It was not until the afternoon when he was nearing the station—just, in fact, before he left the wood-trail for the rutted, frontier road—that his mind was caught as sharply as a cloth by a needle, by the light sound of following steps. In the solitude of that trail which his feet alone had worn, the sound brought him to a stop with a sense of terror and suspense. His mind leaped to Hugh, and for the first time in his loyal life Pete remembered, and remembering, felt a creeping on his skin, that this brother of his, who had grown harsh and jealous and suspicious, had been a murderer. The cold, unkindly memory slid along his senses like a snake. On the edge of the sloping road-bank, studded with little yellow flowers, just where the trees stopped, Pete set down his load and waited, instinctively bracing his body, drawing it back beneath the shelter of one of the big pines.
The steps were light and swift and stealthy. In the purplish confusion of the distance, a tangled and yet ordered regiment of trunks and boughs, sun-splotches and shadow-blots, through which the uncertain trail seemed to rise like a slender thread of smoke to the pale, flecked sky, Pete made out a moving shape. It slipped in and out; it hesitated, hurried, paused, moved on. With a shudder of relief and of surprise, Pete saw it; out from behind the great, close trunks came Sylvie, her chin lifted, her hands stretched out on either side, brushing the swinging branches along the trail, her small head turning from this side to that, as though she listened in suspense.
Pete called out her name and ran quickly to meet her. Forgetting his part of a dull, sullen boy, he spoke eagerly, catching her hand, watching the warm, happy blush flow in her cheeks.
“Where were you?” she asked. She had stood to wait for him as soon as his voice reached her. “I couldn’t see—I mean, I lost the sound of your steps. I’ve been following you for hours and hours and hours. I was so afraid of being lost again that I didn’t dare drop too far behind.”
“But why didn’t you call to me? Why have you come? Is anything wrong at home?”
Her fingers moved uncertainly in his grasp, like the fingers of a shy child. “Nothing is wrong. I wanted to come with you. I wanted to go to the trading-station and the post-office. I didn’t dare ask you to take me with you. I was afraid you’d send me home. I suppose I’ll be a nuisance, but—Oh, Pete, please be nice to me and take care of me, won’t you?” She paused, turned her face away from him and smiled. “After all, since you have called me your wife before witnesses, you ought to introduce me to your friends at the trading-station, oughtn’t you? They might think it was queer that I should hide myself, now that the snow has gone.”
He dropped her hand. Suddenly he realized the consequences, the necessary effect upon Hugh of this willful venture of hers.
“Does Hugh know where you are?” he asked painfully.
“No. I ran away. I heard you getting ready, and I just felt that I couldn’t bear to be left behind. I slipped out of bed so quietly that Bella didn’t even stir, and I dressed just as quietly, and when you had gone half across the clearing, I ran out after you, listening to your steps. You see, I have the hearing, as well as the touch, of the blind.” This was said with a cunning sort of recklessness; but Pete, absorbed in his anxiety, did not challenge the improbable statement. “Please don’t be angry with me, Pete.” She touched his hand where it hung at his side. “Can’t I have my adventure? Let’s call it ours.”
In spite of himself, the young man’s pulse quickened, but his face and voice were stern.