"Then," she said, "even if it isn't true, tell papa I died game."
She was Canadian, and there is valor in that blood.
Before she was moved, Doctor Saunderson, of Clinton, had taken charge, and since we lacked petroleum enough for a bath, approved what we had done. He used opiates, but the pain, after a frostbite is thawed, is that which follows burning. On the third day came exhaustion—and release.
I was obliged to give evidence at the inquest, and my profession has taught me quietness, restraint, simplicity. The coroner might talk law, but I was dealing with men, it was my business to make them cry. There was no case against Brooke, but from that time onward visitors to Spite House were treated as lepers until they left the country.
For the rest, I would not be present either at the funeral or at the public meeting, or see the press man who came up from Ashcroft, or discuss the matter with any of my neighbors.
The theme was one distasteful to any woman with claims to decency. These things are not discussed. And even if through misfortune my relationship with Jesse became a common scandal, at least I need not share the conversation. To make a scene, to discuss my affairs with strangers, to seek public sympathy, were things impossible. Yet I heard enough. The waitresses were gone from Spite House, the constable was dismissed from his position; the business of the post-office and stage-line were transferred to Mr. Eure's stopping-place at the falls. Brooke and Polly were left alone, with no power, it seemed then, for any further mischief.
Until it actually happened, I never expected that Brooke would visit me, but perhaps from his point of view the event was piquant. His betrayal of Billy's father to the gallows, of Jesse and myself to Polly's vengeance, and of an innocent lady to ruin, and death by cold, might have made even Brooke suspect he would not be welcomed. But then Billy was away, the gentleman had a revolver, and neither the nurse, the Chinaman, nor myself were dangerous. Hearing a horse at the door, I went to the barroom, and dodged behind the bar or he would have shaken hands.
While he was actually present it did not occur to me that there might be danger. I was conscious of aromas from stale clothes and cigars, liquor, perfumes, and hair-oil; I noted the greasy pallor which comes of a life by lamplight; and while Brooke was Brooke, he had to dress his part. As a professional gambler, he wore long hair, mustache and imperial, broadcloth and black slouch hat, celluloid "linen" and sham diamonds. To these the climate added bright yellow moccasins, and a fur coat of the hairiest, the whole costume keyed up to Sunday best. Dirty and common, of course, yet let me in justice own that Brooke was handsome, frank, and magnetic as of old. Even the ravages of every vice had left him something of charm, his only asset in the place of manhood.
No, I was not frightened, but as a daughter of Eve a little curious to know what brought him, and not quite fool enough to run the risk of showing any temper.
When I asked him to state his business, with a large gesture he claimed the visitor's drink. It is an old custom, which I broke.