in many a long day."
"He's done the work of three men this winter," Nicol said, "and Corrigal's going to hear from the commissioner before the summer is over."
"Corrigal!" Sandy snorted. "It's the rest of us that will have to be on the watch as well. Donald isn't sitting down there in his new office just watching the waves out on the lake. He's hatching something worse than ever for next winter."
"It's Corrigal's fault," Nicol insisted. "If he had been square there wouldn't have been a mess like this."
"But that's done for and gone," Sandy said soberly. "The point is, things are going to smash and we, the post managers, are going to get caught. We're the ones who buy the fur. When Donald broke loose he had my sympathy. Now he doesn't need it. I'm going to sympathize with myself. This fight was none of my making but I'm the one that's getting squeezed, and you lads, too. The thing for us to do is to remember that, after all, it's the Hudson's Bay we're working for."
Sandy's opinion became that of all Fort Bruce. Whenever a post manager walked across the great enclosure his eyes turned down the shore to the Keewatin buildings. He wondered what was happening there. The Hudson's Bay men knew Corrigal was not idle, that spies were at work, that the underground ways of fur land were trod by busy feet, but the very fact that so little information was forthcoming added to the suspense.
Tons and tons of Keewatin supplies arrived from the south and were loaded into York boats and sent away. Canoes came and went, bearing messages and reports. Half a hundred Indians labored with the freight. Collinge came from Whitefish Lake, remained two days and departed. The new Kenogami manager arrived, and the man from Fort James, and they, too, left after a brief stay.
These were facts easily observed or learned. They were significant of the coming winter and they meant much but they aroused little interest or comment. The silent, lonely figure down the lake shore had become all-dominant in Fort Bruce and it was what was going on in the mind of that solitary, unseen opponent that occupied men's thoughts.
They believed they understood that mind. They pictured it as a high-geared, efficient machine, motivated by a consuming desire for revenge. They ascribed to it qualities unknown in fur land, qualities engendered in the heat of bitter human drama. They felt that no cold business campaign could have achieved what Donald Norton did, that only in the fervor of a crusade or in the venom of hatred was to be found an actuating impulse for so destructive an onslaught.
The very fact that they knew so little, that Donald was never seen, inflamed their imaginations. Pictures of him became distorted, warped by their remembrance of the last time they had seen him, when he had turned upon their race. He became a dread thing rather than a personality and they saw themselves drawn into the vortex by the very power and ruthlessness of his bitter warfare against Corrigal.
Only two persons seemed unmindful of Norton's presence. One was Corrigal, the other Janet Layard. Corrigal continued his driving, ruthless sway. If anything he was a little softer. The somberness faded from his eyes and often they lighted with the fire of battle. His post managers began to see that he was deriving a certain satisfaction from the conflict.
Janet never spoke of Donald, even after his arrival at Fort Bruce. For all Evelyn could see, the girl did not know he was there. It had been Evelyn's intention to go to Donald at the first opportunity and tell him frankly that her primary, instinctive reaction no longer held sway, but as the days passed and she watched her daughter closely the doubts came. The real Janet had never come out of that walled-in corner of her heart and the mother began to wonder just how deeply the tragedy had struck.
One night when Janet had gone to her room Evelyn was driven to discussing her problem with Merton, never dreaming that at that moment the girl was hurrying down the shore to the Keewatin buildings.
It was not the first time she had done so. Soon after Donald's arrival she had stolen away one night and crept close to a lighted window in the new office. For several minutes she had watched the young man at the desk. He was bent over a ledger and for a time she could not see his face. Then he looked up and after one glimpse the girl turned and fled in the darkness.
This night she stopped for only a moment outside the window. When she saw that Donald was alone she went at once to the door and knocked. Without waiting she lifted the latch and entered.
Once inside she hesitated. On that previous night she had been shocked by what she believed were his drawn, weary features. Now she saw that distance and the light had deceived her. He still appeared drawn and weary but there were other lines, hard and determined, and his eyes glowed with a fierce light that frightened her.
So much a part of him had this expression become—and she saw this, too—he stared at her for several moments before there was any change whatever. Even when he softened she could not escape the impression of hardness. Yet the situation was such that neither could escape its significance or resort to subterfuge.
"Donald," she began at once, "why haven't you come to see me?"
"I couldn't."
"Corrigal doesn't govern me!" she exclaimed fiercely.
"I don't mean Corrigal. I was thinking only of myself."
"But what about me?"
He studied her for a moment in amazement.
"Janet!" he breathed.
She came toward him. Her lips were parted slightly, her face was flushed and her eyes told more plainly than any words what was in her heart.
Never had he seen her more adorable. Two years of abnegation, of struggle against desire, of longing and of bitterness, all vanished. He was conscious only that she had come to him, that she was there, his, that her own love was so great it had scorned custom and public opinion, had risked defeat and ignominy, had driven her past everything to lay bare her heart before him.
