The Hunted Woman

by James Oliver Curwood

  CHAPTER XVI

  Plunged from one extreme of mental strain to another excitement that was asacute in its opposite effect, John Aldous stood and stared at the tent-flapthat had dropped behind Joanne. Only a flash he had caught of her face; butin that flash he had seen the living, quivering joyousness of freedomblazing where a moment before there had been only horror and fear. As ifashamed of her own betrayal, Joanne had darted into the tent. She hadanswered his question a thousand times more effectively than if she hadremained to tell him with her lips that MacDonald's proofs weresufficient--that the grave in the little box canyon had not disappointedher. She had recognized the ring and the watch; from them she had shrank inhorror, as if fearing that the golden serpent might suddenly leap into lifeand strike.

  In spite of the mightiest efforts she might have made for self-controlAldous had seen in her tense and tortured face a look that was more thaneither dread or shock--it was abhorrence, hatred. And his last glimpse ofher face had revealed those things gone, and in their place the strange joyshe had run into the tent to hide. That she should rejoice over the dead,or that the grim relics from the grave should bring that new dawn into herface and eyes, did not strike him as shocking. In Joanne his sun hadalready begun to rise and set. He had come to understand that for her thegrave must hold its dead; that the fact of death, death under the slab thatbore Mortimer FitzHugh's name, meant life for her, just as it meant lifeand all things for him. He had prayed for it, even while he dreaded that itmight not be. In him all things were now submerged in the wild thought thatJoanne was free, and the grave had been the key to her freedom.

  A calmness began to possess him that was in singular contrast to theperturbed condition of his mind a few minutes before. From this hour Joannewas his to fight for, to win if he could; and, knowing this, his soul rosein triumph above his first physical exultation, and he fought back thealmost irresistible impulse to follow her into the tent and tell her whatthis day had meant for him. Following this came swiftly a realization ofwhat it had meant for her--the suspense, the terrific strain, the finalshock and gruesome horror of it. He was sure, without seeing, that she washuddled down on the blankets in the tent. She had passed through an ordealunder which a strong man might have broken, and the picture he had of herstruggle in there alone turned him from the tent filled with adetermination to make her believe that the events of the morning, both withhim and MacDonald, were easily forgotten.

  He began to whistle as he threw back the wet canvas from over the campoutfit that had been taken from Pinto's back. In one of the two cow-hidepanniers he saw that thoughtful old Donald had packed materials for theirdinner, as well as utensils necessary for its preparation. That dinner theywould have in the valley, well beyond the red mountain. He began to repack,whistling cheerily. He was still whistling when MacDonald returned. Hebroke off sharply when he saw the other's face.

  "What's the matter, Mac?" he asked. "You sick?"

  "It weren't pleasant, Johnny."

  Aldous nodded toward the tent.

  "It was--beastly," he whispered. "But we can't let her feel that way aboutit, Mac. Cheer up--and let's get out of this place. We'll have dinnersomewhere over in the valley."

  They continued packing until only the tent remained to be placed on Pinto'sback. Aldous resumed his loud whistling as he tightened up thesaddle-girths, and killed time in half a dozen other ways. A quarter of anhour passed. Still Joanne did not appear. Aldous scratched his headdubiously, and looked at the tent.

  "I don't want to disturb her, Mac," he said in a low voice. "Let's keep upthe bluff of being busy. We can put out the fire."

  Ten minutes later, sweating and considerably smokegrimed, Aldous againlooked toward the tent.

  "We might cut down a few trees," suggested MacDonald.

  "Or play leap-frog," added Aldous.

  "The trees'd sound more natcherel," said MacDonald. "We could tell her----"

  A stick snapped behind them. Both turned at the same instant. Joanne stoodfacing them not ten feet away.

  "Great Scott!" gasped Aldous. "Joanne, I thought you were in the tent!"

  The beautiful calmness in Joanne's face amazed him. He stared at her as hespoke, forgetting altogether the manner in which he had intended to greether when she came from the tent.

  "I went out the back way--lifted the canvas and crawled under just like aboy," she explained. "And I've walked until my feet are wet."

  "And the fire is out!"

  "I don't mind wet feet," she hurried to assure him.

