CHAPTER XVII
THE PASSION OF ERNESTINE DUMONT
A man's life may pass for him like a slow winding stream through openmeadows in gentle valley lands, its waters clear and untroubled byrapids, falls and eddies. Even a man with such a life has his vitalstory. But it is pastoral, idyllic, like a quiet painting done in asoft monochrome. Or a man's life may shake him with a series of shockswhich, to the soul, are cataclysmic. And then the man, be his strengthwhat it may, since he is human and it is not infinite, is caught like adry leaf in the maelstrom of life about him and within him, and issucked down into depths where the light does not penetrate or is flungfrom the mad current into a quiet cove where he may rest with the dinof the angry waters in his ears.
Drennen had been over the falls; he now rested in such a cove. He hadbattled furiously with fury itself; now he was soothingly touched bythe tide of gentler emotions. He did not think; rather he dreamed. Hehad looked for the light the other day and had found it everywhere.Now, most of all did it seem to be within himself. We see the outsideworld as we carry it within us; the eyes, rather mirrors thantelescopes, reflect what is intimate rather than that which lies beyond.
To-day, riding back along the trail, Drennen saw how golden were thefresh tips of the firs; how each young tree was crowned with a star;how each budding pine lifted skyward what resembled a little cluster ofwax candles. Stars and candles, celestial light and light man-kindled,glory of God and glory of man.
With a rebound, it seemed, the young soul of the David Drennen oftwenty had again entered his breast. There had been a time when he hadloved life, the world, the men about him; when he had looked pleasantlyinto the faces of friends and strangers; when he had been ready to forma new tie of comradeship and had no thought of hatred; when he hadcredited other men with kindly feelings and honest hearts. That timehad come again.
Somewhere ahead of him Marc Lemarc was riding. Drennen did not thinkunkindly of him. He realised that the hatred he had felt a few daysago had been born of delirium and madness and jealousy. Ygerne soughtto retrieve the long lost Bellaire fortune; Lemarc's interests jumpedwith hers in the matter. One had the map, the other the key; they mustwork together. Lemarc was riding with the jingle of Drennen's money inhis pocket and Drennen was glad to think of it. He was helping Ygerne,he was not sorry to help Lemarc at the same time. This morning he hadhad one hundred thousand dollars! He smiled, then laughed aloud. Onehundred thousand dollars! Now he had fifty thousand; already he hadopened his hand and poured out fifty thousand dollars! That was theold Drennen, the headlong, generous Drennen, the Drennen who took moredelight in giving than in spending, and no delight in selfishness. Hehad done all that he could do to help wipe the stain from his father'sname; he had lifted a burden from his father's shoulders. While hecould not understand everything he knew that. And he had staked Lemarc.
Another man would have called for Lemarc's bills, have gone over them,have moved slowly and with caution. That would not have been Drennen.He gave forty thousand for his father's name; he placed ten thousandwhere Ygerne could use it through Lemarc. He had fifty thousand leftand he felt that he had not done enough, that he had kept back toomuch. True, the thought had flickered through his brain: "And supposethat Lemarc should take the cash and let the credit go? Suppose thathe should be contented with the ten thousand dollar bird in his handand never mind the hypothetical Bellaire treasure bird in the bush?"Well, then, it would be worth it to Ygerne; just for her to know whatsort Lemarc was. Drennen had more money than he needed; he had anassured income from the newly rediscovered Golden Girl; there werestill other mines in the world for the man who could find them; and hehad merely done for Ygerne Bellaire the first thing she had asked ofhim. In Drennen's eyes, in this intoxicated mood, it seemed a verylittle thing.
He had bought a horse in Lebarge, the finest animal to be had in theweek's search. He had supplied himself with new clothes, feeling inhimself, reborn, the desire for the old garb of a gentleman. He hadtelegraphed two hundred miles for a great box of chocolates for Ygerne;he had sent a message twice that distance for his first bejewelledpresent for her. Nothing in Lebarge was to be considered; the goldenbauble which came in answer to his message, a delicate necklace pendantglorious with pearls, cost him three hundred dollars and contented him.
