CHAPTER VIII THE INTRUDER
Madeline's joy at beholding the child lying on the couch soon gave place to surprise. In her first intense delight at seeing the little one with the white face and curly hair, she had thought of nothing else. The child was enough, and she had rushed forward and bent over the frail form. That sight was sufficient to stir within her memories which she believed had long since been dead. Gradually wonder took possession of her. Where had the boy come from? What was he doing in such a place as Hishu, and especially at this house above all others? Then she thought of the tall silent form she had noticed standing in the centre of the room. She had given but one fleeting glance, and yet how that figure stood out in her mind clear and distinct. There was something familiar about those broad shoulders and the poise of that head which set her heart beating fast and brought the blood surging to her cheeks. Could it be possible that it was—? She caught her breath at the mere thought. No, such an idea was ridiculous. And yet something seemed to whisper it to her, and tell her that there was no mistake, that it was Norman and none other. A peace such as she had not known for years filled her heart. A subtle influence seemed to surround her and pervade the room. For a brief space of time she kept her face close to the child. How could she look upon him? What would he say? How would he greet her? She felt that his eyes were fixed upon her. Were they filled with sorrow or reproach? Would he scorn her? At length she raised her head and looked around for one quick glance, but he was gone. Then a sharp revulsion of feeling swept over her. The crimson left her cheeks, leaving them as pallid as death. Her bloodless lips were compressed. He was gone, and she knew why! He had recognised her, had understood, and had fled!
Madeline rose to her feet, and stared straight before her toward the door, and out into the yard beyond. She saw no one; she heard nothing but the beating of her own tumultuous heart. She presented a beautiful pathetic scene standing there. But the woman watching her thought nothing of this. Her cynical eyes were fixed upon Madeline's face, and her lips parted in a cold smile.
"Don't worry. He'll come back."
Madeline started at these words.
"Who is he?" and her voice was hoarse as she whispered the question.
"You'll learn in time, so don't be uneasy," replied the woman. "But, come, you had better look after that brat. I don't want to be bothered with it, and as you think so much of it you'd better tend to it at once. You must get the thing fixed up as soon as possible, for I don't want it kicking about here when the men come back from the hills. You won't have any time to look after it then, mark my words."
Madeline turned from the cruel creature toward the child. A great weight pressed upon her heart, and she felt she must cry out. Had Old Meg spoken such words that morning or the day before she would have thought little of them. Was she not accustomed to the life—hideous though it was—and this woman's sharp, pitiless tongue? Madeline imagined that she, too, was hardened and indifferent herself. But now she realised that a change had taken place. That subtle influence which surrounded her and the presence of that sweet-faced boy sleeping there on the couch made a great difference. The men would come from the hills, they would crowd into the house, and then hell would be let loose. She shuddered as she thought of it.
A cough from Donnie brought Madeline quickly to his side. He opened his eyes, and looked up into her face.
"Mother. I wants my mother," he wailed. "Why don't she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
Madeline was all alert now. Soothing the child and winning his confidence she carried him off to her own small room at the side of the house, and laid him upon her rude cot. Quickly and deftly she undressed him and tucked the blanket carefully about his little body. Donnie was restless and feverish, and the rasping cough still shook the delicate frame. For a while Madeline stood in doubt. She hardly knew what course to pursue to relieve the suffering. At length a simple remedy came to her mind. Crossing the room she drew back a curtain and brought down from a nail a much worn flannel skirt. Only for a moment did she hesitate as she looked upon it. Then seizing a pair of scissors lying on a table near by she cut off a large portion from the bottom of the garment. Telling Donnie not to be afraid, that she would return soon, she went at once to a small cooking stove at the back of the building, lighted a fire, and placed the flannel near to warm. Then going to a corner of the room she poured some coal oil from a tin can into a saucer and placed it on the stove to heat. When this had been accomplished to her satisfaction she carried Donnie to the kitchen, placed him on her lap near the fire, and thoroughly rubbed his little chest with the oil, and then applied the warm flannel. It was only a simple remedy, she was well aware, but it was all she knew, and she was willing to do what she could. This she kept up for some time, and then once more placed the little fellow back into bed. Soon she had the satisfaction of seeing his eyes close in a peaceful sleep. But not for a moment did Madeline relax her watchfulness.
Hour after hour she remained faithfully on guard, keeping the fire in the stove and the flannels warm upon the chest. How thankful Madeline was for the presence of the child! Sleep fled her eyes as she sat there watching. No sound broke the intense stillness which reigned. The house was unusually quiet, for often sounds of revelry continued throughout the night. Her mind was greatly agitated. Where had this child come from, and why was such a delicate lad so far in the wilderness away from civilisation? Carefully she examined his clothes, studying well each little garment, the fine quality of the material of which it was made, and the signs of a loving hand in each tiny stitch. And why should he have the boy? No longer did she doubt that the man was Norman. But what was he doing there? Then a question stinging in its intensity pierced her heart. Was this his child? Had he a wife living somewhere in the North? Was she beautiful? Did her hands fashion the little garments lying before her? Was this the reason why Norman had fled so hurriedly from the house? Had he recognised her, and did not want to speak to her because he was married? She could not rid her mind of the thought. Dry-eyed and motionless she sat there, staring straight at the sleeping lad. She did not blame Norman. How could she expect that he would wait six long years for her, whom the world believed dead? How strange it was that she should be watching by the side of his boy! What circumstance, she wondered, had brought such a thing to pass? Though now a gulf yawned between them his child was with her, and she could love it for his sake. Bending suddenly forward she pressed her hot lips to Donnie's cheek. How soft was the little face, and what a strange new thrill that simple touch brought to her heart.