  Old Donald was already at work pulling the tent-pegs. Joanne came close toAldous, and he saw again that deep and wonderful light in her eyes. Thistime he knew that she meant he should see it, and words which he haddetermined not to speak fell softly from his lips.

  "You are no longer afraid, Ladygray? That which you dreaded----"

  "Is dead," she said. "And you, John Aldous? Without knowing, seeing me onlyas you have seen me, do you think that I am terrible?"

  "No, could not think that."

  Her hand touched his arm.

  "Will you go out there with me, in the sunlight, where we can look downupon the little lake?" she asked. "Until to-day I had made up my mind thatno one but myself would ever know the truth. But you have been good to me,and I must tell you--about myself--about him."

  He found no answer. He left no word with MacDonald. Until they stood on thegrassy knoll, with the lakelet shimmering in the sunlight below them,Joanne herself did not speak again. Then, with a little gesture, she said:

  "Perhaps you think what is down there is dreadful to me. It isn't. I shallalways remember that little lake, almost as Donald remembers thecavern--not because it watches over something I love, but because it guardsa thing that in life would have destroyed me! I know how you must feel,John Aldous--that deep down in your heart you must wonder at a woman whocan rejoice in the death of another human creature. Yet death, and deathalone, has been the key from bondage of millions of souls that have livedbefore mine; and there are men--men, too--whose lives have been warped anddestroyed because death did not come to save them. One was my father. Ifdeath had come for him, if it had taken my mother, that down there wouldnever have happened--for me!"

  She spoke the terrible words so quietly, so calmly, that it was impossiblefor him entirely to conceal their effect upon him. There was a bit ofpathos in her smile.

  "My mother drove my father mad," she went on, with a simple directness thatwas the most wonderful thing he had ever heard come from human lips. "Theworld did not know that he was mad. It called him eccentric. But he wasmad--in just one way. I was nine years old when it happened, and I canremember our home most vividly. It was a beautiful home. And my father!Need I tell you that I worshipped him--that to me he was king of all men?And as deeply as I loved him, so, in another way, he worshipped my mother.She was beautiful. In a curious sort of way I used to wonder, as a child,how it was possible for a woman to be so beautiful. It was a dark beauty--arecurrence of French strain in her English blood.

  "One day I overheard my father tell her that, if she died, he would killhimself. He was not of the passionate, over-sentimental kind; he was aphilosopher, a scientist, calm and self-contained--and I remembered thosewords later, when I had outgrown childhood, as one of a hundred proofs ofhow devoutly he had loved her. It was more than love, I believe. It wasadoration. I was nine, I say, when things happened. Another man, a divorce,and on the day of the divorce this woman, my mother, married her lover.Somewhere in my father's brain a single thread snapped, and from that dayhe was mad--mad on but one subject; and so deep and intense was his madnessthat it became a part of me as the years passed, and to-day I, too, ampossessed of that madness. And it is the one greatest thing in the worldthat I am proud of, John Aldous!"

  Not once had her voice betrayed excitement or emotion. Not once had itrisen above its normal tone; and in her eyes, as they turned from the laketo him, there was the tranquillity of a child.

  "And that madness," she resu
med, "was the madness of a man whose brain andsoul were overwrought in one colossal hatred--a hatred of divorce and thelaws that made it possible. It was born in him in a day, and it lived untilhis death. It turned him from the paths of men, and we became wanderersupon the face of the earth. Two years after the ruin of our home my motherand the man she had married died in a ship that was lost at sea. This hadno effect upon my father. Possibly you will not understand what grew upbetween us in the years and years that followed. To the end he was ascientist, a man seeking after the unknown, and my education came to be acomposite of teachings gathered in all parts of the world. We were neverapart. We were more than father and daughter; we were friends,comrades--he was my world, and I was his.

  "I recall, as I became older, how his hatred of that thing that had brokenour home developed more and more strongly in me. His mind was titanic. Athousand times I pleaded with him to employ it in the great fight I wantedhim to make--a fight against the crime divorce. I know, now, why he didnot. He was thinking of me. Only one thing he asked of me. It was more thana request. It was a command. And this command, and my promise, was that solong as I lived--no matter what might happen in my life--I would sacrificemyself body and soul sooner than allow that black monster of divorce tofasten its clutches on me. It is futile for me to tell you these things,John Aldous. It is impossible--you cannot understand!"

