CHAPTER XXII
IN THE DEPTHS
Although it would have been pure suicide for anyone to attempt to take Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury to his dog. So, refusing a room in the Mission House, he pitched his tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside him.
Here his staunch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector Wallace had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and although no one knew exactly what had transpired, whether he had as yet become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that the Scotchman would shortly remove the sole obstacle to his marriage to Julie Breton.
With head in hands, Jean Marcel listened to the news, none the less bitter because anticipated. The loyal Jules' crude attempt to console the brokenhearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat's-paw. Not only had he lost his heart's desire, but his name was now a byword at Whale River; the woman he held dear and his honor, both gone. There was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt.
During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who, in his absence, had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for caribou on the barrens and in Fleur's rescue of her master from the lake.
For the delicacy of the girl in avoiding the tragedy which was plainly claiming his thoughts, he was deeply grateful. Clearly from the first, she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. But with what was evidently a forced gaiety, the girl sought, on the night of his return, to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future—of the trying days ahead.
"Come, Jean Marcel," she laughed, speaking to him, as always, in French, "are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not told me how you like this muslin gown." She pirouetted on her shapely moccasined feet challenging his approval. "Henri says I'm growing thin. Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie, the Montagnais cook at the Gillies'."
The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding eyes softened as they followed the trim figure in the simple muslin gown. It was a rare picture indeed for a man who had but just finished seven months in the "bush," half the time with the spectre of starvation haunting his heels—this girl with the dusky eyes and hair, the vivid memory of whose face he had carried with him into the nameless barrens. But she belonged to another and he, Jean Marcel, was branded as a murderer at Whale River, even if he escaped the law.