A knock upon the door at the side of the house startled her. She drew back abashed. Was it Norman, and had he been watching her through the window? It was but natural that he should come to see about his sick boy. How could she meet him? Rising to her feet she stood irresolute by the foot of the bed. What should she do? What could she say?
Again the knock sounded, louder than before. Madeline no longer hesitated. She crossed the room, turned the wooden button, and cautiously opened the door. As she did so she started back, and a slight cry of fear escaped her lips. Standing on the step with his left hand upon the side of the door was Siwash Bill. His swinish eyes leered in upon her, and a frown wrinkled his brow as he noted how she recoiled from his presence.
For some time past Madeline had noted how the squaw man had sought her company. He had come to the house, and often met her as she took her lonely walk along the trail leading to the river. He followed her like a shadow, and lost no opportunity of ingratiating himself in her good will. The more she repulsed him, the more determined he became. Rough, uncouth men frequented the house when they were in Hishu. Them she could tolerate, or had to tolerate. But this creature filled her heart with a loathsome repugnance, like the presence of a slimy, crawling viper.
"Frightened are ye, miss?" Again Bill smiled—the smile of the evil one. "Didn't know I was sich a monster."
"What do you want?" and Madeline spoke sharply. "Why do you disturb me at this time of the night?"
"Saw a light in the window, an' thought mebbe ye'd like company," was the reply.
"No, I prefer to be alone—with the child. So you might have spared yourself the trouble."
"Now don't git heady, miss. It's partly on account of that little chap that I've come here to-night. He means a pile of money to me. I've run a big risk consarnin' him, an' I can't afford to take chances."
"Run a big risk? What do you mean?"
"Listen," and the squaw man moved closer and whispered something into Madeline's ear, which caused her to start. "Thar now, ye needn't take on," Bill continued. "All ye've got to do is to hand over that kid to me when he gits better, an' part of the chink's yours."
"Never!" Madeline's determined negative rang out distinctly through the night, and thrilled a silent listener concealed not far away. "I can't do that, so God help me!"
"Can't? Think ag'in. Money's a god; it works miracles."
Madeline did not reply. How could she answer this villain? What was the use of speech? She would leave him; close the door in his face. Siwash Bill mistook her silence for acquiescence. He drew nearer, and she shrank back.
"Yes," he continued, "money's a god; it'll do anything. An' look you; there's money in it, twenty thousand dollars! A man with that kin leave the North, go outside, an' be rich. Miss, I want that chink, an' you in the bargain. D'ye suppose I've been watchin' ye all these weeks fer nuthin'? D'ye suppose I'd a taken all yer rebuffs in silence if I didn't love ye? Not a bit of it. Come, say ye'll have me, an' we'll cut this d—place ferever. We'll cinch that twenty thousand dollars an' git out."
Madeline, though pale before, was white as death now. She clutched at the door post for support. She knew something of the determined nature of the man standing before her.
"You scoundrel!" she cried. "How dare you say such words! Leave me, and never show your face here again!"
"An' ye won't have me?"
"No; a thousand times no!"
"Then I won't ask ye. This is the land whar strength rules. If ye won't be mine one way ye will another."
Saying which the brute took a quick step forward, and placed his arm suddenly about her waist.
With a cry Madeline strove to wrench herself from his grip. But the more she strove the firmer he held her fast, and drew her closer to his breast. A faintness swept over her as she felt his hot breath upon her face, and she gave one wild piercing cry for help.
And even as she ceased to struggle, and a fearful blackness blinded her eyes, she heard the sound of rapid steps, and felt the squaw man's arms suddenly relax. Grey had arrived none too soon, and words of explanation were unnecessary. One long arm reached out, and tense knuckles caught Siwash Bill full under the left ear. Unheeding the wretch sprawling on the ground he caught Madeline in his arms and entered the building. It took but a minute for him to cross the room and lay her upon the couch. But in that brief space of time as he clasped her unconscious form to his breast an overmastering yearning took possession of him. He looked into that dear white face; his breath fanned her wavy hair, and with the greatest effort he restrained himself from pressing his lips to those slightly parted ones so close to his. But no, he must not allow his feeling to get the better of him. It would be better to wait awhile. He turned and saw Old Meg standing in the middle of the room, with a questioning look upon her face.
"What's the matter with her?" she growled. "Why all such yelling and fuss at this time of the night?"
Grey was about to express himself freely to this woman. With an effort, however, he restrained himself, knowing that angry words would do no good.
"Ask Siwash Bill," he replied. "Perhaps he'll tell you, for I don't know. But look you well after her," and he pointed to Madeline. "She's somewhat knocked out. Get a basin and some water, quick. You attend to her; I must see to someone outside."
With one deep longing glance toward Madeline he turned and left the building, leaving Old Meg staring in profound wonder after his tall retreating form.