  "I can," he replied, scarcely above a whisper. "Joanne, I begin--tounderstand!"

  And still without emotion, her voice as calm as the unruffled lake at theirfeet, she continued:

  "It grew in me. It is a part of me now. I hate divorce as I hate the worstsin that bars one from Heaven. It is the one thing I hate. And it isbecause of this hatred that I suffered myself to remain the wife of the manwhose name is over that grave down there--Mortimer FitzHugh. It came aboutstrangely--what I am going to tell you now. You will wonder. You will thinkI was insane. But remember, John Aldous--the world had come to hold but onefriend and comrade for me, and he was my father. It was after Mindano. Hecaught the fever, and he was dying."

  For the first time her breath choked her. It was only for an instant. Sherecovered herself, and went on:

  "Out of the world my father had left he had kept one friend--RichardFitzHugh; and this man, with his son, was with us during those terribledays of fever. I met Mortimer as I had met a thousand other men. Hisfather, I thought, was the soul of honour, and I accepted the son as such.We were much together during those two weeks of my despair, and he seemedto be attentive and kind. Then came the end. My father was dying. And I--Iwas ready to die. In his last moments his one thought was of me. He knew Iwas alone, and the fear of it terrified him. I believe he did not realizethen what he was asking of me. He pleaded with me to marry the son of hisold friend before he died. And I--John Aldous, I could not fight his lastwish as he lay dying before my eyes. We were married there at his bedside.He joined our hands. And the words he whispered to me last of all were:'Remember--Joanne--thy promise and thine honour!'"

  For a moment Joanne stood facing the little lake, and when she spoke againthere was a note of thankfulness, of subdued joy and triumph, in her voice.

  "Before that day had ended I had displeased Mortimer FitzHugh," she said,and Aldous saw the fingers of her hands close tightly. "I told him thatuntil a month had passed I would not live with him as a wife lives with herhusband. And he was displeased. And my father was not yet buried! I wasshocked. My soul revolted.

  "We went to London and I was made welcome in the older FitzHugh's wifelesshome, and the papers told of our wedding. And two days later there camefrom Devonshire a woman--a sweet-faced little woman with sick, hauntedeyes; in her arms she brought a baby; and that baby _was MortimerFitzHugh's!_

  "We confronted him--the mother, the baby, and I; and then I knew that hewas a fiend. And the father was a fiend. They offered to buy the woman off,to support her and the child. They told me that many English gentlemen hadmade mistakes like this, and that it was nothing--that it was quite common.Mortimer FitzHugh had never touched me with his lips, and now, when he cameto touch me with his hands, I struck him. It was a serpent's house, and Ileft it.

  "My father had left me a comfortable fortune, and I went into a house of myown. Day after day they came to me, and I knew that they feared I was goingto secure a divorce. During the six months that followed I learned otherthings about the man who was legally my husband. He was everything that wasvile. Brazenly he went into public places with women of dishonour, and Ihid my face in shame.

  "His father died, and for a time Mortimer FitzHugh became one of thetalked-about spendthrifts of London. Swiftly he gambled and dissipatedhimself into comparative poverty. And now, learning that I would not get adivorce, he began to regard me as a slave in chains. I remember, one time,that he succeeded in laying his hands on me, and they were like the touchof things that were slimy and poisonous. He laughed at my revulsion. Hedemanded money of me, and to keep him away from me I gave it to him. Againand again he came for money; I suffered as I cannot tell you, but neveronce in my misery did I weaken in my promise to my father and to myself.But--at last--I ran away.

  "I went to Egypt, and then to India. A year later I learned that MortimerFitzHugh had gone to America, and I returned to London. For two years Iheard nothing of him; but day and night I lived in fear and dread. And thencame the news that he had died, as you read in the newspaper clipping. Iwas free! For a year I believed that; and then, like a shock that had cometo destroy me, I was told that he _was not dead_ but that he was alive, andin a place called Tete Jaune Cache, in British Columbia. I could not livein the terrible suspense that followed. I determined to find out for myselfif he was alive or dead. And so I came, John Aldous. And he is dead. He isdown there--dead. And I am glad that he is dead!"

  "And if he was not dead," said Aldous quietly, "I would kill him!"

