Jean Leblaude, standing within cover of the woods which lined the creek, was lost to all sight and sound other than the strange scene enacted at the store. Once or twice he had spoken, but it was more to himself than to Davia, for he was engrossed by what he beheld.
But now, as he saw the man rush with frantic haste and disappear within the woods, he thought of the wealth of skins within the burning house. He was a trapper, and, to his thinking, the loss was irreparable. He loved the rich furs of the North as any woman loves her household goods. As for the store, that was little to him except that Victor was now punished even beyond his, Jean’s, hopes. He knew that the trader was ruined. For the rest it would be as it always was in the wild. The valley would simply go back to its primordial condition.
But he watched Victor curiously. He saw him stand out before the wreck of his store, and a world of despair and dejection was in his attitude. A mighty bitterness was in the great Jean’s heart for the man he gazed upon, and a sense of triumphant joy flashed through him at the sight.
“See,” he said, without turning from his contemplation, and pointing with one arm outstretched. “He’s paid, an’ paid bad. The teachin’s come to him. Maybe he’s learned.”
There was no reply, and he went on.
“Maybe he’s wishin’ he’d treated you right, Davi’. Maybe he’d gi’ something to marry you now. Maybe. Wal, he’s had his chance an’ throw’d it.” There was an impressive pause. Presently Jean spoke again. “Guess we’ll be gittin’ on soon. The mission’s a good place fer wimmin as hasn’t done well in the world, I reckon. An’ the Peace River’s nigh to a garden. I ’lows Father Lefleur’s a straight man, an’ll set you on the right trail, Davi’. Yes, I guess we’ll be gettin’ on.”
Still there was no answer.
Suddenly the giant swung round and looked at the spot where Davia had been standing. She had vanished.
And Jean, solemn-eyed as any moose, stared stupidly at the place where her feet had rested. He stood long without moving, and slowly thought straightened itself out in his uncouth brain. He began to understand. The complexity of a woman’s character had been an unknown quantity to him. But he was no further from understanding them than any other man. Now an inner consciousness told him that the punishment of Victor had been the undoing of his schemes. Davia had seen the trader bereft of all, homeless, penniless; and she had gone to him.
He turned back at last and looked towards the store; it was almost burnt out now. But he heeded it not, for he saw two figures in deep converse, close by, in the open, and one of them was a woman. As he watched he saw Davia pass a large pistol to the man; and then he knew that her love for her faithless lover was greater than any other passion that moved her. He knew that that weapon had been given for defence against himself.