The very glory and courage of it was blinding. Slowly he arose from his chair to meet her.
"I never knew, never dreamed——" he whispered.
"I knew you didn't," she answered softly. "You thought I had turned against you like all the rest, that what they said made a difference with me. It was only fair that I should come and tell you."
She was close to him now and he stood facing her. A sweep of his arms and——But that meant little to Donald. He had always worshiped from a distance and now the moment was too great to permit thought even of taking her hands in his.
He stood there, transported by the wonder of it. Janet saw the charm and gentleness unfold. She knew the Donald of two years ago was returning. All the hardness and intensity were gone. She was about to cry out with the joy of it when he dropped back into his chair as if he had been struck.
"Janet," he said hoarsely, "you are wonderful—to come here like this. But—but we've got to understand each other."
"Understand!" she cried. "We do, now!"
"Only so far. I didn't understand you until a moment ago. You—oh, you're so much finer, so much more wonderful even than I had dreamed!"
"It was the only way—to come and tell you."
He ignored her remark.
"All the time I had been confident that you didn't care, that it made no difference to you, and I was glad."
"Glad!" she interrupted.
Again he did not seem to hear and Janet realized that he was driving himself to say what was in his mind.
"That was the one thing I was thankful for," he continued painfully. "You were unhurt. Your life was free. And now! Don't you see? It can't be! It can't! It can't!"
For a moment her anguish blinded her to the import of his words. She had never seen such misery in human eyes and with a little cry of pity she started forward.
"Don't!" he begged as he drew away. "It can't be, Janet! I'm not—not all——"
"I don't care who your father or mother were!" she cried. "It is you that I know, that I care about, and no one else."
"But don't you see?" he protested. "Oh, Janet! You are making this so hard for me."
"You mean my mother!" she exclaimed with sudden understanding. "I know you went to her two years ago."
Deliberately he turned away and stared at the wall. For a moment she stood there waiting and then as she was about to break forth in passionate protest he spoke.
His voice was hard and yet hollow and dreary and dead. It was the voice of a man who exerts every ounce of will power to force out each word.
"I wasn't thinking of your mother," he began, "but of mine. Nee-tah-wee-gan is my mother and I am part Indian. That is one fact we can't get around. I am part Indian and because I am, I alone know what it means.
"Once I thought I was white. When I was a boy and it was time for me to go into the bush and fast I dreamed that I was white. I believed it then—believed I had only to make myself so.
"When I was older and began to understand things better I still thought there was a chance. I believed I could make myself all white in spite of my mother. That is what I strove to do. It's what I believed could be done. For years I thought I had succeeded, and then I discovered that I never could succeed."
He paused for a moment and leaned forward, still staring away from her.
"Corrigal did this to me," he continued. "Not last summer but thirty years ago, before I was born. I can imagine no worse crime than he committed then."
"But you are making him pay!" Janet cried fiercely. "You can make him, Donald. You are going to drive him out of the district."
"Pay," he repeated dully. "That's not the question. I haven't cared to try. And it would be so futile. You can't make a murderer pay by sticking a pin in him. All I can do is to avoid the same crime."
"Same crime!"
He wheeled to face her.
"Don't you see that I can never marry? That I can never have children? That I can never do to another what he did to me? Don't you see that I can't drag you down to ostracism with me? Oh, Janet! It's all so hopeless. There isn't any escape. We've got to face it, you and I, and I had believed it was only my fight."
"Donald! You're mad! It's different. It's not the same question."
"There is no difference," he answered. "Nee-tah-wee-gan is my mother. She would be the grandmother of my children and they would have Indian blood in their veins. They would be damned from the beginning, forever, as I have been."
Suddenly he had become cold and hard and Janet sensed that his purpose was unalterable. Despair seized her, but even as she struggled against it he arose from his chair, stepped past her and opened the door.
"We are only making it harder," he said as he stood aside.
Something in his voice, so broken and so hopeless, so pleading, galvanized her to a last stand. Then she looked at him. His head was bowed and he was trembling as if from a fever. Broken and beaten, crushed and twisted, his suffering stabbed her.
Yet the very picture he presented was the strongest proof he offered, not only of the case he had advanced but of his unalterable purpose. If he could continue to fight through that, nothing could move him.
Still she would not give him up. She stood there, white and rigid. For a time neither moved. Then Donald spoke, and still he did not look at her.
"Good-by," he said, and there was a slight pleading inclination of his head toward the door.
Blinded now by the hot tears, trembling in sudden weakness, she swayed past him. Even when she sobbed he did not move. After she had stumbled out into the darkness he closed the door quickly, but softly, reverently, and with a groan.