  He could find nothing more to say than that. He dared trust himself nofurther, and in silence he held out his hands, and for a moment Joanne gavehim her own. Then she withdrew them, and with a little gesture, and thesmile which he loved to see trembling about her mouth, she said:

  "Donald will think this is scandalous. We must go back and apologize!"

  She led him down the slope, and her face was filled with the pink flush ofa wild rose when she ran up to Donald, and asked him to help her into hersaddle. John Aldous rode like one in a dream as they went back into thevalley, for with each minute that passed Joanne seemed more and more tohim like a beautiful bird that had escaped from its prison-cage, and in himmind and soul were absorbed in the wonder of it and in his own rejoicing.She was free, and in her freedom she was happy!

  Free! It was that thought that pounded steadily in his brain. He forgotQuade, and Culver Rann, and the gold; he forgot his own danger, his ownwork, almost his own existence. Of a sudden the world had becomeinfinitesimally small for him, and all he could see was the soft shimmer ofJoanne's hair in the sun, the wonder of her face, the marvellous blue ofher eyes--and all he could hear was the sweet thrill of her voice when shespoke to him or old Donald, and when, now and then, soft laughter trembledon her lips in the sheer joy of the life that had dawned anew for her thisday.

  They stopped for dinner, and then went on over the range and down into thevalley where lay Tete Jaune. And all this time he fought to keep fromflaming in his own face the desire that was like a hot fire within him--thedesire to go to Joanne and tell her that he loved her as he had neverdreamed it possible for love to exist in the whole wide world. He knew thatto surrender to that desire in this hour would be something like sacrilege.He did not guess that Joanne saw his struggle, that even old MacDonaldmumbled low words in his beard. When they came at last to Blackton'sbungalow he thought that he had kept this thing from her, and he did notsee--and would not have understood if he had seen--the wonderful andmysterious glow in Joanne's eyes when she kissed Peggy Blackton.

  Blackton had come in from the work-end, dust-covered and jubilant.

  "I'm glad you folks
have returned," he cried, beaming with enthusiasm as hegripped Aldous by the hand. "The last rock is packed, and to-night we'regoing to shake the earth. We're going to blow up Coyote NumberTwenty-seven, and you won't forget the sight as long as you live!"

  Not until Joanne had disappeared into the house with Peggy Blackton didAldous feel that he had descended firmly upon his feet once more into amatter-of-fact world. MacDonald was waiting with the horses, and Blacktonwas pointing over toward the steel workers, and was saying something aboutten thousand pounds of black powder and dynamite and a mountain that hadstood a million years and was going to be blown up that night.

  "It's the best bit of work I've ever done, Aldous--that and Coyote NumberTwenty-eight. Peggy was going to touch the electric button to Twenty-sevento-night, but we've decided to let Miss Gray do that, and Peggy'll fireTwenty-eight to-morrow night. Twenty-eight is almost ready. If you say so,the bunch of us will go over and see it in the morning. Mebby Miss Graywould like to see for herself that a coyote isn't only an animal with abushy tail, but a cavern dug into rock an' filled with enough explosives toplay high jinks with all the navies in the world if they happened to be onhand at the time. What do you say?"

  "Fine!" said Aldous.

  "And Peggy wants me to say that it's a matter of only common, every-daydecency on your part to make yourself our guest while here," added thecontractor, stuffing his pipe. "We've got plenty of room, enough to eat,and a comfortable bed for you. You're going to be polite enough to accept,aren't you?"

  "With all my heart," exclaimed Aldous, his blood tingling at the thought ofbeing near Joanne. "I've got some business with MacDonald and as soon asthat's over I'll domicile myself here. It's bully of you, Blackton! Youknow----"

  "Why, dammit, of course I know!" chuckled Blackton, lighting his pipe."Can't I see, Aldous? D'ye think I'm blind? I was just as gone over Peggybefore I married her. Fact is, I haven't got over it yet--and never will. Icome up from the work four times a day regular to see her, and if I don'tcome I have to send up word I'm safe. Peggy saw it first. She said it was ashame to put you off in that cabin with Miss Gray away up here. I don'twant to stick my nose in your business, old man, but--by George!--Icongratulate you! I've only seen one lovelier woman in my life, and that'sPeggy."

