“I am sorry,” she muttered unwillingly. “I am out of sorts this morning. I did not mean what I said.” In the very act of saying this Loseis’ heart accused her of cowardice. She felt hopelessly confused. Oh, how difficult it was to be well-bred and ladylike.
“Why, that’s all right!” cried Gault heartily. “It is perfectly natural at such a time. I’m sorry I displeased you. I assure you I feel nothing for you, but the deepest respect and sympathy! . . . I’ll leave you now. Do amuse yourself with the typewriter.”
As he walked away from the house he murmured to himself: “A skittish filly! I must proceed more slowly. Gad! it’s difficult though!” Thus he deceived himself, as middle-aged gentlemen bent on gallantry are so apt to do. He felt delightfully ardent. At the same time though, a nasty little anxiety continued to plague the back of his mind.
Meanwhile Loseis paced up and down her room, wondering for the hundredth time within the past twenty-four hours, what was the matter with her, that she felt so hopelessly divided. This was a new feeling for her. However the shining little typewriter was fascinating. She presently sat down to compose a letter to Conacher; and forgot her troubles. Another little raft carried her letter downstream.
Every afternoon Loseis opened the store. It was a point of pride with her to comport herself in all respects towards the Slavis as if nothing had happened. She often visited their village, interesting herself in all their concerns, as she considered fitting in a prudent mistress towards her childish and feather-brained servants. They were shy with her, and none came to trade at the store. Loseis, shrugging, was content to bide her time. Hunger would tell in the end. For twenty years now, the Slavis had been accustomed to the white man’s flour, tea and sugar, and the present generation could not do without them.
Loseis and Mary-Lou sat on the bench outside the store. Mary-Lou had been reading aloud, but her mistress had silenced her, because she wished to think. Loseis was unpracticed in the exercise of thinking things over, and she found it both difficult and painful. This was the question on which she split: was Gault a scoundrel? All his acts and words seemed to be above reproach; but Loseis’ heart stubbornly misgave her. Could she trust her heart? She reflected that her father had never betrayed any hesitation in calling Gault a scoundrel; but Loseis had had plenty of examples of her father’s wrong-headedness. She adored him, but had no great opinion of his judgment. It was by his strength and energy that Blackburn had forged ahead, not by wisdom. And so the weary round continued. To one of Loseis’ downright nature it was torture to remain in a state of indecision.
At the door of Blackburn’s House fifty yards distant from where they sat, the Indian Etzooah was to be seen ostentatiously cleaning a pair of Gault’s boots. It suggested itself to Loseis as rather curious that Gault should choose the ignorant Slavi for a body-servant, when he had the more civilized Crees. She recollected that on various occasions during the past few days she had seen Etzooah hanging about looking self-conscious. The thought popped into her head that perhaps Gault had set him as a spy on her movements. Well, supposing that to be so, here was a chance to turn the tables on the trader. Through Etzooah she might be able to learn if Gault had lied to her.
She called to Etzooah in her ordinary manner of offhand assurance. When he came to her cringing and grinning in his imbecile fashion (you could read nothing in that grin of the Slavis) she said coolly:
“I need a man. There are some goods in the store to be moved.”