The instant she smelled that savour Kirstie knew that he was right. Steak, venison steak fried in butter, was what she required. For weeks she had had no appetite; now she was ravenous. Moreover, a thousand lesser forces, set in motion by Dave’s long talks, were impelling her to just such a change as the eating of flesh would symbolize to her. But—Miranda? Kirstie stared at her in nervous apprehension, expecting an outburst of scorn. But Miranda was seemingly oblivious of all that went on in the cabin. Her unfathomed eyes, abstractedly wide open, were staring out through the white square of the window. She was trying hard to think about the mysterious blue-white wash of radiance that seemed to pour in palpable floods from the full moon;—about the furred and furtive creatures passing and repassing noiselessly, as she knew, across the lit patches of the glades;—about the herd of moose down in the firwoods, sleeping securely between walls of deep snow in the “yard,” which they had trodden for themselves a fortnight back;—of Kroof, coiled in her warm den under the pine root, with five feet of drift piled over her. But in reality she was steeling herself, with fierce desperation, against a strange appetite which was rising within her at the call of that insidious fragrance. With a kind of horror she realized that she was at war with herself—that one half her nature was really more than ready to partake of the forbidden food.
Dave noticed the look of question which Kirstie had turned upon Miranda.
“Oh, ye needn’t look to her, Kirstie, to back ye up in no foolishness,” he went on. “I spoke to her last night about it, an’ she hadn’t a word to say agin my medicine.”
Still there was no comment from Miranda. If Miranda, to whom abstinence from flesh was a religion, could tolerate a compromise, why she herself, to whom it was merely a prejudice and a preference, might well break an ancient rule for an instant’s good. She had been inwardly anxious for months about her condition. After a second or two of doubt, her mind was made up; and when Kirstie made up her mind, it was in no halfway fashion.
“I’ll try your doctoring, Dave,” she said slowly. “I’ll give it a fair trial. But while you’re about it, why don’t you cook enough for yourself, too? Have you put salt in the pan? And here’s a dash of pepper.”
“No,” answered the young hunter, concealing his elation as he sprinkled the steak temperately with the proffered salt and pepper, “I don’t want none myself, I need meat onct in a while, er I git weak an’ no good. But there’s nothin’ suits my taste like the feeds I git here,—the pipin’ hot riz buckwheat cakes, with lots o’ butter an’ molasses, an’ the johnny-cake, an’ the potater pie, an’ the tasty ways ye cook eggs. I often think when I’m here that I wouldn’t care if I never seen a slice o’ fresh meat, er even bacon, agin. But our bodies is built a certain way, an’ there’s no gittin’ over Nature’s intention. We’ve got the teeth to prove it, an’ the insides, too,—I’ve read all about it in doctors’ books. I read a heap in camp. Fact is, Kirstie, we’re built like the bear,—to live on all kinds of food, includin’ flesh,—an’ if we don’t git all kinds onct in a while, somethin’s bound to go wrong.”
Never had Dave talked so much before; but now he was feverishly eager to have no opening for discussion. While he talked the venison was cooked and served. Kirstie ate it with a relish, which convinced him of the wisdom of his course. She ate all that he had fried; and he wisely refrained from cooking more, that her appetite might be kept on edge for it in the morning. Then she ate other things, with an unwonted zest. Miranda returned to the table, talking pleasantly of everything but health, and food, and hunting. Against herself she was angry; but on Dave, to his surprise, she smiled with a rare graciousness. She was mollified by his tact in characterizing the steak as medicine; and, moreover, by his statement of a preference for their ordinary bloodless table, he seemed in some way to range himself on her side, even while challenging her principles. But—oh, that savoury smell! It still enriched the air of the cabin; it still stirred riotous cravings in her astonished appetite. She trembled with a fear and hatred of herself.
When Kirstie, with a face to which the old glow was already venturing back, laid down her knife and fork, and explained to her guest, “You’re a good doctor, and no mistake, Dave Titus; I declare I feel better already,” Miranda got up and went silently out into the moonlight to breathe new air and take counsel with herself.
Dave would have followed her, but Kirstie stopped him. “Best let her be,” she said meaningly, in a low voice. “She’s got a heap to think over in the last half hour.”
“But she took it a sight better’n I thought she would,” responded Dave.