CHAPTER IV
THE LANDLORD
Kate's Narrative
Of his life before he reached this province Jesse will so far tell me nothing, yet his speech betrays him, for under the vivid dialect of the stock range, there is a streak of sailor, and beneath that I detect traces of brogue which may be native perhaps to Labrador. Out of a chaos of books he has picked words which pleased him, pronounced of course to suit himself, and used in some sense which would shock any dictionary.
His manners and customs, too, are a field for research. Of course one expects him to be professional with rope, gun, and ax, but how did he learn the rest? I wanted a lantern—he made one; my boot was torn—he made one; my water-proof coat was ruined—he made one; and if I asked for a sewing-machine, he would refuse to move camp until he had one finished. If his name were not Smith I could prove him directly descended from the Swiss family Robinson. If a project sounds risky, I have to assume that it is something unusually safe, as the only way to keep him out of danger. If I should ever wish to be a widow, I have only to doubt his power to fly without wings.
Our journey last autumn led us into most awesome recesses of the coast range. Heads of the sea fiords lay dismal among crowding glaciers, white cataracts came roaring down through belt after belt of clouds, to where a grim surf battled with black rocks. In that dread region of avalanche and rockslide, of hanging ice-cliffs, roaring storms, ear-shattering thunder, our camp seemed too frail a thing to claim existence, our thread of smoke a little prayer for mercy. "Nary a dollar in sight," was Jesse's comment. "Such microbes don't breed here. D'ye think they'll ever vaccinate agin selfishness, Kate? That plague kills more souls than smallpox."
Guided by his uncanny woodcraft, I began to meet the parishioners, mountain sheep and goats, the elk and cariboo, eagles, bears, wolverines, and certainly I shared something of Jesse's untiring delight in all wild creatures. Even when we needed meat in camp, and some plump goose or mallard was at the mercy of his gun, Jesse would sometimes beg the victim off, and catch more trout. "So long as they don't hunt us," he would say, "I'd rather tote your camera than my gun. But thar's that dog-gone beaver down the crick, he tried to bite me yesterday again. If he don't tame himself, I'll slap his face. Thinks he's editor."
Were there no clouds, would we realize that the sky is blue? If no little misunderstandings had risen above our horizon, would Jesse and I have realized our wedded happiness? How should I know when I read his pocket diary, what was meant by "one night out. Took Matilda," or "Matilda and Fussy to-night," or "marched with Harem!" Matilda and Fussy if you please, are blankets, and the Harem is his winter camp equipment.
What would you think if you found this in a book?