  He thrust out a hand and pumped his friend's limp arm, and Aldous felthimself growing suddenly warm under the other's chuckling gaze.

  "For goodness sake don't say anything, or act anything, old man," hepleaded. "I'm--just--hoping."

  Blackton nodded with prodigious understanding in his eyes.

  "Come along when you get through with MacDonald," he said. "I'm going inand clean up for to-night's fireworks."

  A question was in Aldous' mind, but he did not put it in words. He wantedto know about Quade and Culver Rann.

  "Blackton is such a ridiculously forgetful fellow at times that I don'twant to rouse his alarm," he said to MacDonald as they were riding towardthe corral a few minutes later. "He might let something out to Joanne andhis wife, and I've got reasons--mighty good reasons, Mac--for keeping thisaffair as quiet as possible. We'll have to discover what Rann and Quade aredoing ourselves."

  MacDonald edged his horse in nearer to Aldous.

  "See here, Johnny, boy--tell me what's in your mind?"

  Aldous looked into the grizzled face, and there was something in the glowof the old mountaineer's eyes that made him think of a father.

  "You know, Mac."

  Old Donald nodded.

  "Yes, I guess I do, Johnny," he said in a low voice. "You think of Mis'Joanne as I used to--to--think of _her_. I guess I know. But--what yougoin' to do?"

  Aldous shook his head, and for the first time that afternoon a look ofuneasiness and gloom overspread his face.

  "I don't know, Mac. I'm not ashamed to tell you. I love her. If she were topass out of my life to-morrow I would ask for something that belonged toher, and the spirit of her would live in it for me until I died. That's howI care, Mac. But I've known her such a short time. I can't tell her yet. Itwouldn't be the square thing. And yet she won't remain in Tete Jaune verylong. Her mission is accomplished. And if--if she goes I can't very wellfollow her, can I, Mac?"

  For a space old Donald was silent. Then he said, "You're thinkin' of me,Johnny, an' what we was planning on?"

  "Partly."

  "Then don't any more. I'll stick to you, an' we'll stick to her. Only----"

  "What?"

  "If you could get Peggy Blackton to help you----"

  "You mean----" began Aldous eagerly.

  "That if Peggy Blackton got her to stay for a week--mebby tendays--visitin' her, you know, it wouldn't be so bad if you told her then,would it, Johnny?"

  "By George, it wouldn't!"

  "And I think----"

  "Yes----"

  "Bein' an old man, an' seein' mebby what you don't see----"

  "Yes----"

  "That she'd take you, Johnny."

  In his breast John's heart seemed suddenly to give a jump that choked him.And while he stared ahead old Donald went on.

  "I've seen it afore, in a pair of eyes just like her eyes, Johnny--so softan' deeplike, like the sky up there when the sun's in it. I seen it when wewas ridin' behind an' she looked ahead at you, Johnny. I did. An' I've seenit afore. An' I think----"

  Aldous waited, his heart-strings ready to snap.

  "An' I think--she likes you a great deal, Johnny."

  Aldous reached over and gripped MacDonald's hand.

  "The good Lord bless you, Donald! We'll stick! As for Quade and CulverRann----"

  "I've been thinkin' of them," interrupted MacDonald. "You haven't got timeto waste on them, Johnny. Leave 'em to me. If it's only a week you've gotto be close an' near by Mis' Joanne. I'll find out what Quade an' Rann aredoing, and what they're goin' to do. I've got a scheme. Will you leave 'emto me?"

  Aldous nodded, and in the same breath informed MacDonald of PeggyBlackton's invitation. The old hunter chuckled exultantly. He stopped hishorse, and Aldous halted.

  "It's workin' out fine, Johnny!" he exclaimed. "There ain't no need of yougoin' any further. We understand each other, and there ain't nothin' foryou to do at the corral. Jump off your horse and go back. If I want youI'll come to the Blacktons' 'r send word, and if you want me I'll be at thecorral or the camp in the coulee. Jump off, Johnny!"

  Without further urging Aldous dismounted. They shook hands again, andMacDonald drove on ahead of him the saddled horses and the pack. And asAldous turned back toward the bungalow old Donald was mumbling low in hisbeard again, "God ha' mercy on me, but I'm doin' it for her an' Johnny--forher an' Johnny!"