It had been a quiet, almost subdued evening at the homestead. Somehow Bill Wilder’s manner had been graver than was its wont, and these simple folk, who, since his re-discovery of Marty Le Gros’ gold “strike,” had so quickly come to regard him as something in the nature of the arbiter of their destinies, had been clearly affected by his change of manner.
He had shared their supper, and listened to Clarence’s story of his search for Red Mike. He had found it easier to listen than to talk. Hesther, too, had spent her time in listening, while the children chattered all unconscious of the real mood of their elders.
For the Kid it was a time of quiet happiness, marred only by the thought that with the first streak of brief daylight on the morrow this man would be speeding on his race with the season to ensure her own, and the good fortunes of all those she loved.
The girl looked forward to the coming months of winter clarkness without any glimmer of that happy, contented philosophy which had always been hers. Looking ahead the whole prospect seemed so dark and empty. The days since Bill’s coming to the Caribou had been so overflowing, so thrilling with happy events and delirious joy that the contrasting prospect was only the more deplorably void. And with all the untamed spirit in her she rebelled at the coming parting.
Yet she understood the necessity. She realised the enormous stake he was playing for on their behalf, and so she was determined that no act or word of hers should hinder him. There had been moments when the impulse to plead permission to accompany him was almost irresistible. It filled her heart with delighted dreams of displaying, for his appreciation, her skill and sturdy nerve on the winter trail. She felt that for all her sex she could easily accept more than her due share of the labour, and could increase his comfort a hundredfold. But in sober moments she knew it could not be. If nothing else the woman instinct in her forbade it.
The girl never for one moment paused to question her feelings. Why should she? The life she knew, the life she had always lived, had left her free of every convention which encompasses a woman’s life in civilization. Bill Wilder had leapt into her life as her dream man. He was her all in all, the whole focus of her simple heart. Why then should she deny it? Why then should she attempt to blind herself? There had been no word of love between them. It almost seemed unnecessary. She loved his steady grey eyes, with their calm smile. She revelled in his unfailing, kindly confidence. His spoken word was always sufficient, backed as it was by his great figure, so full of manhood’s youthful strength. Then he was of her own country. That vast Northland which claimed their deepest affection for all its terror. Oh, yes, she loved him with her whole soul and body. And her love inspired the surging rebellion which her sturdy sense refused outlet or display.
No. She had long since learned patience. It was the thing her country taught her as surely as anything on earth. Besides, the planning was all Bill’s. Every detail had been weighed and measured by him. Even it was his veto that had been set on her own journey for trade. He had urged its abandonment, demanding both her and Usak’s presence on the river during his absence. So it must be.
For the girl this last evening together passed all too swiftly. Much of the time, while the others chattered, she remained scarcely heeding sufficiently to respond intelligently to the occasional appeals made to her. And then, when the time came for Bill’s going, she rose quickly from her seat beside the stove and slipped her fur parka over her buckskin clothing. She regarded the privilege she contemplated as her right.
Hesther observed, but wisely refrained from comment. But her children were less merciful. Perse grinned impishly.
“Wher’ you goin’, Kid?” he demanded.