He was happy. He opened his mind to the joy of life calling to him; heclosed his thoughts to all that was not bright. Ygerne was waiting forhim; John Harper Drennen was not dead, but alive and near at hand. Theman who had judged hard and bitterly before, now suspended judgment.It was not his place to condemn his fellow man; certainly he was not tosit in trial on his own father and the woman who would one day be hiswife! The lone wolf had come back to the pack. He wantedcompanionship, friendship, love.
It had been close to eleven o'clock when he rode out of Lebarge. Hecounted upon his horse's strength and a moonlit night to bring him backto the Settlement in time for a dawn tryst down the river at a certainfallen log. He pushed on steadily until four o'clock in the afternoon;then he stopped, resting his horse and himself, tarrying for a littlefood and tobacco. At five o'clock he again swung into the saddle andpushed on.
He knew that Lemarc was ahead of him. Here, where tracks were few,were those of Lemarc's horse. Drennen had not loitered and he knewthat Lemarc was riding hard. Well, Lemarc, too, rode with gold in hispockets and in his heart further hope of gold. If he were running waywith the money Drennen had advanced he was running the wrong way.Drennen did not break off in the little song upon his lips at thethought. . . . More than once that day he found himself hummingsnatches of Ramon Garcia's refrain.
"_Dios_! It is sweet to be young and to love!"
Fragrant dusk crept down about him, warm, sweet-scented night floatedout from the dusk, a few stars shone, the moon passed up above theridge at his right and made of the Little MacLeod's racing wateralternate lustrous ebony and glistening silver, a liquid mosaic.Drennen fell silent, a deep content upon him.
Scarcely two miles from MacLeod's Settlement, and an episode offereditself which in the end seemed to have no deeper purpose than to showto the man himself how wonderful was the change wrought within him. Hehad crested a gentle rise, had had for a moment the glint of a light inhis eyes and had wondered at it idly, knowing that not yet could he seethe Settlement and that this was no hour, long after midnight, forfolks to be abroad there. Then, dropping down into the copse whichmade black the hollow, he remembered the old, ruined cabin which hadstood here so long tenantless and rotting, realising that the light hehad seen came from it. Lemarc? That was his first thought as again hecaught the uncertain flicker through the low branches. The man mighthave been thrown in the darkness, his horse could easily have caught asprain from the uneven trail, slippery and treacherous.
"Poor devil," reflected Drennen. "To get laid up this near the end ofhis ride."
His trail led close to the tumbled down cabin. Once in the littleclearing he made out quickly that a fire was burning fitfully upon theold rock hearth. He could see its flames and smoke clearly through thewall itself which was no longer a wall but the debris of rotted logswith here and there a timber still sound and hanging insecurely. Hesaw no one. Coming closer, still making out no human form in thecircle of light or in the gloom about it, he heard a low moaning, asfitful as the uncertain firelight. And then, as he drew his horse to astandstill, he made out upon the floor near the fire and in the shadowof one of the hanging timbers, an indistinct form. For an instant thelow moaning was quieted; then again it came to his ears, seeming tospeak of suffering unutterable.
Dismounted, Drennen came swiftly through the yawning door to stand atthe side of the prone figure. A great, unreasonable and still anatural fear sprang up in his heart; he went down upon his knees with ahalf sob gripping at his throat. It was a woman, her body twistingbefore him, and he was afraid that it was Ygerne and that she wasdying. Her face was hidden, an arm was flung up, her loosened hairfell w
ildly about her temples and cheeks. Again the moaning ceased;the woman turned so that her cheek lay upon the loose dirt of thebroken floor, her eyes wide upon him. A sigh inflated his chest andfell away like a whisper of thanks. The woman was not Ygerne, thankGod!
"Go away!" She panted the words at him, venom in her glance. Thenabruptly she turned her face from him.
A swift revulsion of feeling swept through him. Just now he hadthanked God that this was not Ygerne; just now he had been so glad inhis relief that there was no room for pity in his gladness. Now, asinvoluntarily his old joy surged back upon him, he felt a quick stingof shame. He had no right to be so utterly happy when there wassuffering and sorrow such as this. As he had not yet fully understood,now did he grasp in a second that change which had come about withinhimself. There was tenderness in his eyes, there were pity andsympathy as he stooped still lower.
"Ernestine," he said softly. "What is it, Ernestine? I want to helpyou if I can. What is the matter, Ernestine?"
Her body, stilled while he spoke, writhed again passionately.
"Go away!" she panted out at him as she had done before, save that nowshe did not turn her face to look at him. "Of all men, Dave Drennen, Ihate you most. Good God, how I hate you! Go away!"
There came a sob into her voice, a shudder shaking the prone body.Drennen, knowing little of the ways of women, wanting only to help her,uncertain and hesitant, knelt motionless, staring at her with troubledeyes. Over and over the questions pricked his brain: "What was shedoing out here alone at this time of night? What had happened to her?"
He thought for a moment of springing to his feet, of hastening down thetwo miles of trail to the Settlement, of rushing aid to the strickenwoman. Then another thought: "She may die while I am gone! It willtake an hour to get help to her."
"Ernestine," he said again, gently, laying his hand upon her shakingshoulder. "I know you don't like me. But at times like this thatdoesn't matter. Tell me what has happened . . . let me help you. Iwant to help you if I can, Ernestine."
He was sincere in that; he wanted to help her. It didn't matter who itwas suffering; he wanted to see no more suffering in his world. Hewanted every one to be as happy as he was going to be. There was a newyearning upon him, that yearning which is the true first born of aman's love, a yearning to do some little good in the world that he mayhave this to think upon and not just the bad which he has done.
She lay very still, making him no answer. He could not guess if shewere suffering from physical injury or from the other hurt which isharder to bear. He could not guess if she were growing calm or if shewere losing consciousness. He could only plead with her, his voicesofter than Ernestine Dumont had ever heard the voice of David Drennen,begging her to let him do something for her.
With a sudden, swift movement, she turned about, sitting up, her armsabout her knees, her head with its loosened hair thrown back. For thefirst time he saw her face clearly. There was dirt upon it as thoughshe had fallen upon the trail, face down. There was a smear of bloodacross her mouth. There was a scratch upon her forehead, and a trickleof blood had run down across her soiled brow. He saw that, while shehad sobbed, no tears had come to make their glistening furrows throughthe dust upon her cheeks. He thought that in his time he, too, hadknown such tearless agony.
"Your help!" She flung the words at him passionately. "I'd die beforeI'd take your help, Dave Drennen. What do you care for me?"
"I'm sorry for you, Ernestine," he said gently.
She laughed at him bitterly, her body rocking back and forth.
"Why don't you go?" she cried hotly. "Go on to MacLeod's. Your littlefool is waiting for you, I suppose," she sneered at him.
Dropping her head to her upgathered knees, her body rocking stormily,moaning a little, she broke off. Drennen rose to his feet.
"I'll go," he said. "Shall I send some one to you?"
When she didn't answer he turned away from her. He had done all thathe could do. And, besides, he thought that the woman's physicalinjuries were superficial and that her distress was doubtless that ofmere violent hysteria.
"Come back!" she called sharply.
He turned and again came to her side, standing over her, his hat in hishand, his face showing only the old pity for her. Once more she hadflung up her head. In the eyes staring up at him was a hunger whicheven David Drennen could not misread.
"Tell me," she said after a little, her voice more quiet than it hadbeen. "Do you love Ygerne Bellaire, Dave?"
"Yes," he answered quietly.
"You fool!" she cried at him. "Why is a man always blind to whatanother woman can see so plainly? Don't you know what she is?"
"Let's not talk of her, Ernestine," he said a little sharply.
"She's too holy for a woman like me to talk about, is she? She's alittle cat, Dave Drennen! Can't you see that? Don't you know what sheis after . . ."
"Ernestine!" he commanded harshly. "If I can help you, let me do it.If I can't, I'll go. In either case we'll not talk of Miss Bellaire."
She looked at him curiously, studying him, seeming for an instant tohave grown quiet in mind as in body.
"She doesn't love you," she said calmly. "Not as I love you, Dave. Ifshe did . . . nothing would matter. She's got baby eyes and a babyface . . . and she runs with men like Sefton and Lemarc!"
"I tell you," he cried sternly, "I'll not listen to you talk of her.If I can't help you . . ."
Her eyes shone hard upon his. Then her head dropped again and oncemore she was moaning as when he had first heard her, moaning andweeping, her body twisting. Again the man was all uncertainty.
"You would do anything for her!" she cried brokenly. "You would donothing for me."
"I would do anything for you that you would let me and that I could do,Ernestine," he said gently.
"And," she went on, unheeding, "it is because of you that I am likethis to-night!"
"Because of me?" wonderingly.
"Yes," with a fierce sob. "Because he knew I loved you. . . . I wouldnot have shot you that night at Pere Marquette's if I hadn't loved you!. . . Do you think a woman is made like a man? . . . George has donethis! If he laid hands upon her, upon your holy lady I'm not to talkabout . . ."
"Tell me about it," he commanded. "Has Kootanie George done this toyou?"
"Dave!" Suddenly she had flung up her arms, staring at him strangely."Do you think I am dying? He hurt me here . . . and here . . . andhere." Her hands fluttered about her body, touching her throat, herbreast, her side. The hands, lowered a moment were again lifted,stretched upward toward him, her eyes pleading with him. Slowly shewas sinking back; he thought that in truth the woman was dying or atthe least losing consciousness.
"Can't you help me?" she moaned. "Won't you hold me . . . I amfalling. . . ."
Upon his knees he slipped his arms about her. He felt a hardstiffening of the muscles of her body, then a slow relaxing. He waslaying her back gently, when she shook her head.
"Hold me up," she whispered, the words faint though her lips were closeto his ear. "I'd smother if I lay down. . . ."
So he held her for a long time, fearing for her, at loss for a thing todo. The flickering firelight showed his face troubled and solicitous,hers half smiling now as though she were content to suffer so long ashe held her. Presently she put her head back a little further, hereyes meeting his.
"You are good, Dave," she whispered. "Good to me. I have not beengood to you, have I? Would you be a little sorry for me if I died?"
"Don't talk that way, Ernestine," he besought her. "You are not goingto die."
She put up one hand and pushed the hair back from his brow. Heflinched a little at the intimacy of the touch but she did not seem tonotice. She was smiling at him now, all hint of pain gone from hereyes for the moment.
"If you had loved me," she said gently, "we both would have been happy.Now I'll never be happy, Dave, and you'll never be happy. She won't
make you happy. She'll make a fool of you and then . . ."
Again she grew silent, her lids lowered. Drennen thought that she wassinking into a quiet sleep. He did not stir as the moments slipped by.A stick on the old hearth snapping and falling drew to it Ernestine'seyes. Then they came again to Drennen. While she looked at him sheseemed not to be seeing him or thinking of him. She seemed, rather, tobe listening for some sound she expected to hear. Again she was verystill, the firelight finding an odd smile upon her face. She had wipedmuch of the dust away and her pretty face, a little hard at most time,was softened by the half light. After a little she sighed. Then,swiftly, she slipped from Drennen's arms.
"I suppose you think I am a fool," she laughed strangely. "Well, Iknow that you are, Dave Drennen! Now, go away, will you? Or do I haveto crawl away from here to get away from you? My God!" a suddenpassion again breaking through the ice of her tone, "I wish I hadkilled you the other night. Before . . . _she_ came!"
No other word did Drennen draw from her. She sat as she had sat alittle while ago, her arms flung about her knees, her face hidden inher arms. And so, at last, he left her.
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